Story Value

Latte-Intervention

2010-05-03T15:41:00.002-04:00

I admit to the guilty pleasure of watching reality TV shows with a sense of smug self-satisfaction.

Whether its the Real Housewives of blankity-blank, Biggest Loser, or Addiction -- I always smile to myself that ... no matter what, I ain't "that bad."

That would be true ... unless they did a reality show on coffee addiction. I didn't realize I was this pathetic.

During two pregnancies, I quit cold turkey without a second thought. Turns out I need a baby on board to do without a cup-o-Jo.

A massive water main break outside Boston means there's no coffee to be had in Bean-town today. Ironic. No latte, no hot, no iced, nada.

I'm not jittery. I'm just plain incoherent and brain-fogged. I am fantasizing about getting myself out-of-town so I can inhale some Java. Pity the slow-moving barista, mama needs her fix!

Parton me, that's inappropriate

2010-04-30T06:39:00.003-04:00

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

2010-04-27T11:59:00.003-04:00

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

2010-04-19T20:32:00.002-04:00

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?

I love the smell of white boards in the morning

2008-09-16T14:19:00.002-04:00

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

2008-09-03T15:36:00.002-04:00

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

2008-08-28T16:34:00.003-04:00

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

2008-07-25T15:45:00.002-04:00

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

2008-07-22T19:54:00.003-04:00

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

2008-07-20T19:32:00.002-04:00

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?

2008-07-15T08:33:00.002-04:00

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.

Oops, I did it again

2008-07-10T18:06:00.002-04:00

"Hey, why don't you come for the weekend with the kids?"
"Sure you can stay a week -- Don't worry about bringing anything."
"Absolutely I'll run the event, no problem -- I'd be delighted."
"Why don't I just hold the BBQ here ... there'll be 25 all together? Sounds great."
"Come on down." "Drop on by" "Don't sweat anything"

Here I go ... trying to cram 52 weeks of fun into 8. I'm out of my MoFo mind. I have a hostess addiction and it must stop, for I am now resenting the very fun I invite into my life. I am afraid of my in-box, my phone gives me the willies. I am overcommitted and it is ALL my own fault.

Time for a gin and tonic.

Pillow Talks

2008-07-06T15:16:00.003-04:00

Each time I return from an overnight trip, I find my husband has "accidentally" purloined my two pillows. These pillows are nothing truly special, but they are broken-in and just the right measure of fluffy and squishy for me.

"If the pillows were numbered #1 - #4, you always get #s 1 and 2 and I'm stuck with 3 and 4 -- I think I should at least get custody of #2." my husband whines.

My eyes widen and my hands fly to my hips. "Excuse me," I say. "Shall we pay a little visit to the graveyard of special pillows first?"

My husband's gaze flickers and finds the floor. He knows what's coming.

In the last three years, we have invested more than $500 in special pillows for my husband. There was "the wedge," the hypo-allergenic down/foam mixture, the neck roll, the buck wheat crescent, and the Tempurpedic head support. Not only have we tried out every version of pillow available at Macy's, we've called 1-800#s, visited the back store and ordered online. Where are these special pillows today? Not on our bed. I have visions that they will someday unite and hold a pillow Special Olympics just to show us they are just as good as their generically-abled pillow cousins.

I think the dog sleeps on the $125 Tempurpedic pillow and he's not even picky. He would launch himself onto a Bounty paper towel that fell on the floor if it promised one iota of softness.

Now I could go out and buy exact copies of my present pillows -- either for me or my husband, but I so know what would happen. In the same way that dinner always looks better on someone else's plate, the pillows under my head will hold an irresistible lure.

I am just going to have to get me a pillow vault for when I go out of town and leave a paper towel on my side of the bed.

Requiem for a Nemesis

2008-07-05T17:50:00.003-04:00

My mother is of the avid newspaper clipping generation. She smokes and reads daily. Each time she visits, she brings along a smoke-scented yellowed pile of townie news tidbits, amusing comics, recipes, and -- with increasing frequency -- the winners listed in the "Irish racing form," a.k.a the obituaries.

At first, the obituary clippings were few and far between and usually for people I assumed had already died years before; like my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Graves, who wore her hair in a severe silver bun while sporting chained bi-focals and orthopedic shoes. She seemed to be 103 in 1977. The surprise in her passing was only that she must have been so much younger than we thought.

In the clippings pile, sprinkled in with the passing of a distant generation, there are periodically a few tragic deaths of classmates who drank too much & drove too fast or maybe succumbed to a rare and and unexpected illness.

Sadly, these days my mother's clippings contain a steadily increasing number of obituaries for people who, while not exactly contemporaries, I would never consider to be within daisy-pushing range.

The latest obituary was for a high-school teacher who is etched indelibly in my mind as my arch-nemesis. We had a persistent multi-year low-grade war of passive-aggression that could provide excellent fodder for a 1980's Brat Pack movie. My part would be played by the indomitable Molly Ringwald and, if I were to cast my teacher -- I think a bearded Lewis Black would be an excellent choice.

Monsieur Richard "Dick" Dubois was my 9th and 10th grade French teacher. Dubois was one of those teachers who was unable to conceal his humanness behind the bland veneer of a standard teacher's persona. It leaked out. He was a tempermental French-Canadian who wore jeans to class, rode a flashy chrome motorcycle, and told stories that verged well on the side of ribald and inappropriate. While he tried hard to play the part of an affable and calm educator; he always had an edge. In his flush cheeks and the pulsing veins in his forehead, you could see the strain it took to maintain his composure in front of an unruly class. On more than one occasion, he cracked -- once even hurling a desk across the room at a smart-Alec student.

This made Monsieur Dubois interesting and I could not resist stoking this volcanic temper -- its my way. I was an average student of French, but I possess a black-belt of passive aggression and love to play with fire.

When Monsieur Dubois began waxing poetic about his days as an easy-riding flower child of the 60's, my friend Alison and I decided to festoon his cherished motorcycle with flowered garlands and streamers. He was pas amuse. Alison and I landed in detention.

While we sulked our way through the afternoon, we watched an uber preppy girl named Violet as she flitted in and out, perfectly conjugating French sentences and playing coy with Mr. Dubois. "What are you in for?" We asked her.

"Oh," she huffed. "I'm not in detention. I'm just here practicing my French for the spring trip to Paris." Then she blinked twice at us and turned on the heel of her penny loafer.

Alison and I rolled our eyes in unison, snickering about her whale belt, argyle socks and the multiple layers of oxford shirt that made it challenging to raise her arms to the chalkboard.

After detention Alison and I immediately began plotting to exact our revenge.

One Saturday afternoon, Alison and I were working the concession stand at the High School football game and tossing about potential options for secretly driving Monsieur Dubois bananas. Suddenly someone chimed in behind us. "If you really want to get his goat, you could steal his prized possession -- the framed photo of the Beatles over his classroom door."

Alison and I whipped around to find Violet smirking with a cocked eyebrow. "Like you wouldn't rat us out to 'your boyfriend'," I sneered.
"Don't be silly, I'd help you." She replied.
"Why on earth would you do that?" We asked.
"Why not? I like an adventure." She said. "We'll return it at the end of the year. No harm done"

Alison and I were captivated by Violet's cunning even though we didn't understand her motives. We began plotting our heist.
That afternoon, we snuck down to Monsieur Dubois' classroom and removed the 8 x 10 photo of the Beatles from its perch above the doorway. The photo was given to him by a former student and featured prominently in his weekly stories about his days stalking the band.

The next bit is where Violet's criminal mind revealed its full glory.
"Monsieur Dubois will immediately suspect you two." She whispered. "That is why I will craft a series of ransom notes in flawless French. This will remove all suspicion from you both."
We mildly protested, since she was basically calling us French-tarded. But she was right. We agreed the plan was brilliant and began collectively composing a series of letters we hoped would direct Monsieur's behavior to our liking.
"Cancel French quizzes!" We suggested.
"Too obvious!" Violet shot back.
We agreed that Monsieur Dubois should tell more stories, not lose his cool with students and demonstrate how much he wanted his photo returned by pleading to the class.

Monsieur Dubois would not be so easily directed. On Monday, he paced before the class furiously unleashing a string of French expletives. He "damned the monstrous cretins" who had stolen his property and demanded its immediate return. His show of fury was scary, but we held our ground and sent another note.

Later that week Monsieur Dubois threatened to tell the Assistant Principal and disciplinarian and punish each of his classes in full with extra homework and additional quizzes until the photo was returned.

Alison and I had second thoughts. Violet, however, was a cool hand. "Hold firm," she said. "Let him stew a while." We agreed, comforted by our vow of secrecy and that, due to the ransom note quality -- Monsieur Dubois' gaze never lingered on Alison or I for more than a moment.

Over time, the furor died down and I forgot I had the photo stashed in the back of my locker. Ultimately, we returned it to its perch late one evening before the end of the year.

Monsieur Dubois snidely remarked only that he was "pleased that the cretins had returned to their senses."

Following this little caper, Violet became my BFF and heroine. The next year, she inexplicably went through a metamorphosis and traded in her argyle socks for leopard skin dresses. We spent the rest of our high-school career tooling around around in her 1975 Cadillac Coup De Ville listening to Duran Duran cranked up to 11. We took our secret with us at graduation.

I never achieved fluency in French, but I did develop a rabid curiosity about the eccentricities that lurk below the surface in most individuals. Monsieur Dubois was perhaps not temperamentally suited to being an instructor of teenagers. He was, however, interesting and thought-provoking and he provided some of my more memorable high-school moments.

Monsieur Dubois' volatility also created the connection which yielded one of my most enduring friendships. He was larger than life and it seems impossible that he is now gone.

Adieu Monsieur Dubois.
Vive Monsieur Dubois. Laissez Le Belle Temps Roulet!

Wall Street Wackiness

2008-06-30T16:47:00.003-04:00

Well, well, well ... Lookiloo who's featured in the Wall Street Journal. Hilarious .... on so many fronts. http://online.wsj.com/article/SB121440942660403727.html?mod=CarJMain_topright
I have not invented a new system of arbitrage, nor a secret system for embezzeling fractional pennies on each dollar of hedge fund gain (at least not one that I'm going public with)!

It seems I scored coverage in the Wall Street Journal -- for leaving. Who knew? I'm like a farmer paid not to plant crops. "Just quit & we'll pay you and say nice things in the media."

The reporter interviewed me over several days, asking for incredible amounts of revealing detail, which I was almost too eager to provide. I'm easy that way.

Funnily enough, almost all the details are wrong: from chronology, to spelling, to quotes. What, no fact checking at the WSJ?

I had to be told by others that my story had run, because when you're no longer on Wall Street -- you don't need to read the journal.

What next, my own show on CNBC? I definitely look less tired than Maria Bartiromo. I long to be the "funny honey" -- I'll call up the top dogs today and promise to go nowhere near financial services in return for my own prime-time special. Cold turkey never looked so good!

Skunked!

2008-06-11T11:51:00.004-04:00

If you want to test the depths of your love for someone -- watch them get sprayed in the face by a skunk and see how much togetherness you're willing to endure.
I still like to think I'd have no questions if this happened to my husband or two children ... but with our dog, I was surprised how quickly ny fickle heart was re-evaluating the relationship.

Teddy has been a member of the family for a year and he his absolutely the best dog ever. He's cute, smart and lovable. I think he could save me from choking like that dog in USA Today or alert loved ones if I ever was trapped in a well.

I'm ashamed to say that none of this came to mind when he was sprayed ground-zero by the worst smelling skunk juice I have EVER encountered. I gagged and immediately thought "oh well" as I fished in my pocket for a $20 to pin to his collar for Alpo. "Good luck in the world smelly, we'll miss ya!"

Heck, I still have the breeder's email. I could probably get another that looks just like him.

My train of thought was stopped by a single look from my husband. He has mastered the wordless "shame on you" look that conveys utter disappointment and inspires a more selfless call to action.

"Set him free and call Animal Control." I suggested. Again, the look. "I don't mean we'll give him away -- just have Animal Control give him the bath tonight and then we can "adopt" him in the morning."

I thought this was a clever solution. My husband didn't even acknowledge I had spoken. I think he's just jealous that he's not the 'out of the box' thinker I am.

"Just get the dog shampoo." He said.

Eager to redeem myself, I brought him the dog shampoo and began to scour the Internet. There were about 200 hokey cures and more point/counterpoint chatter about the Tomato Juice bath myth than the Zapruder film. In the midst of this chaos, I saw promise -- a website that claimed to have tested 58 different skunk juice remedies and held the salvation of several 100% guaranteed instant solutions using common household products. Sold! for $27.00. I know this sounds like a ridiculous investment, but you must understand.

By this time, Teddy had run in and out the family room and the whole house reeked extreme. Eye-watering, nose-singeing, lung-burning, gut-wrenching stench. I dry-heaved in the bathroom for ten minutes and had was reduced to shallow mouth-breathing through a shirt. Even though it was 10:00 at night, we were in the third day of an crazy 95 degree+ heatwave and it was still at least 85 degrees in our living room. I thought, forget Antrhax, if the bio terrorists figure this one out, we'll all be bowing to Mecca. Threat level puke.

After typing in my credit card number in order to receive the awesome stench-eradicating wisdom, I downloaded a simple PDF document. The first eight pages were some clown's personal story of their dog being sprayed by a skunk. Um, shut up for $27.00! The next ten pages itemized roughly the same series of remedies I had found for free using Google. I had been hoodwinked by marketing genius that I knew I might find inspiring once I could breathe again. Right now, I needed oxygen.

I made the midnight dash (ok, 10pm) dash to CVS where I speed-shopped for vinegar, lemon juice, baking soda, hydrogen peroxide, Sprite and about 8 Summer's Eve disposable douches.
That, right there, is love. Love means having the courage to put 8 disposable douches on the counter for some buck-toothed, faux-hawked teenager to snicker about while he rings you up.

I'm sure I'm the talk of the skate-park. "Peee-Ewww, here comes Mrs. not-so-fresh. What a lovely Summer's Eve! heh, heh, heh." Whatever. I had a dog to douche. Or rather, I had a dog-douching to watch. When my animal control idea was shot down, I demoted myself to bathtime cheer-leader.

I raced back home with the supplies and my far-kinder husband washed Teddy down repeatedly with every concoction listed in my $27.00 manifesto. Then he stripped down outside and streaked back in the house holding a wet Teddy over his goodies.
I only wish I moved faster to snap our Christmas photo.

My husband and Teddy rinsed off inside and called it a night while I placed the recommended dishes of coffee grounds and vinegar around the house to clear the air. Nothing doing. The stink hung in the air with the persistence of a Special Olympics telemarketer. (note: it took me more than 10 minutes to get that bozo off the phone the week prior.)

We all slept fitfully, except my two boys who didn't notice a thing until they were eating breakfast. Day four of our heatwave and we were off to the boy's school for end-of-year ceremonies.

My 3rd grader's back-pack cleared out his classroom. All the kids had to leave their backpacks in the hallway for the rest of the day.

At the kindergarten celebration, we oddly ended up at a table by ourselves. No one said anything, but I could tell by the pressed-lip smiles that the stench cloud had followed us out in the world.

Two days have passed, and I am sorry I ever thought about getting rid of Teddy. The stink still lingers, but we're getting used to it.

I do have a couple extra Summer's Eve douches left -- I wonder what the return policy is on those babies. I'm feeling much fresher.

Hoosier Mama?

2008-06-09T17:00:00.004-04:00

For reasons too boring to enumerate -- I find myself spending quite a lot of time in Indiana these days. Woo Hoo - the Hoosier State! I like to try to rally myself into a frenzy of self-induced euphoria when contemplating my next trip.
I decided to Wikepedia "Hoosier," since I probably shouldn't be bandying the word around, without the foggiest sense of its meaning. I learned that little lesson, the awkward way, in more than one foreign country.
The Wikepedia experts are a little vague on the origin of the Hoosier term. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hoosier -- They speculate it originated as either a slurred greeting, an expletive used to get someone to 'dummy-up', or some reference to white trash. Any term that could serve those three purposes simultaneously automatically becomes my new favorite expression! It's the language trifecta!

Speaking of racing, that seems to be the principal source of excitement in Indianapolis. The Indy 500 isn't a mere day-long spectacle to Hoosiers. Nah, there's about two weeks of thrilling events, including "Carb-Day," which I learned (again, the awkward way) has nothing to do with thousands of local Atkins Dieters ransacking the Macaroni Grille.

Since I'm spending about one week of every four there for the foreseeable future, I am trying my best to go native. Its a little more challenging to blend in than I originally anticipated. They are only a two hour plane ride away, but Indiana is proving to be a 'whole new world' for this gal from Boston. Here's some of the interesting culture-shock experiences I've had thus far:

1: "Dog is my co-pilot" -- The last time I checked, Indiana was not in the Bible-belt. Maybe it's just the folks I'm rolling with, but God seems to come up an awful lot, in places you wouldn't ordinarily expect. Like budget discussions. Recently, a colleague said "well, if it please Jesus" when discussing an equipment investment. At first, I just thought there was a Hispanic guy running Purchasing. Nothing doing. I haven't seen anyone near the office who looks vaguely beige, never mind ethnic. Once I heard Leviticus quoted and a marketing meeting ended with "Amen," I realized I was in the land of Ned Flanders. Hi-de-li-ho Neighbors! I should be OK as long as I keep it to a 2 drink maximum at work events and avoid all pointed questions about whether or not I've found my 'personal savior'. I have a feeling "Jose Cuervo" would not be an acceptable answer to that question -- though they share the initials "JC", and I might make the bonus round with that!

2: Drivin' (like) Miss Daisy -- For a city with a love of auto racing, they sure ain't speedy on their freeways. Almost no-one drives in the left-hand lane, or passes one another -- which is mind boggling for this Boston driver. Almost as mind-boggling as the speeding ticket I received for doing .... 72mph on the Freeway. 72! I almost laughed out loud -- until I saw it was $150 fine for going even 1 mile over the speed limit. 72 ... I almost wanted to ask the (very nice) police officer if he could make the "7" a "9" so I could save face at home -- where we drive 72 ... in the driveway! I nearly invoked the Lord's name myself -- and not in the good way.

3: Its a small world (on my plate) -- I'm no gastronome, but I do love me some fine dining -- especially when I'm out of down on the corporate dime. When I Googled "Indianapolis Dining," the list of options began with Cracker Barrel and ended with Olive Garden. Sigh. I asked my resident friends -- Don't you guys have any indigenous delicacies, like lobster or BBQ or deep-dish pizza? Nope. I thought I'd be working my way through the mall food court, beginning and ending with Orange Julius, when suddenly I discovered a hidden gem on the Interweb -- "Blu Martini"! You know, when they leave the "e" off of blue, you're in for a treat vs. lowering your expectatins for the "kozy koffee kottage". There are intentional misspellings and then there are C words which begin with K. Kool.
My enthusiasm flagged a bit when I saw Blu Martini in person. The web photos didn't do justice. I could not tell online that it was at the end of a strip mall, next to an ADAP auto parts store. The interior had a feeling of old roller rink / a Midwestern community theater production of 'Sex In The City' --- mmm, not so much.
Oh well, at the Olive Garden, they "treat you like family" -- Here's hoping they treat me like someone else's.

On an up note, my find of the week was that you can bring cocktails into the movie theater in Indy. Schwing! After my blu, blu dinner, I went to see Sex In The (real) City at the local art cinema. The in-theater cocktails added a real dimension to the experience. Even though it was a Wednesday night -- the local gals really got festive. Everywhere around me glasses clinked and the women repeatedly yelled out to the screen (and to each other). It was a little like Rocky Horror with 20% less mascara. Pretty hilarious. I wonder what they yelled during Brokeback Mountain.

In reading this post, I realize I come off sounding like a snotty Easterner. Its not that I consider myself superior (Ok, a little). Mostly, I just feel like Sarah Jessica Parker whenever I visit -- not as Carrie Bradshaw -- but as Patty Greene in 'Square Pegs', always 1/2 a beat or 27mph off.

I guess I'll just have to ask myself "What would SJP do?"

In which I discover (yet again) that I'm no genius

2008-06-03T11:39:00.002-04:00

The difference this time is that I am holding the official MENSA letter as documented evidence. Why do I have an official letter from MENSA? Well, that's where my true non-genius thinking shines through.

As I have been working on my budding career as a speaker, trainer and author; I can't help noticing the credentials of my new peer group. Everyone seems to be a Dr. of something or other. People have degrees out the wazoo, have published books or completed incredible feats of strength or daring-do.

I'm sort of a "discount motivational speaker" -- I haven't climbed a mountain with no limbs, paddled a kayak full of emergency supplies down the Amazon without my sight, or overcome a debilitating disease any more serious than Chicken Pox. I haven't lost 100lbs (at one time), I've never been homeless, or completed a race longer than 5K. I'm sort of a yawner. "Climb every mountain, as long as its your driveway."

So, being a savvy marketer - I decided it was time to bolster my credentials. Now, I'm no Doctor -- though I read a lot of Doctor Seuss and used to be a big fan of Doctor Who. And all that book lernin' required to get an advanced degree seemed like such an awful lot of work to go through for a single sentence in my web bio . Surely there had to be a better way ...

That's where MENSA came in. Instant credibility. No muss, no fuss, 3rd party authentication that I was a genius, a "certifiable genius" -- ooooh, the speaker bookings would come rolling in!

So, I took their online test -- while I was on a boring conference call. The results came back instantly -- close, but no cigar -- you may want to try our home test. Hmmm, would there be peeing on a stick to find the genes for genius? I decided to try it.

MENSA sent me a home test for $10. My husband just rolled his eyes and said, "You paid $10 to find out if you are a genius, I would have told you for $5!" That is now looking like a good deal that someone smarter might have taken.

I scurried up to my home office to take the test in absolute quiet, yelling down for my husband to time me with a stopwatch and keep my boys quiet. "Shhh, Mommy's trying to find out if she's a genius." I am sure there was a lot of silent shoulder shaking going on. They have all been busting on me ever since -- "Go find out what the genius wants for dinner ..."

I completed the test and felt I had done my best work under optimum conditions. All that remained was for the MENSA people to send me my window decal and wallet ID card.

Instead, I got a rejection letter. Oh -- it was polite, and filled with big words I had to look up in the thesaurus.

"The criterion for membership into MENSA is a score in the upper two percent of IQ. As you can imagine, that is a small fraction of the population." (2/100ths, I believe ... did that one in my head!) "Many highly intelligent people do not qualify on this home test due to contributing factors that affect performance." (Like, for instance, being an idiot)

I didn't completely embarrass myself ... turns out that I'm in the 12th - 18th percentile. I'm smarter than your average bear, but that doesn't translate into a pithy speaking credential.

Guess I'm going to have to hack off my limbs and fjord the Amazon -- because I'm still too lazy to go back to school. Either that -- or maybe I'll audition for "Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader." I mean, how hard can it be?

Put me in coach, I'm ready to play

2008-06-02T17:17:00.002-04:00

Is it me or is every other woman over 4o suddenly becoming a "Life Coach" ? Coaching seems to be the new "it" occupation. Nearly every woman I know is coaching or in the midst of coach-training.
I think the training may one of the chief enticements of the job, since it sounds like summer camp for adults. You have a legitimate excuse to dump family and work obligations for multi-week retreats in the woods, where you come up with amusing names for your coaching 'tribes' like the "White Pines," the "Soaring Eagles" or the "Naughty Pineapples."

At coach training, it sounds like you spend many hours earnestly engaged in inner-self exploration, challenging "comfort zones" by engaging in rigorous physical challenges and developing leadership potential by calling each other out on their stuff. It sounds like self-development, but this somehow qualifies you to give other people semi-professional advice for pay.

That is the cherry on the sundae - When you're finished being a naughty pineapple -- people will actually pay you cash money to hear the advice you used to give away for chardonnay.

With so many friends in coach-training, working towards their 'gold whistle', I have recently had the unique opportunity to play guinea pig for them while they hone their skills.

I love the part where they open our session with, "This is not professional advice meant to replace qualified psychological counseling or therapy."
I ask (not even snarkily) "So is this just like you giving me your personal opinion on my life and what you think I should do, as a friend?"
(insert eye rolling here -- theirs -- I hold a poker face)
"No, I'm coaching you -- giving you tools and techniques that I've learned through my months of leadership training I gained on the Internet and on retreats."
"Oh."

I do think there is value in having a professional relationship with someone who can help hold you accountable for your life. It's sort of like a personal trainer for your brain.
Hell, I'm too WASPY for therapy and I'm so lazy, I'm willing outsource my self-discipline.

Full disclosure: I have actually used professional coaches to great personal benefit. It's when 85% of my girlfriends become coaches is when I get a little suspicious on how high the bar might be.

Suddenly the same lunchtime gab fest we have about my socially-retarded boss, becomes something a stranger is willing to pay $175/hr for! I feel dirty. Ordinary expletive-laced, laugh-filled gossip sessions take on a serious tone and feature strange phrases like "I want to acknowledge what you're putting into the space." or "Can you tell me a little bit more about how that made you feel?"

I just want to scream, "Good lord, I'm talking about the jack-ass working the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru -- It made me feel thirsty for coffee! Can we turn off Dr. Joyce Brothers for two minutes?"

But that's probably just my naughty pineapple envy showing. One of my coach-in-training friends just coached me to resume my blogging after a 10 month hiatus and look how good that worked out. Give her the golden whistle and me the brochure for Coach U -- I could use a summer retreat!

In which I find myself in the mood to self-improve

2007-07-09T22:21:00.001-04:00

I feel the urge ... the urge to surge ... or whatever else might rhyme with "urge" and means radical self-improvement. As surely as fall foliage has me itching for new shoes, summer has always meant the possibility of returning in September as a brand, spanking new & improved, almost unrecognizable version of myself.

I have always eagerly anticipated each summer as an opportunity to drop out of sight of all my fellow students with the purpose of giving myself an extreme makeover. Each summer, I'd make insane to-do lists of all the radical improvements I planned to turn me into the bionic girl of beauty:

* get rid of freckles
* straighten and whiten teeth
* lighten hair
* grow bangs
* lose 15, 20, 25, 40, 50 ... lbs
* get rid of all pimples
* shape eyebrows
* get amazing tan

And so the list would go -- each summer, getting a little longer. New goals were added and old favorites reappeared, inspired by the pages of Seventeen and Teen Beat magazine. My type A Virgo tendencies surfacing, even in those pre-spreadsheet days, I would buy a monthly calendar with the sole purpose of recording my action plan and milestones.

During the summer before sixth grade, I came into possession of the Holy book of self-improvement -- The American Girl Beauty Book. Published in 1964, it had nothing to do with the current historical doll craze. This was 1979, and yet, the book's advice was timeless. The cover featured an illustration of the apple-cheeked, sparkly blue eyed paragon of perfection. She was everything I aspired to be.

Readers were encouraged to continuously strive to be "band-box fresh." I wasn't exactly sure what that entailed, but it sounded like the type of girl who could wear linen trousers all-day-long without a single crease. I added that to my list ... along with practice impeccable posture, smile consistently, and buff fingernails to a healthy sheen.

I saved my paper-route money to buy Porcelana fade cream to fade my freckles, I added Sun-In (and peroxide) to my hair, I brushed my hair 100 strokes a day, and steamed my complexion over pots of boiling rosemary and mint before applying a homemade oatmeal and sugar scrub. I laid in the sun slathered in baby oil and iodine. I invested what seems now like endless hours in improving my appearance, demeanor and bearing ... until about the 4th of July -- which is when I decided that all that primping was boring and highly unlikely to turn me into Morgan Fairchild -- no matter how hard I wished.

At the end of the day, I was (and am) a Tom-boy with an extremely short attention-span. I was a sprinter, not a marathon runner -- full of enthusiasm for the race ... until my feet get tired and I saw an opportunity for a cold beer by the side of the road.

This summer precedes my 40th birthday ... and should be the ultimate make-over opportunity. I should revisit my old friend - the list. I have more freckles than ever, I don't tan, the weight's still there and I can't wear linen trousers for 10 minutes without looking as though I was trampled by a band and I live in a box. On the plus side, my braces are off and I pay the blonde fairy handsomely to keep be on the golden side of silver.

I'd love to find a copy of that book again. I'm sure I'd laugh at the silly, antiquated advice and I'd probably find a couple of classic recommendations worth re-trying.

The best part of being near 40 is ... that I am so OVER wanting to be Morgan Fairchild. Lady Elaine Fairchilde http://pbskids.org/rogers/make_believe/lady_char.htm... now she's intriguing and I bet she has a far less demanding beauty regimen. http://mashtheory.blogspot.com/2006/06/horrors-of-lady-elaine.html

Best quote from Lady Elaine:

"Hey there, Toots. When I want something to happen, I wave my Boomerang Toomerang Soomerang and—it happens."

That beats Porcelana any day!

In which they are still just wet cucumbers

2007-06-18T23:29:00.000-04:00

Calling my parents is remarkably like eating a Lil’ Debbie snack cake. It seems like a good idea at the time. “Hey, I think, maybe they’ve improved with time.” “I’m sure they’ve changed the recipe by now … and that picture on the box looks pretty alluring.” Afterwards, I just feel vaguely nauseated, my teeth hurt, and I could kick myself for STILL not lowering my expectations sufficiently.

87% of adults have complicated, ambivalent relationships with their parents. 98% of statistics are made up … but this one I’ll buy. My parents aren’t (to my knowledge) serial killers, alcoholic abusers, pedophiles or anything remotely interesting. They are just utterly apathetic.

“Oh,” friends will say. “My parents are apathetic too – they’re workaholics, more interested in their hobbies, friends or volunteer work than me.” “That’s just it,” I say. “My parents don’t have any hobbies, they don’t socialize, work or volunteer. They literally find dust mites more interesting than their own children.

Our phone calls go something like this. “Hi Mom, NASA just picked me to be the first civilian captain of the International Space Station. I’m going to be launching on …” At this point, I’ll be interrupted with: “I saw the most fascinating show about the evolution of the teapot last night. It was a four-part special … (insert roughly 45 minutes of excruciating detail about pre-Columbian teapots.)” I can literally put the phone down, mix and consume a pitcher of margaritas and my mother will still be holding forth on the optimal curvature for bamboo teapot handles.

When I say “apathetic” – I mean at the Olympic Gold Medal champion level. My parents possess the the kind of mythic apathy that produced one of the best answering machine messages of all time:
“Oops, guess we missed your birthday. I was looking at some expired lunch meat the other day and I noticed the date was your birthday, so I guess this is late.”

Mmmm yes, my bologna has a first name -- it’s Hallmark.

Today, my parents surprised me by hijacking the conversation to announce that they bought land in rural South Carolina. They plan to move to Aiken, South Carolina so they can “get away from it all.”
They live in a leafy suburb 25 minutes away from any urban center. No one has visited them in, no kidding, five years. But, somehow they have miraculously conquered their fear of the gypsies that live in the greater Aiken area (which is another post) and are planning to head south.

When my father came reluctantly to the phone, he was clearly irritated that my mother had divulged their plans. “We didn’t tell your sister when she called because we decided not to tell anyone. Your mother must have forgotten that.”

“So you were planning a secret move without telling your kids?” I asked.
“Your mother made home made pickles yesterday,” he replied. “If you had one today, you wouldn’t know they were pickles yet, they’d just be wet cucumbers.”

Yep, they are still just wet cucumbers. And wet cucumbers they will stay. I am just hoping Lil’ Debbie doesn’t introduce wet cucumber cakes anytime soon.

Weekend at the Ashram

2007-06-11T20:01:00.002-04:00

Noble suffering is best enjoyed when served as a concept vs. reality. I learned this by surviving my own little reality TV show known as "Yoga Weekend." Initially, I was thrilled by the opportunity to teach Improv at the venerable yoga institute known, only semi-jokingly, as "cripple you." By the end of my 3 day tour, I was using "yoga" as a 4 letter word.

When I first learned I would be teaching there, I eagerly devoured the institute catalogue. I looked forward to the opportunity to cleanse myself by spending time in austere monastic surroundings, enjoying organic, vegetarian fare and cleansing my chakras with vigorous yoga.

By the end of the first day, I felt like Ellen Degeneres eating the cucumbers off her eyes at the spa.

Only fifteen minutes after arriving, I was being yelled at by a woman named "Rainbow."

I had placed my tray at the end of the salad bar while fetching a drink and, apparently, health inspectors could come in and accuse them of cross-contamination. Or something. I was too gobsmacked by this fierce little silver-haired woman in a flowing caftan bellowing at me to listen.

I was most surprised by the attitude of most "cripple you" staff members. Where I expected, serene, centered, peaceful folk ... I encountered sour, stressed-out task-masters. My first morning, I was brusquely sent back to my room to fetch my name tag before entering the dining hall. Even the faculty have no mojo with yogini lunch ladies.

I was almost literally shoved out of our instruction room, dinged for sneezing loudly during silent breakfast and shushed repeatedly after 9pm curfew. I hate being shushed. As my five year old proclaims when confronted with any dire circumstance: "NOT MY FAVORITE!"

I will say though -- the people watching was fabuloso. There were definitely hard-core organic, hemp-attired, spirolina-swilling, probiotic, ashtanga-addicted yoga folk there. But I also noticed more than a fair share of fake-tanned, acrylic-nailed, Barbiesque bimbos doing more crystal shopping than stretching. There were also a good number of yoga posers (like me) for whom the best part of the weekend would be telling people you went. We identified one another by our spanking new coordinated yoga attire and our eager willingness to be seen parting with the $3.50 "sin-tax" for real coffee in the basement cafe.

One morning with the dining hall's dessicated bark-chip blend had me naughtily fantasizing about Juan Valdez.

That's not to say I didn't experience some personal transformation or learn a few things about myself along the way during yoga weekend.

I created a new morning mantra for myself: "Kazuki Beans For Breakfast"
I learned that I'm more of a Cap'n Crunch girl and that cabbage vegetable broth, red miso paste and kazuki beans do not a suitable Denny's Grand Slam replacement make.

I learned its more fun to look like a yogini than to be a yogini and I have even adopted a new Sanskrit name in recognition of this experience.

You can call me "Penuche." That would be penuche as in the fudge shop I hit on the way to the Mass Pike after burning rubber out of the parking lot.

Hasta Luego Rainbow.

This space is Myspace ... this space is Yourspace

2007-02-26T15:26:00.000-05:00

OK, so I just received an invitation to a MySpace event where one of my so-called Myspace friends will be travelling across the country to find the mythical Tom Anderson, "starter friend" to millions of Myspacers.

Pretty clever. I wish I thought of it myself. They'll probably be all over YouTube and get a development deal for some sort of reality TV show that chronicles their journey. Very surreal. Sort of like those paintings of a painting, within a painting, within a painting. Television and web media is now just a derivation of itself. Hearkening back to my old financial services days, I would have to say that we're now trading futures and options on content. Ow ... It makes my brain hurt as much now as it did on Wall Street

By comparison, I am a mere Myspace dilettante. I dipped a toe into the cyber community pool because I heard it was a great network for comedians. Many of the comics I know use Myspace as a great marketing tool. They build audiences, distribute videos, and even sell jokes. They all speak in a whole new language of Myspace stats. You are how many friends/views/kudos and bulletin board posts you rack up. I can't keep up with the Myspace Joneses ... I just enjoy a contact high by being part of the party.

I'm still agog that I was able to friend (v) Tina Fey, Jon Stewart and Amy Sedaris. I know they probably had some minion accept me -- Either that, or some 55 year old postal worker who ordinarily poses as a pre-teen cheerleader is the Myspace Tina Fey ... but I'm still living the dream.

It took me a year to get over my real-life passive-aggressive tendencies online. I'm a pleaser by nature. When I started out, on MySpace I was eager for any kind of friend. I'd get a few friends per week -- usually other comics, or local comedy fans who had seen me perform.

Occasionally, I'd get the cruisers that must search by locality for romance. I had a few creepy come-ons from a married cop that lives nearby, a weird hairless guy who flexes in his living room and a 21 year old who loves older women. The last one had me a little psyched. I forwarded that one to my husband who just rolled his eyes and bit his nails in a fit of mock jealousy.

The problem was that, just like real life, I didn't' know how to say no. I just left the friend requests in my in-box indefinitely. To deny offered friendship seemed entirely too harsh and cruel. I thought I might be barraged with angry emails ... "Who are you to deny me?!!" So, I just let them sit -- but it nagged at me. I didn't want these friends, so what to do?

Finally, my friend Violet pointed out that these folks could see that I was ignoring them by logging in and not accepting their friendship. Yikes, I had been outed. In one single fit of empowerment, I went in and denied about 22 pent-up friend requests -- some months old. It felt great. So far, no major repercussions. I don't think my denial rocked any one's world.

I once agonized about ditching and blocking a friend I had previously accepted when she filled my comments page with dopey daily Jesus-grams and sparkly unicorns. She seemed so nice at first, but when I was receiving 3 - 4 emails per day telling me she had posted some other ridiculous Spencer Gifts drivel -- she had to go. I now have the rule that I will not Myspace friend anyone I wouldn't friend in real-life. Not like I'm that picky in 3-D, but standards have to start somewhere.

Today, Myspace has rounded the bend where I now get routinely friended by people selling crap. The clever ones pose as a real persona and try to make their fake pharmaceutical pitch an after-thought. Increasingly, Its just a full-on porn/pharma/insurance sales come-on. I have no trouble instantly denying spam friends. I struggle with denying all those folks who are trying to raise awareness about the choking game, childhood disease or missing people, but its starting to feel like those agonizing chain mail emails where we're supposed to send a card to the dying girl that never existed.

I'm not yet the MySpace Greta Garbo ... but I am getting fatigued reading daily blogs from conspiracy theorists, receiving pod-casts and bulletins about obscure causes and being invited to sign up for sweepstakes. I'm still hanging at the party, but for now -- I'm just driving slowly on the MySpace driveway on Sundays ...

Like A Fish Out Of Holy Water

2006-12-28T21:08:00.000-05:00

I don't get to church much. Catholic Mass on Christmas Eve reminds me why. We attended more for the mother-in-law points than any heavenly credit. To say my 5 and 7 year old boys were not looking forward to it would be the understatement of the year. I'm not Catholic and they are utter non-believers in sitting still and remaining quiet.

I will say however that (short of airports) church offers the best people watching going. Big holidays bring everyone out of the woodwork. There are the church tailgaters who arrive an hour early, duded up in gaudy Christmas sweaters, overanxiously waving their arms and spreading belongings to save rows of seats for straggling family members. Then there’s the beleaguered stage parents dragging in their reluctant, disheveled shepherds and wise men wearing recycled burlap and dented garland halos.

I particularly enjoy watching Christmas Eve "teenapalooza," that incredible mix of tattooed, pierced Edward Scissorhands-looking kids who look as if they were dragged right off the floor of Strawberries to attend, and the jocks for whom Christmas Eve finery means their shiniest basketball shorts, new high-tops and an extra diamond stud. These guys skulk in and slouch into a seat as if pulled by some invisible tractor beam instead of their own feet.

In complete contrast, there are the church girls. The girls look as if they have spent the entire afternoon primping. There are updos and ringlets, glossy lips and wall-to-wall metallic eye shadow. Mary Magdalene had nothing on these chicas. They wear velvet wraps and show off their sparkly décolletages enhanced by glitter body spray. They come teetering in on brand new mile-high or kitten heels and the only thing they have in common is a complete inability to walk in their shoes. They clomp in like Clydesdales or wobble down the aisle, trying to look as alluring as possible as they take their seat. They spend the next hour checking one another out and craning their necks to see if they are being checked out in return.

The room is packed beyond capacity and the close, over-heated air smells vaguely of bad breath and expectation.

On stage, the key players look like they have been sent from Vatican central casting. The church choir leader could be from 1966 just as easily as 2006. She sports the air of a commandant accented by a plaid skirt suit and Lady Bird Johnson hairdo.
Oddly, the majority of this service was conducted by a teenage ecumenical minister. This sixteen year old gel-slicked Ralph Reed look alike was relishing every minute of the spotlight as he played to the audience with over theatrical hand gestures, deep bowing and perfect enunciation. Extra creepy. I’ll see him again on America’s Most Wanted 2012.

The priest seemed a little off his game. It was as though the high-holiday raised the bar of expectations and he wasn't used to playing to a packed crowd. He tried to connect with the congregation by making lame jokes about the Giants game, baiting us to see if anyone knew the score. (If someone knew, then they obviously hadn't turned off their electronic devices heh-heh-heh). I couldn't help but notice that he emphasized, about three times more than necessary, that Joseph and Mary had no marital relations before Jesus was born. I wasn't aware there was controversy on this point.

At the end, the priest ended with a big flourish by admonishing those of us who had mistakenly wished one another "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas" during the peace. "In the house of Jesus, we should say Merry Christmas. No fish for you if you didn't." ... Um, OK - this church is headed by the "fish Nazi". Seinfeld would be amused.

The peace is always my least favorite part of Mass. You have to turn around and talk, shake hands and/or kiss strangers. I never know what to do. I am always jerking in one direction and then another, trying to make eye contact so I know where to go next. I'm bumping into people, shaking when I should bow or vice versa. Half the time I get totally smoked by someone in the next pew and I have to pretend I wasn't even headed in their direction. It’s always just one giant awkwardfest. Maybe next time I'll just focus on inner peace by pulling a "Fonzie" pretend make-out/back-rub with myself.

I don't think we got too many mother in law points. My boys made it all too obvious that they were visiting a foreign land by asking endless questions in their hearing-impaired voices -- "What's the bible?!" "Why are they collecting money?!" "What does pray mean?!" After I explained the concept of prayer, my eldest beamed at me and informed me he just prayed to Jesus.
"What did you pray for honey?" I asked.
"I prayed that Heat Miser was real and that I could hang out with him." He announced.
What could I say except, "Well, good luck with that," I said with a big thumbs up.

Finishing out our church experience, my boys continued their tradition of "christening" every public building with an extended bathroom visit. On the way to the car, my son asked my husband, "Do you think God minds that I had to poop in church?"
"Nah." My husband said. "That's why they call church chairs pews."

And, that is exactly why I married him.

I'm getting nuthin' for Christmas ...

2006-12-27T15:10:00.000-05:00

Mmmmm and it sure feels good! Of course I got plenty of lovely gifts - sweaters, books, a down comforter and Ali G DVDs. OK, those are technically my husband's - but I am a beneficiary.
More than anything though - I am so enjoying some down time. The kind I never seem to allow myself under ordinary conditions. It is a glorious indulgence. Living white space if you will. No particular place to be, no cell phones ringing off the hook, no to-do list in sight. Pure bliss.
I just sat on the couch, bare feet jammed under my 7 year old for warmth, for two full hours as I devoured a Nora Ephron book. It's after 3 and my hair has air dried into a product-free shag around my makeup-free face. I'm enjoying a latte as I wander around the house aimlessly. Oh, there are gazillion things to-be-done. Lists to be made, calls to be returned, blah, blah blah. Later. Maybe. If I feel like it.
For now, I'm just chill-binging and it sure feels good. This could be my new indulgence. Its inexpensive, calorie free & I am thinking quite addictive.

I hate the help

2006-12-19T11:03:00.000-05:00

What a bourgeois complaint, I know -- right up there with “it’s so hard to find good help” on the obnoxious cliché scale. Yet, right now, I am hiding from my cleaning ladies upstairs in my home office. I cower as a cleaning lady captive, un-showered and too hideous to leave the house since I woke up late, at the crack of dawn, just to get ready for them.

I woke up with a start. “Crap, its cleaning lady day!” I dashed around straightening toys and books, collecting errant socks, half-eaten fruit snacks and the sippy cups that routinely litter every room. After all, the cleaning ladies can’t clean if you haven’t straightened up first. Even with all my frantic efforts, I’m sure they are still rolling their eyes as they look at our sinks. “Have they ever considered rinsing the toothpaste down the drain?” I imagine them wondering, “How on earth did that much shaving cream get on the mirror?” and “Have they ever tried peeing IN the toilet?” Hey, I live with two little boys who enjoy a good game of “crossing swords” at least a few times a week. I wouldn’t take your shoes off in my bathrooms.

Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful to be able to afford cleaning ladies twice a month. I am grateful to have someone to clean at all. It is just one of the most awkward relationships I have ever been in, and there is simply nothing worse than actually being here at home while cleaning is happening.

When I worked outside the home full-time, I really used to enjoy the experience. The cleaning ladies were an abstract idea. I would imagine them as little elves, working their magic while I was at the office. Now we exist in close proximity and none of us harbor any illusions about one another.

The cleaning ladies we have now play against the classic types we’ve engaged before. They are two affluent-seeming, impeccably groomed women in their mid-sixties. They feel more like aunts than employees. During the interview, they waxed on about the loveliness of each of their own homes. I could picture their living rooms filled with table-top lace doilies and mirror-paneled cases of Hummel figurines. Their ‘little boy with umbrella’ probably hasn’t ever seen dust.

The odd thing is -- they are the worst cleaning ladies we’ve ever had. At my house, they chatter loudly the entire time they’re here, discussing grandchildren, arthritis remedies and lasagna recipes, often loudly enough for my clients on the phone to wonder who is in the room with me. On top of it, they don’t clean; they just re-arrange.

What they must think of me, holed up in my book strewn extra bedroom, tapping away on a laptop while yapping on the phone. They seem so much like relatives, I can’t imagine firing them. I almost wonder if their sloppy cleaning – forgetting to dust book cases and lamps or not washing the kitchen floor, is their passive-aggressive way of thumbing their nose at my obvious domestic inadequacies. “You’re sitting right here Missy – get off your duff and pick up a mop!”

In the six years we’ve used professional help, we’ve gone through five sets of cleaning people – and that is only because we are too lazy and socially awkward to fire them on a timely basis.

First there was Melita, the hyper nosy cleaning lady who came whenever she felt like it. Her schedule was almost entirely random. My husband couldn’t stand her. Like a demented patient in a nursing home, he was absolutely certain she was stealing his asthma medication. I couldn’t shake the mental image of Melita hanging out in some parking lot with the other cleaning ladies, sporting their gang-colored bandana head kerchiefs, and taking hits off his Albuterol.

Then we had Tetrazinia … or something. Neither one of us could pronounce her Brazilian name. She, meanwhile, had trouble pronouncing “Sue”. Each week she would come and apparently bring a gaggle of grand children who would follow her around and play with our kids toys. Every week, they left snacks and more than a few of their own toys behind. We had a cleaning lady who we had to pick up after!

My most embarrassing cleaning lady experience was with Linda. Linda was extremely thorough and used some sort of black-market, Teflon-based wonder product that made every surface super shiny and lemony fresh. My kids and I would routinely wipe out on the wood floors and things would slide right off our slick counters after her visits. If you were ever home when Linda was there – watch out. She was like out of her mind on Methamphetamines. She’d find you, sit you down and babble at you at 200mph until you made up some fake excuse, like appendicitis, and slinked out the back door.
One horrible rainy night she was there, I had to legitimately leave to pick up the boys from daycare. That night, instead of her regular beater car, Linda had borrowed some friend’s fire-engine red sports car and parked it directly behind my garage bay instead of on the street. I pulled out without looking and hit the car with a sickening crunch. I tried to look out the window but couldn’t make anything out in the pitch dark and driving rain. I wanted to tell Linda, but I had to go get my kids before they were put out on the street.

We came home and Linda’s car was still in the driveway. I was terrified. So of course I did the adult thing and told the kids we were going to Dunkin Donuts to wait her out. “We want to go home!” They wailed. I was having none of it. We sat at Dunkin Donuts for nearly an hour before returning. Linda was still there. She was babbling at my husband who was nearly catatonic and desperately craving his asthma medicine. There was no obvious damage to Linda’s fancy car, but she drifted away shortly thereafter. I think the car was the first step towards an uptown life for Linda.

Every cleaning lady breakup is hideously awkward – whether it’s the clean break or the drift-away. It’s judgment-filled on both sides. When we initiate the break, we feel like we have to offer some elaborate explanation of our personal circumstances. “Well, finances are tight and we’re cutting back and I think we’ll be doing our own cleaning for a while.” The cleaning ladies just look at us and sneer. They’ve seen our shower drain and they know we are incapable of cleaning for ourselves.
So here I sit, immobilized between utter laziness, social phobia and embarrassment, unable to make the break. Maybe I’ll just change the locks and the phone # and they’ll get the message. Maybe I’ll hire a new cleaning lady from East Africa and pretend she’s a relative who has moved in to help out. Maybe I’ll hire a hard-core industrial cleaning company the day before their next visit and pretend I cleaned myself and don’t need them any more.

More likely I’ll just stay trapped up here in my sweatpants twice a month hatching elaborate schemes and avoiding contact. It’s working great so far …

Jewels of identity?

2006-12-15T16:46:00.000-05:00

I have read that you can tell a lot about a woman from the contents of her purse. This may be true, for some, but I don't see how anyone would be able to construct a semblance of my identity from 3 tubes of lip gloss, 4 ID badges, a wallet & fist full of receipts.
I thought of this as I dug through my jewelry box feverishly in search of an earring mate. My jewelry box is where I often start and end my days -- you could probably get far more insight into a woman's identity by combing through those things she considered precious enough to be jewelry-box worthy.

Consider mine. The box itself is of the classic mahogany bureau-top sort. It was a gift from my parents years ago. I still haven't had the brass monogram plate personalized -- probably because after 13 years of marriage, I still haven't come to grips with which initials I would use. I should get a bigger plate.

My oldest son refers to my jewelry box as my "pirate's treasure chest" and it does resemble a prop from Pirates of the Caribbean. The lid is always ajar and all sorts of bracelets and necklaces are heaped in there, hangling (hang + dangle) over the sides like ill-gotten booty.

Inside, you'd find the following:

1) 4 strands of differently-sized faux pearls. These range from the small strand of majorca pearls from my grandmother to the Gobstopper-sized Barbara Bush beauties that are an artifact from my corporate power-suit days. If I ever need to attend a holiday party dressed as Lisa Simpson, I'm in business.

2) jewelry packaged by children and/or made by children. I've got some crazy combinations of macaroni bracelets and glittery, huge "Attention Kohl's Shoppers" specials. Every time I think I might let one piece slip into oblivion, I'll hear an adorable little voice ask "Mommy - don't you want to wear that beautiful pin I made you? Tell me why again that you wear it on the inside of your shirt?"
Because its closer to my heart that way.

3) Therapist jewelry. I don't know what I was thinking ... I have a few big rock on a string, hunk of turquoise pieces that I can't recall wearing since a friend and I attended a personal development workshop a few years back. Our goal was to beat each other out by wearing the most "therapisty" jewelry we could find. I have a few pieces Streisand would covet for her Meet The Fokkers sequel.

4) A veritable singles bar of earrings. They are all desperately seeking a mate. They wait patiently on little velvet pillows for the call that never comes. The nicer ones I always consider making a charm or pendant. There's one from 1986 ... A huge Glen Yank NY aluminum earring that looks like an industrial sculpture more than an earring. There's the pretty blue topaz snowman earring my husband (then boyfriend) gave me in 1990. I know I lost its mate in the bathroom at my first job. I just can't bear to throw it out. There's many more with less sentimental value but it feels like wasteful bad mojo to throw these out (like throwing away Christmas pictures of good friend's children). The person who comes up with a use for these abandoned earrings will be a millionaire.

5) Goofy holiday jewelry. Less embarrassing than a Christmas sweater, but hokey all the same, are the jingle bell necklaces, tree light earrings, vintage Christmas Tree pin and mini Frankenstein earrings. How better to show your festive holiday spirit than to have your ears telegraph the message?

6) Treasures from my grandmother. Some old photos of her from 1914, a citrine necklace, Deco rhinestones from the roaring 20's, a beautiful silver cuff bracelet, some cool/weird pins from the 70's. I always think of her when I see or wear these things. Its remarkable how often I do wear them - good taste never goes out of style.

7) A wide variety of ill-conceived hair adornments: funky combs, rhinestone barrettes, hair "chop-sticks", funky bobby-pins. All seemed like a good idea at the time but never made into regular rotation. I hang onto them all, waiting for the fads to come back.

8) Cape Cod jewelry. I HAD to have the plain silver with single gold bead necklace/bracelet/earring combo I saw on a few gals here on the South Shore. It seemed so clean, so classic and fashionable. Then I saw these EVERYWHERE, including the 1st grade girls in my son's class who whispered "Nice Cape Cod bracelet" conspiratorially when they came out to do math drills with me. That killed it.

9) Watches, watches, watches. I have leather strap, metal band, SWATCH - you name it. None have worked for years ... I should make time fly by heaving these out the window.

10) The top layer contains my current favorites. Milky aqua chalcedony necklace & earrings I got at a Malibu art fair with Violet, Rose Quartz square necklace I got at a little funky store in Marshfield. My fun & funky irridescent polka dot necklace I got at a South Shore boutique. Fun crystal necklaces and earring sets -- all colorful, differently shaped, creative, costume & fun.

So if a cultural anthropologist came upon this treasure trove -- what would it tell him or her about me?

That I have a hard time letting go of the past? Check. I do so love the 80's
That I have a strong sense of family history. Check.
That I can be a fashion victim and a holiday cornball. Double Check.
That I am a pretty conservative fashion-wise but increasingly enjoy showing some artistic, creative flair. Yep.
That I am mother to children who can work miracles with pasta and gold paint -- ooh yeah.

What's in your jewelry box?

Its the most WONDERFUL time of the year...

2006-12-08T12:09:00.000-05:00

Ahhh yuletide ... or whatever the politically-correct seasonal police require us to call that today -- "tide" probably offends oceanographers and those who are Water Signs on the zodiac. I'm not even 40 and I'm already getting old enough to just not even care!! HA HA - I'm feeling Merry & thought I'd share some of the ways we've gotten festive so far!

1) We send greetings of the season. In my office, Egg nog latte(tm)-fueled marketing managers struggle mightily to create the perfect politically -correct, endearing, inclusive, non-offensive, clever and cute winter-time greeting. The trash baskets overflow with crumpled card prototypes festooned with ill-conceived trees composed of crosses, Muslim moon and stars, and Buddhas, all topped off with a star-of-David. (I wish I were making that up) Other card options feature new, non-sensical words comprised of the 5 or 6 holidays blended together as some version of "Merry Chrismakwanzahannukah", other choices feature lame and uninspiring odes to winter while showcasing a newly Richard Simmons-fit version of snow person. The card options are then presented to our CEO, an unsurprisingly obtuse, rich, white guy who proclaims, "These are crap -- why don't we just say Merry Christmas?!" The HR person in the room clears her throat and the CEO says, "Right, pretend I never said that - why don't you go back and compose some sort of holiday haiku using the world shareholder and value-added?" This is how we say Happy Holidays.

2) We love our neighbors. In our case, the neighbor is a 14 year old boy who would benefit from at least one hitch at a medium-security military school. "Eddie," as we'll call him, routinely rides his bike around the neighborhood for hours while pulling an upside down wagon that makes a hideous screeching noise as it drags along the pavement. One day, I proved that I have become a ridiculous adult by pulling over to ask, "Hey Eddie, how come you pull that wagon around upside down? It has wheels on the other side." In return, I got one of those looks -- those, blank, sociopath, stare-through you, probably seeing you as the gorilla in Donkey Kong that must be destroyed looks. "I dunno" he replied, along with a slouchy, lame, one-shouldered attempt at a shrug. Then we just looked at each other for what felt like eternity before I simply gave up. "OK then ...," I breathed, as I rolled up the window & drove off ... feeling very, very old.
On Saturday, my husband looked out the window and caught Eddie and friends making off with the Christmas lights from our outdoor trees. Apparently they make a really great sound when you smash them on the pavement. Why my husband knows this, I'm not exactly sure. He swears that as a kid, he only used the burnt-out lights his parents gave him, but I narrowed my eyes at this, suspecting a criminal past. I was ready to dial Norman Schwarzkopf to come get his new recruit, when my husband -- always filled with the milk of human kindness -- suggested a different approach. "Let me just talk to Eddie and explain he needs to promise never to do this again, and I'll respect him and not call his parents." His way sounded more rational and humane. I sighed deeply and spend the rest of the afternoon feeling like an inferior human being -- until we drove past Eddie and his buddy on the way out of the neighborhood. My husband rolls down his window and yells "Hey Eddie, you better come talk to me about those lights!" And then he just sped off. I looked back through the car window and Eddie looked stricken - clearly wondering if his parents had been called, or worse. Captain Compassion just let them stew in it for the next twelve hours. I guess there is a brotherhood of thieves, because the next morning I found $10 anonymously placed under our door-knocker. Later, Eddie came back to talk mano-e-mano and tried to finger some other kids who had been stealing even more lights. It's like the mob. Once you flip and turn State's evidence, you point the trail to the bigger fish. Somewhere in my neighborhood waits a Middle-school holiday decoration "Don" holed up in the woods atop a pile of plastic reindeer and inflatable snowmen. He smugly counts Christmas wreaths while dispatching his Capos to get more lights. Any day now we're going to be shaken down for protection money. Where's Elliot Ness when you need him?

3) We enjoy the sights and sounds of the season. A favorite tradition when I was a child was the drive around to look at Christmas decorations. We used to listen to Christmas carols on the radio while we stared through fogged-up car windows at a beautiful rainbow of colored lights reflected off the snow. Today, we live on the South Coast of Massachusetts, and let me just say that the WASPY folk don't really "get" the whole festive lighting concept. The more affluent the town, the more "white" the decorations -- literally. Tiny white candles shine in each window, maybe there's an evergreen wreath on the door. Not very exciting. My two boys squirm in the back seat ... "When are we going to see the GOOOD lights!!" They whine. My 7 year old asks "How come rich people don't have good Christmas lights, they can afford the electricity?" "Hmmm, I don't know." I reply, wondering the same thing. We drive towards some more working-class towns in search of more colorful decorations. The metaphor is not lost on me. Instead of Christmas carols, my four year old insists that we sing the Scooby Doo theme over and over, each time adding more verses about zombies and vampires until the song is too scary to sing anymore. Nothing says Merry Christmas like a good zombie song!

4) We gather around the tree. Every year, we make a big deal about bringing home our Christmas tree. This year we opted for the full Tanenbaum experience of cutting down our own tree from an actual tree farm. On a sunny Sunday afternoon, we hiked up to the tree orchard and prepared to claim the perfect tree. There were about 50 beautiful trees in the distance. Unfortunately the Christmas tree "sooners" had all been there before us, staking their claims with little yellow paper tags. If you eliminated all the previously claimed trees, the pickings were slim. Our two boys were undaunted and unwilling to leave that farm without a tree. Suddenly they became blinded by "tree goggles" and picked out a sad little specimen with several bald spots. (I won't go for the obvious joke here). To them, the tree was beautiful and we tied it to the roof and brought it home. At least this year, we learned from past mistakes and didn't drive into the garage with the tree still tied to the roof!
We brought the tree into the living room for our annual tree naming ceremony. Last year's tree was Fred. This year's tree is named.... Crispy Donut. Why? You ask. My eldest wanted "Crispy", my youngest wanted "Donut" and they occasionally compromise.
This season, you can picture our family surrounding the tree, singing "Crispy Donut, Oh Crispy Donut … How we love your sugar coating!”

Destiny Awaits!

2006-12-01T08:48:00.000-05:00

After a few days of wallowing at my own pity party - I decided to have my fortune told. Here's what I learned.

May hair will turn into cheese.
I will lick an ice cream and it will turn into a monkey.
I am going to be a BIG Disco star.

Granted, this fortune was told by a 4-year old ... but he seemed crystal-clear in his predictions. This is more than even I had hoped for.

I am off to fashion some barrettes from Ritz Crackers. Destiny awaits.

In Which He's Just Not That In To Me

2006-11-29T08:44:00.000-05:00

We all remember that first unrequited love. Mine was Stephen Lebay -- a 7th grade hottie. For months I stared at him in home room, imagining what it would be like to be his girlfriend. I would go home and daydream about him while listening to Stevie Nicks belt out "Sarah" in her most excellent gravelly voice on my FM clock radio. I'd just mentally replace "SueB" for all the Sarah parts ... "SueB, you're the poet of my heart -- never change, and don't you ever start ..."

Our young love was one of endless possibility, if only Stephen had an inkling that I was alive. Each morning I would make meticulous preparations to be irresistible. I'd spritz on the Love's Baby Soft, curl my bangs, apply my most delicious flavor of Bonnie Bell lip smacker and don my matching Levi corduroys and tabbed sleeve sparkle shirt that buttoned at the elbows. For added pizzazz, I might even add my piece-de-la resistance ... rainbow "Mork from Ork" suspenders -- Nanoo Nanoo, meowwwww!

I'd make my classroom entrance, dropping my pencil near his desk or finding an excuse to ask some ridiculous question about homework or bus schedules. Stephen was always pleasant and even made eye-contact (rare in 7th grade boys). Clearly he was smitten with me. He just didn't know how to make the first move.

I was sympathetic to his awkwardness and so concocted elaborate plots and situations to make it easier for him to ask me out. I learned his class schedule and placed myself in his path wherever possible. I executed the umpteen chess moves to be seated at his lunch table and I schemed to bump into him outside of school -- not easy.

Stephen lived on the opposite side of town from me, and so one day I hatched a plan with my friend Laurie Peterson to "study at the town library". Instead, we took Stephen's bus to his neighborhood. She and I walked his block about 40 times before he rode by on his bike and said hello.

"What are you guys doing here?" he asked.

Spying a house for sale, I answered "Oh, my parents are thinking of buying that house and I just wanted to come by to check it out myself."

"Really?" he asked.

"Well, um yeah." I replied, chewing on my hair.

"Oh, how big is your family?" He asked. "That house only has one bedroom and won't sell."

"Oh yeah totally, I know." I said "We're totally planning to add on."

"Ok, good luck!" he called as he sped off. I felt like a jerk.

About three weeks later, my friend Laurie decided we should take the direct route and offered to pass Stephen a note, telling him how much I liked him. Her plan was to pass this to him the day before Christmas recess.

On the big day, I was giddy with nerves and anticipation. Laurie and Stephen shared a class right before lunch and I raced to meet Laurie afterwards at my locker.

"What did he say?!" I squealed, getting ready for the best Christmas ever.

"Um, he likes you ... just not that way. He likes you more like just a friend." Her reply sank in my stomach like a cold stone.

"Oh, OK." I said, at a loss for words since "whatever" wouldn't be invented for another decade.

In that moment, as I was marinating in disappointment, I realized (at some level) that I knew Stephen wasn't into me all along. I just hoped that if I made myself fetching enough, available enough, if I executed all the right text book moves -- I could create interest and affection where there was none. I thought that with enough hard work, creativity and sparkly lip gloss I might be able to control the outcome. Wrong. Wanting it does not always make it so.

It's a lesson worth remembering 27 years later. Last night I auditioned for America's Funniest Mom for the 5th time in 3 states over 3 years. I looked my best, had great material and performed a really solid set. The audience loved me. The producer could not have cared less. As he made his way through the crowd to tap a few of the moms for post-set interviews, he gave me only a passing glance; looking through me with that vague unseeing stare I remember too well from 7th grade. I had that same cold stone in the belly feeling. I have been here before.

All the hours I have spent strategizing hilarious parenting jokes, clever essay answers, wardrobe, timing and even peeling with a banana with my feet don't matter. I am just not what he is looking for. This is another outcome I can't control with preparation and hard work. It's time to move on before I just seem (more) pathetic.

I know I'll get over it, but today is my day to feel rotten. Right now I'm going to go think about people who have no legs so I can stir up some gratitude. That and I'm going to go buy "Sarah" on I-Tunes. Maybe I'll find Stevie Nicks doesn't have a gravelly voice at all & it was just my clock radio all the time. You learn something every day -- except on the days you don't.

In which I am longing for Freaky Friday

2006-11-28T17:50:00.000-05:00

It is Tuesday here in Boston ... which is Wednesday afternoon in Auckland. Hey! It is a dreary, grey, dismal November afternoon; dark before 4:30. I am sitting atop the 34th floor of the Prudential Tower, looking out upon a sea of greige office cubes. You can't even see through the windows, as we're locked inside a battleship grey fog bank. The office is reflected in the windows, giving the space an eerie, fluorescent-lit sheen. Most folks have gone home, but a few sit fixed in their 6 x 6 pens, tapping away at Excel spreadsheets, sending urgent requests for budget reviews, and scheduling umpteen Sarbanes Oxley compliance procedure meetings.

I'm not a prisoner, per-se. They do say, however "if you marry for money -- you earn it." The same goes for work. In my experience, for any high-paying office job, you often have to check your creativity, your personality and sometimes your soul at the door. No, I'm not a prisoner -- I'm a corporate call girl. No kissing and leave the money on the dresser please.

Some days, I am satisfied with the exchange. Today however, I am longing for some soul release. I open several computer Windows and surreptitiously surf the net. My goodness, how did we waste time at work before the Internet? I suppose we talked to each other. So glad that's out of vogue.

I pop over to my good friend Violet's blog for escape -- where I find plenty. http://sparkspark.diaryland.com/
I have known Violet since we met in French class detention in 1981. There she was, dressed in a whale belt, kelly-green corduroy skirt, and 5 layers of top (turtle neck, polo shirt, 2 oxford button-downs and a Fair Isle sweater wrapped jauntily around her shoulders). Hey, we were having an energy crisis. Violet wasn't there "doing-time," she was there voluntarily showcasing her ability to conjugate obscure French verbs.
I, in contrast, was there because I had chosen to decorate my French instructor's motorcycle with floral garlands and tinsel. When he said he was a "flower-child" I took him at his word. I was such a 9th grade bad-ass that my belt featured kissing terriers instead of whales and I brazenly opted for only 3 layers of shirt.

Surprisingly enough, Violet and I were united by a love of mischief and she gave up her spot as teacher's pet to become ensnared in a crime caper of epic proportions. As partners in crime we became life-long friends. That is a story for another day.

Fast-forward 25 years ... and the tables have turned. Violet is the antithesis of the goody-two-shoes I met in 1981. She is the anti-me, living a free-spirited life onboard a 45 foot sailboat in Southern California. She's a rock n' roll goddess, artist, writer, actress and amazing tarot-card reader. She has a wild cast of colorful characters in her life who are engaged in a never-ending series of episodes worthy of their own cable channel. For me, she's the road not taken -- my "what if" personified.

We talk -- never often enough. 3,000 miles, adult responsibilities, 2 children (mine), partners and husbands, jobs and lack of funds and time conspire to keep us apart more than I'd like.

So many days I really miss her. I miss her ability to be totally in the moment, ambling down the street, taking in every sight, sound and smell to see what strikes her fancy. I miss talking about anything and everything from the philosophical to the ridiculous. Being with her makes me more myself. It brings out the best in me, in terms of openness, creativity and just being (vs. constantly doing). Visiting her is like visiting Technicolor Oz.

I wouldn't trade our lives -- but I certainly miss having her as more of a regular fixture in my own. Reading about Violet's adventures and her hyper-intelligent, keen and hilarious stories was like a cool drink of water for me today.

Today I am wishing I were her for just one day. I imagine waking up to sun and salt air on the boat and zipping around the coast taking in music, art and more than a few exotic cocktails. I am totally romanticizing her life, but that's he fun of it. My creative soul has been feeling parched and I would love to see the world through her eyes for a little while just to re-juice my batteries.

Even though we're often oddly in-synch ... I doubt she's having the same thoughts today. If so ... there's a 1/2 completed spreadsheet, an ergonomic chair, and 2 hungry boys looking for dinner here waiting for you sistah - Rock on!

A few things to be thankful for

2006-11-27T14:49:00.000-05:00

On the heels of Turkey Day weekend, I couldn't help but to consider a few things that sparked my gratitude over the holiday. I won't be all "Andy Rooney" about them all but:

1) I'm thankful I don't have a camera phone (or, if I do, that I am unaware of its existence). Believe you me, I am ALL for convenience and the ability to snap hilarious instant photos. I am a life-long fan of the Polaroid instamatic. I do, however, think we were a little choosier about our pictures when there was film involved. As I was forging my way through an endless human ocean in New York City over the weekend, I was struck by the number of people who just randomly thrust their camera phones through the crowd in every random direction -- snapping photos of store displays, steaming man-hole covers, hot dog carts, shopping bags ... you name it. I might not have noticed, except the camera phone frenzy presents a new etiquette dilemma. Ordinarily, I would wait to cross in-front of someone snapping a photo or would, at the very least, make an effort to duck, bob, or weave to avoid being in their picture. However, when you're on a sidewalk crammed to the gills with people and 98.3% of them are constantly waving their arms in wanton directions to snap pictures at every conceivable angle, you can't help but to be part of the action. Look for my ear, neck and ankle on the internet. I have to believe those shots would be slightly more interesting than the man-hole cover.

2) I am thankful for traditions. As goofy as they sometimes are ... and as much as we sometimes rail against our being required to be someplace we'd rather not be, doing something we hope no one sees us doing, occasionally with some people we would ordinarily cross the street to avoid ... Traditions are the glue that holds family and friends together.
We all need a sense of what is expected from us and how we are "to play the game." When you have traditions - especially long standing ones - everybody knows how to be with one another, and that is priceless. In my own family-of-origin, the traditions died out with my grandmother. Now every family member is cast out in their own orbit. These days we're so respectful of one another's boundaries and independence that, without the expectations of a strong family matriarch/patriarch or a brave soul willing to be the emotional family center -- we just carry on in our own way, wistfully wishing "someone" would bring us all back together.
Fortunately, the family I married into is long on tradition. I see how much that anchors the family and how much my own children love being a part of it all. I can't wait to be a bossy old matriarch myself and making up my own bizarre traditions. Its time for the flaming breakfast whiskey shots and then ... the traditional running of the monkeys!!! Bring it on.

3) I'm thankful for my children pointing out what has become invisible to me. Over the weekend, we took the kids and cousins to a theme restaurant in NY. (For those of you contemplating theme restaurants; a word of advice -- "don't") This particular restaurant was a haunted mansion with all sorts of interactive creatures -- mummies, The great and mighty Zeus, a Sphinx, a Werewolf, etc. Who wouldn't want their $ chicken nuggets served by a Werewolf, really? Burger King, take note.

This dining experience was definitely oriented to the under 10 set. We also paid a $/pap "entertainment charge" to see actors put on little skits throughout the meal.

I didn't pay much note to the performances, but my 7 year old was completely offended. He turned to me in moral outrage -- "Mom, they said the "c word", the "s word" and were insulting people!" Granted, the "c word" is "crap" and the "s word" is "stupid" ... But there they were -- calling the audience members "stupid morons" calling one another "ugly" yelling "what is all this crap?! and commanding everyone to worship Zeus instead of Santa because he has "zits on his back."

Not my bag, but I thought the kids would enjoy it. I should have given them more credit. You know what - that is just genuinely unpleasant & not redeemingly funny or clever enough to warrant the ugliness. It just goes to show you that even kids know entertainment value. I'm thankful they won't be asking to go there again :) Not having to be the bad guy ... priceless.

Another Thanksgiving under (and over the belt) :)

Kramer's a racist - Not that there's anything wrong with that ...

2006-11-21T23:10:00.000-05:00

Well ... of course there's lots wrong with that. And how ironic (in more than an Alanis Morrissette kind of way) that less than 24 hrs after my post about being a squeaky-clean wussy comic ...the news shows are filled with cautionary tales about a comic who crossed the line. Between Michael Richards' awful rant, John Kerry's joke that wasn't and Studio 60's plot implosion... November has been a tough month for comedy.

Forgive my lengthy diatribe on this topic ... it's so close to home that I can't help but speak my virtual mind.

I saw the actual rant on You Tube (link above) and I watched the bizarre and addled apology on Letterman. I can't help but feel bad for Michael Richards. I think he honestly shocked himself with what came out of his mouth. I don't know that he even knew he had all that hatred in there.

We all have our "stuff" -- biases and prejudices formed by a combination of ignorance, fear and negative experience. More often than not, we keep this stuff bottled up inside and deny it exists.Usually, we're just highly-evolved enough to realize these feelings (irrational or not) are inappropriate and we keep control of our impulses rather than rant or act out. I'd like to meet the person who is truly unbiased down to the core -- I doubt they exist.

Our dirty little biases stay tucked away deep inside our subconscious until something potent -- like rage (or alcohol) triggers what we don't even consciously know is there. If we're lucky, our rant happens in an acceptable context -- with close or like-minded friends or in private.

These biases and rage triggers are even sometimes put to "constructive" use. Think about any major military action -- that's when racism and bias are in vogue (locally if not globally). Watch footage from Iraq - our soldiers are make tons of racial, cultural and ethnic slurs in the name of attacking the enemy. If those same soldiers made those same comments here at home & out of uniform -- we'd be horrified. Because they are under duress, and vulnerable in the middle of conflict - it becomes acceptable & even desirable to objectify the enemy and attack. Wonder how those poor folks are going to switch off that trigger when they come home?

I don't think Michael Richards was doing mortal combat on the stage of The Laugh Factory. But, as a comic, I know he was vulnerable out there and the hecklers were messing with his head. Public speaking (and mortification during speaking) is a fear worse than death for many -- even seasoned comics.
Those hecklers got to him on stage & his primal "fight or flight" brain went into a rage. Michael's brain reacted with the words that would be most powerful and defeating to the hecklers.
He lost control, went way over the line and -- unfortunately -- he did it in a room full of people he was supposed to entertain.

Is it acceptable?- No. Did the Hecklers have it coming ?- No. There were about 200 better ways to handle and defuse that situation. Is Michael Richards a secret racist and awful human being that hates African Americans? Probably not. Its always a lot more complicated than that.

You watch him on Letterman and he's obviously rattled by the whole experience. He hasn't processed this or gotten a handle on his reactions. His entertainment career is going to be seriously compromised -- especially on the heels of Gibson. No more lovable, insane Kramer. His punishment will be the loss of his career -- we have no tolerance of this behavior in comedians ... which is also ironic, because comics are usually the only ones allowed to speak the unspeakable.

Everyone is morally outraged, but I think this raises some interesting issues. Its easy to be your best self when things are going well -- but under pressure and extreme stress - what seeps out? What do we each have there deep inside? We're all human and all flawed and shouldn't really forget that.

I recently saw Crash - which was a phenomenal movie about race and the complexities we all have as human beings. Our morals and values are sometimes relative to our situation and circumstances. I don't think any of this excuses Michael Richards ... but I think if we were all honest -we'd be a little more compassionate.

I don't think his behavior is admirable or excusable -- I do think it's explainable and ultimately forgivable.

I have never been heckled ... but I am beginning to think my probable reaction of bursting into tears and running away from the stage might be a preferable YouTube clip.

Here endeth my dissertation.

A wussy says what?

2006-11-20T14:34:00.000-05:00

Who you callin' a wussy?! That'd be me -- only because I'm too chicken to call my self a ussy with "p." That's right, and I nearly blushed as I typed that.

I am not de-pressed ... I'm re-pressed - extra starch please ... and I'm finally full-on ready to accept my uptightness. This is an amusing attribute for a stand-up comedienne. Maybe I could get on stage & start a bunch of jokes and then stop short of the punch line ... Substituting "well .. you know" with a wink.

It's been an interesting journey, developing my comedic voice, point-of-view and stage personality. I spend many, many nights in the back of dark, seedy barrooms standing elbow-to-elbow with a gaggle of 20-something boys who do very dark, twisted, raw material. I stand in the back, laughing until I snort out loud (and sometimes pee a little) at their filthy, disgusting, funny as H.E.- double carrot-sticks jokes. Last summer, I went to see "The Aristocrats" - Penn & Teller's movie about the dirtiest joke ever told. I sat in the theater laughing my tushie off at stuff that would make a depraved pimp wince.

I don't say this defensively, as much as with genuine curiosity. I don't think I'm a prude -- just inhibited. My comedy type must be AB positive or whatever the blood-type is for "Universal Recipient" ... I'm just a more restrictive comedy donor.

I don't work dirty. I don't swear in my act. Some jokes are suggestive but never raw. The odd thing is - I don't consciously edit myself .... writing jokes that I then kill as "too nasty" of off-color. I just don't think that way. I haven't thought of my material as playing-it-safe or felt that I wasn't taking big enough risks.

Some other comics ask if I keep my material clean to get more lucrative corporate gigs. Nope. I would love some corporate gigs -- not just because they are more lucrative, but because I survived the corporate world for nearly 2 decades ... and that's where I get some of my best material. The bar-room crowd doesn't always get the cube-as-veal pen analogy -- but the veal would.

On Saturday night, a comedy friend of mine wrote me a new routine-closing bit that called back to another joke of mine. He nearly wet himself with laughter because he thought that if I went raunchy on this last line, it would kill the audience because it was so totally unexpected. I gave it a shot and it did well ... but I felt kind of like a fraud.

My buddy thought I was a little too apprehensive with the line. Maybe. I don't know. Half of me wonders what kind of state I would have to be in to write totally uninhibited material ... the other half realizes that this WASPy suburban mom ain't gonna come up with a Dave Chappelle or Sarah Silverman set. I will appreciate both but -- I just gotta be me ... even if I am too "Leave It To Beaver" for some.
Heh, heh, heh ... she said Beaver ... heh, heh.

Shhhh "it's" in the garage

2006-11-14T11:47:00.000-05:00

When my kids ask me -- I can hold my hand to heart and say "I never, ever bought drugs." That either makes me REALLY virtuous ... or a total mooch. Since I don't want to jeopardize any future opportunity of becoming town dog-catcher, I'll leave you to guess.

Yet, I now possess something that would make a Glaucoma patient happier than a Thanksgiving Day Sale at Lens Crafters.

You see, my friend Nila moved back to Singapore and didn't want to carry anything along that might harm her immigration status.

I found her giggling uproariously behind a tree as she enjoyed a last little bit of Americana at her farewell party. She stumbled forward to give me a big good-bye hug and thrust the crumpled Gap bag into my arms.

"Oh my God, I can't bring this back to Asia ... give it a good home!"

Never one to turn away orphans, I eagerly adopted Nila's cast-off.

We sped home to relieve the sitter ... before I had to pay her in empties, and I tucked my new charge safely into a cabinet in the garage. I peeked in once before closing the door and the scent brought back hilarious sense memories. I snickered in the dark garage and then skipped upstairs with a new bounce in my step.

"It" has been with us now for two months and I haven't paid a single visit. Not that I don't think about it often.

Believe you me, I am no model of self-restraint, I have just been enjoying "It" differently. Just like vacation brochures offer the thrill of glorious possibility that is often better than the actual event -- my little cabinet friend has become "mother's little helper" just by being there.

On those days nothing goes right and the children are revolting -- I'll look at my husband with a conspiratorial smirk and say "I'm going downstairs ... heh-heh-heh."

Bad day at the office and I'll throw out ... "Time for me to go clean the garage ... boooh yeah!!!"

It makes me feel all tingly just thinking about it. If I actually partook .... then it would end with the same disappointing thud you get when you open your last Christmas present.

Its irreplaceable. I mean, I have no idea where I could ever get more once it was gone. OK, that part is a lie -- but I'd probably have to pay for it, and I'm not that kind of girl. I have principles to uphold.

Lately however, my double-stuffed life is pushing me closer to shoving my face in that plastic bag until I pass out.

Last night as the phone rang off the hook and the kids bounced off the walls ... I yelled "No Woman No Cry, Mon!" at my husband and told him I was garage-bound for real.

"And what makes you think it's still there?!" He yelled back.

I stared at him with saucer eyes and stumbled to the couch. That is a possibility too awful to contemplate. And this Buffalo Soldier is not going to look.

Boys Behaving Badly

2006-08-03T17:54:00.000-04:00

I might pretend not to love celebrity gossip -- which is kind of difficult to fake during a hot & steamy summer -- but I do confess that I can not get enough of this whole Mel Gibson brou-ha-ha!

From his oddly sultry looking mug-shot, to the obviously wasted closed-eyed pre-DUI photos captured by fans' cell phones, to the awkward "my Jewish publicist wrote this" 2 page highway-to-healing apology letter ... the whole debacle is a complete crack-up!

The best part (which I learned from my source for all news -- The Daily Show with Jon Stewart) was that Gibson actually called a female police officer . . . "sugar tits"! Who calls someone that? Especially in LA -- I mean wouldn't "saccharin tits" or "splenda tits" be more appropriate?... just not Sweet n' Low - please.

The whole incident is made all the funnier becasue Mel Gibson is no longer "Mad Max" ... who could get away with this. He's "Passion of the Christ" devout Christian family man father of 10 ... Sugar tits ... that's some rap.

Who gets drunk and engages police officers in any conversation at all - especially as a celebrity? Dummy up and take the ticket. Tequila is truth serum and look what leaked out!!

I'm just gonna wait, because there is more to this story that we will hear over coming weeks. Mel's going to tell us why this all happened and it will be epic.

Sugar tits ... you know that cop is at home laughing about that until diet coke comes out her nose. I would.

Best In Show

2006-07-28T17:32:00.000-04:00

I just attended a very cool museum show that featured the work of one of my very talented friends, Katherine Glover www.katherineglover.com. Kathleen is an absolute inspiration. At 58 she has already led the lives of pre-med student, wife, mother, Harvard MBA, management consultant and finally ... in the last five years ... as the artist she was meant to be all along. She fought her creativity her whole life and now she embraces it 211%. Better a late bloomer than not a bloomer at all!
I am working with Kathleen to develop and communicate her continually evolving brand. This is one of the most engaging, thrilling and terrifying projects I've ever tackled. I have branded software, financial products, and companies -- but never a person and never something as enormous, intangible and amorphous as art. It is almost ovewhelming. I know our work together has been sent to me as a step in discovering and communicating my own creativity and voice. For this, I am grateful.

As Kath and I walk the exhibit together, she tells me about the artists', 'backstories and the incredible, painstaking processes they have for creating their pieces. I am in awe and I am completely intimidated. While I love the pieces, I always feel like there's some big cosmic joke I just don't get. I nod and contemplate the descriptions of each piece while feeling utterly simple-minded.
Some descriptions are unassuming and straight-forward -- others are fantastical, dripping with symbolisym, irony and layered context. "This vessel symbolizes the eternal struggle of good and evil, of all that is male and female and highlights the identity masks we all wear in our lives." Acutally, I paraphrase, since the actual description used many more 75 cent words. As I stood there contemplating the work -- all I could think was, "Gee, it looks like a basket made from clay and glass beads ...I'm not sure where good and evil come in, but I guess that's just me. "
I began to worry, that without a good Thesauras and a cosmic joke translation guide, I may not be cut out for this branding.

Then I remembered ... I can do this. I have branded art before!

As a student, I took several art classes. Since the college I attended could best be decribed as a business trade school -- it was amazing there were any art classes to be had. I guess Bentley's art program provided all those future accountants, economists and investment managers a brief shining moment to flex their right brain muscles before they were to be forever atrophied under a pile of Excel spreadsheets.

At the end of the semester, there was a big gallery showing in the student union. I remember attempting a challenging acrylic triptych which left me thankful for all those left-brain day-job skills. I was feeling badly until I walked the show preview with my best friend Violet. We were immediately struck by a really awful, dopey piece painted by a colossal jerk we both had the misfortune of being involved with at one point.

Yes, beauty is in the eye of the beholder - but this particular painting was obviously thrown together by a dumb Frat boy who only took art to bolster his Accounting GPA. There was no effort whatsoever in either the work, or the title, "My Room". Since this particular frat boy had crossed us both, Violet and I decided to bestow a little art-show payback.

The next day, the show would be open to the public and the professors would tour the gallery to judge the work and assign grades. Since our imagination-challenged fraternity boy had struggled so mightily with a name, we decided to help -- swapping the original card for an upgrade of our making.

At the opening, we followed the judges as they moved from work-to-work interviewing each artist about their technique and their intent. Soon we came to "My Room" Which had been helpfully renamed "An angry young Rastafarian rebells against the inequities of daily life in Post Modern Jamaica." The professors looked at the painting of a triangle, a gym sock and a beer can and tried to find the deep symbolism promised by the title.
"Have you ever been to Jamaica?" they asked.

"Uh - no, why?" asked Frat boy.

"Well, you seem to feel strongly about the plight of the Rastafarians," they replied.

At this point, Frat boy looked at the picture and title card and then spied us in the group -- winking at one another as if in a Disney teen movie (picture Hillary Duff and Lindsey Lohan (when they were cute) high-fiving each other and skipping away).

Since Frat boy's only connection with Jamaica came in a ziplock bag, he was at a total loss. The best part was - rather than out us - he tried to play it out.

"Uh, I have never been to Jamaica ... but there is so much poverty there ... I felt it was important to show what they face every day."

"What is the significance of the gym sock?"

"They are so poor ... they don't even have socks?"

"Ok, thanks ... let's move on to the next piece."

That was my art branding finest moment...so far. Rule #1 ... no bullshit and make sure your audience gets the cosmic joke. Who better to brand art than a comedienne?

Girl Power

2006-07-23T19:59:00.000-04:00

OK ... the pity party has endeth. A huge shout out to all of you supportive friends (in the flesh and in cyberspace). The support and parallel tales of woe made me feel 211% better ... that and tequila. Better living through tequila! That's what I always say. Besides ... who wants to be around a big sack of sad? Not me, that's who!

Well ... before I even had chance to finish a good sulk (or a Fifth of Cuervo) ... I received a Myspace message from my friend Amy G asking me to do a comedy show on what was, now, last night.

Amy is a fellow comic I met in Maine a few weeks back. She is the butchiest McButchy of lesbian comics and, of this, I know she is proud. She's also cute as a button and funny as hell. Amy invited me to play my first lesbian club date. This particular lesbian club is located in my hometown and that gave the gig a whole prodigal daughter "Circle of Life" completing itself feeling after last week's parental fiasco.

Since, at the time, I was a big jelly donut filled with hate for all things related to testosterone -- those being my father, nasty boy comics and the crowds who love them ... I said YES, YES, YES Amy ... take me to the girl club promised land.

Perhaps having not completely learned my lesson the week before, I decided to up the ante on this particular performance by inviting some High School girlfriends I had not seen in 15 years. These girls didn't even know I did comedy, and I am betting the only girl clubs they frequent involve scrap-booking and elementary school governance.

But I said ... "what the hell ... there's no chance they'll be able to come on five days notice. Besides, there's no way they will want to go to a lesbian comedy show ..."

Well shut my mouth -- They could and they did. And thanks to all of them ... I got my groove back!

We all met for dinner before the show and I have to say it felt like maybe 15 months had passed, maybe ... but certainly not a decade and a half. We instantly slipped into a comfortable groove -- catching up on kids, jobs and relationships and laughing over funny memories. Suddenly I remembered that these were the gals who saw me through many hilarious episodes of High School drama and hi-jinx that are now mentally set to a horrible sound track featuring REO SpeedWagon, Journey ... and George Michael. I still get a little misty over Careless Whispers. Its like he was singing to me all those years ago ... guilty feet having no rhythm and all that. But I digress.

After dinner we hit the show. A room full of about 80 women who could bench press me while slurping a Zima with the other hand. Not my regular crowd.

Amy opened the show I took the stage with my set and more than a little stage fright ... and the gals ... they laughed! They laughed in the "with me" vs. "at me" way I so needed. I had an absolute blast.

At the end of my set - Amy called me a MILF ... and who doesn't like to hear that?!!! I consider it my seal of lesbo approval!

The other comics were hilarious and I had a great time laughing until my face hurt with the only girls in the room carrying purses and wearing heels and eye shadow.

It was a great night -- everything came together perfectly and I remembered why I do comedy after all these years. As it says on Amy G's Myspace page ... "The shortest distance between two people is laughter." And so it is.

There is nothing more that I love more than laughing together with friends ... both new and old. Friends are the family of your choosing and in so many ways, they can compensate for the shortcomings of your birth families. Because you've chosen each other, you know far better how to nurture and lift one another up when its most needed.

I am really, really grateful for all the wonderful friends in my life ... particularly all the great women I count in my circle of chosen family.

As the great philosopher Sister Sledge once said ... "We are family ... I got all my sisters and me ... "

And thanks to all the sisters ... I got my groove back ;) And, as the Fonz might say ... Ayyyyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeeee

I really should know better

2006-07-16T01:05:00.000-04:00

At 38, I no longer pick my scabs, I am learning to control my chronic stage whisper, and I haven't drunk-dialed in I don't know how long ... I probably cannot remember because I was drunk. Like a moth to a blue light I am, however, occassionally drawn to self-destructive behavior that can only be explained as a primal urge. I can think of no other rationale for my incredibly dumbass decision to invite MY parents to see me perform stand-up comedy. I am an Augustus Gloop for punishment.

There are lots of ways to describe my parents -- supportive doesn't even make the hot 100. They are not child beaters, alcoholics or anything specific enough to warrant a chat with Dr. Phil. They are, however, insidious in their ability to undermine any shred of self worth or confidence.

A dime store psychologist could explain that seeking the approval and validation I never received at home is exactly WHY I perform stand-up comedy in the first place ... but sometimes we still need to touch the fire to see if its still hot.

Its hard to explain the full genius of their crazy-making skill, but I'll throw out a few hall of famers.

* Their walking out of my High School graduation without congratulating me or saying good-bye because it was too crowded and their feet hurt.

* Their dereliction of duty when asked to babysit their only grandchild while we gave birth to their second. (They turned off their ringer on the day they were on call to avoid pesky telemarketers)

*The time they did not call me for my 30th birthday. Calling a few days later when they remembered only when they saw the date on some expired lunch meat. (OK, this last one technically happened to my sister -- but its classic)

So why would I put myself out on the high-wire without a net? I have no idea. I guess I hoped if they saw a room full of people laughing and applauding me, the peer pressure would be so great that they would have to say ... "Wow, what a fabulous, funny, smart daughter we have. We are so lucky. We have been utter clods - we will change our ways, become demonstrative and kind ... Hooray for you" cue schmaltzy Mary Tyler Moore music and we skip off into the sunset.

In reality, even if I had killed at the show -- I would have been lucky to get a head nod.

I did not kill at the show. I was so addled and keyed up, that I had a crummy set. My timing was off, my tension was palpapble and an audience can sense fear. I swear I could hear crickets chirping several times during my set. It was the set I had always feared in front of the audience I least wanted to see it.

My parents left the show early, demanding I show them the way back to the highway. In the parking lot they just walked away from me towards their car. I felt odd saying nothing - so I just said, "Thanks for coming tonite. I hope you have a safe trip home." They just looked awkwardly at each other and my father said to me. "Thanks for inviting us ... it was interesting." My mom looked at me and said "Yeah, it was interesting."

OY - It was precicely my fear of THIS set that drove me out of stand-up comedy the first time after one great performance 13 years ago.

I won't let that happen again. I learned two important things tonite. I really and truly am not a bar-room comic. My silly, irreverant observations on the absurdities of parenting and cube life don't belong on the same stage with people telling incest and masturbation jokes.

I will NEVER, NEVER invite my parents to one of my shows again. They can watch me on Leno with everyone else and I will not call them to hear what they thought.

Live and learn ... I think I may go play with some matches in traffic now.

Yuck.

Foot Loose

2006-07-14T16:59:00.000-04:00

There's not much in this life that is more fabulous than new shoes -- new stylin' shoes that you pick out yourself.

These little honeys belong to my four year old son. He negotiated for them by picking out a pair of butch sneakers for school in return for these babies at home. Smart kid.

These shoes don't really see any outdoor action, not because he's embarrassed, but because they must remain PRISTINE. I have washed them gently with Dove soap ... 3X the first day. They hold a nightly position of honor on the steps of his bunk bed so he can gaze at their loveliness. When he gets quiet and has a dreamy look in his eyes ... I know he's just thinking about them.

I remember that look. Its the one I had the first time I conned my mother into buying a sassy pair of shoes of my own choosing. These were actually cowboy boots made of genuine, rich, Corinithian Pleather. I thought they were the absolute bomb. I wore them so much my mom was worried my feet might shrink from sweating off a few sizes inside the plastic sauna. One of the heels melted a little bit from being too close to my baseboard heater one night ... but I didn't care.

Those boots were made for everything my six year old mind could imagine. I could spend an hour just thinking of what I would wear them with, the feats of derring-do I would be capable of, the adventures I would surely have ... wearing my boots.

Footwear can be life-changing, and soul affirming.

The only foot-related item I may have loved more than those boots were my genuine trademarked "Fonzie" knee socks, featuring a great big picture of Arthur Fonzarelli in his trademark Ayyyyyyeeee pose. His two thumbs were way up -- way before Siskel and Ebert ripped him off.

Ahh, the Fonz - he was the epitome of coolness. Sure, later I found out he was just some nebishy Jewish guy in a courderoy blaser with suede elbow patches, but then -- he was mojo personified and I was the lucky girl sporting him on both my shins as I skipped off to Brownie camp. I loved those socks so much, I kept the cardboard insert they were packaged with and taped it to my bedroom door.

The image of Fonzie had bled through onto the white cardboard, leaving a very visible impression ... kind of the kneesock Shroud of Turin. I knew Fonzie wanted to be with me always. You don't find that kind of love every day.

Its nice to see that look again. I may have to go shoe shopping myself .. Here's wishing all your footwear fantasies come true ....

Mucha Lucha Parenting

2006-07-13T19:11:00.000-04:00

My tag team parenting Luchador -- wrestling name: "Daddy" is away this week, leaving me to fend for myself in the ring. Ayeeeeee, the jump from the top rope, she is not working so good for me anymore. Even in sparkly stretch pants, I cannot really keep up in the ring.

Round #1
My ordeal began just hours after his departure with a call from my youngest's daycare. The director was first overly calm, imploring me to come pick up my son immediately because he had a bump on his head. I hestitated, apparently a minute too long, as I tried to process the mental calculus that was going to get me across town to pick up my other son from camp and also take a conference call from my biggest client. I could tackle two, but probably not three in the same ten minute allotment.

Sensing my hesitation, the day care director came back with "He's bleeding and very, very lethargic -- should we send him to the hospital in an ambulance?"

"Well, why didn't you come out & say blood and hospital in the first place?! That changes everything.

After scrambling to reschedule a call and get a friend to pick up my older son, I sped over to the daycare and set a land-speed record for getting him to the ER, adrenaline coursing through my veins the whole time.

Fortunately, the little guy perked up once he saw the hospital aquarium and what first looked to be a very scary eye/head injury was a cut minor enough to warrant glue vs. stitches. He had such a shiner though that I took to calling him the Cinderella Man. About this, he was mucho pleased.

Round #2
An evening filled with brotherly love. Both boys celebrated their father's absence by giving each other full-body massages. Unwanted full body massages punctuated my me yelling "That's It" "Time Out!" and "For the Love of Pete - Knock It Off!"
The last causing the obvious question -- who's Pete? I don't know, but he needs your love so get your hands off your brother's neck!

Round #3
After a Tuesday like that -- How could I possibly turn down an opportunity to chapperone my 4 year old's field trip to the Science Museum. 16 kids, 3 adults, one big, jam-packed museum. I think my jaw nearly snapped it was clenched so tight when trapped in the bathroom with a gaggle of 4 year olds all squeeling over the hand-dryer while one locked herself in the bathroom to enjoy a little self gratification.
I wasn't angry so much as jealous -- I wish I had thought of that move first. She was blissed out on the bus ride home -- Me, not so much.

Round #4
Clearly I thought I was hitting my stride when I decided to mix yet another day of work and solo-parenting. Please, don't try this at home. Camp and pre-school drop-offs went OK, but I pushed my work/home choreography too far when I picked up my 7yr old and took him home with me so I could squeeze in a conference call before picking up his brother.
A wiffle ball game broke out on my front lawn and 4 boys poured into my kitchen all simultaneously hunting for cool-pops, bathrooms, juice boxes and a referee just as my call came through. I yelled "SILENCE" with an imperial finger wave as I fled up the stairs. Two minutes later, I realized the critical piece of paper I needed was downstairs. Just as I pushed mute on the phone, I lost my footing and went ass over teakettle down the whole flight, landing with a thunderous splat in the front hall -- smack dab in front of a freckle-faced cool-pop smacking audience of four.
"Mom, You OK?" asked my son.
"Does it look like I'm OK?" I snapped, my eyes welling.
"Um, no - not really. I'm sorry you fell down" He said, extending his hand.
"Thanks Pal, I'll be OK"

I lose.

Time for the sweet elixer of defeat -- A margarita!

Work That Skirt

2006-07-05T08:52:00.000-04:00

Right now my four year old is vamping it up in a mini-skirt. That would be my four-year-old son, and the skirt is actually a dishtowel held together with a chip-clip, but he looks quite fetching. This is because he knows how to accessorize and is working his red carpet moves in such a way that gives Tyra Banks valid concern for her job security.

That’s my boy – he is all that, and some more. Friends ask “Is he gay?” Maybe. “Is he going to be a Metrosexual?” maybe. “Is this just a phase?” … Maybe, but I doubt it.

I have never met anyone who so full-on knew what they wanted and loved since the day they were born.

People also ask me (in concerned tones) “You let him have Hello Kitty sheets?” or “So, you let him wear make up?” These people haven’t met my boy. “Let” doesn’t really come into any equation where he’s concerned.

He is so incredibly charming and adorable and how could anyone deny their sweet, sweet child the things which make them the happiest – especially when your reward is a very loud “Double Te Amo Mommy!!!” and a kiss that makes sailors blush.

That’s not to say that I don’t have fears and doubts. I mostly fear the day when other kids make fun of him and break his little heart. My deepest fear is that he will think he is somehow crazy, weird or becomes ashamed of who he is.

Today, he is – in his own word … Fableous!

There is no one else I know who can look out a window and find the one purple flower in a sea of concrete, find the beautiful butterfly in a grey sky or can almost magically hear the prettiest music or smell the best smells we all would otherwise miss. He is totally switched on. All his senses just vibrate.

The power his convictions hold amazes me. One night at a restaurant, I watched him skip over to his older brother and a group of boys huddled over a video game. He came back and asked me to get him his Cinderella make-up kit from the car and trotted right back over to the circle of boys. These boys had brush cuts and hockey jerseys -- and while only 6 or 7 years old -- they looked like a tough crowd.

My boy immediately began demonstrating his products. “I have Cinderella makeup!” he announced. “I have glittery eye-shadow and lip gloss that smells soooo delicious. Here, I’ll show you what I do …” and he proceeded to demonstrate the makeup on himself with all the conviction and zeal of a Ron Popeil Veg-O-Matic informercial.

Across the room, I winced … waiting for the older boys to say something mean or sarcastic. They didn’t. They stood there completely dumbfounded by the hurricane. Finally one of them turned to my older son and asked “Does he have a lot of Barbie stuff?”

My eldest replied “Oh yeah! He loves Barbie stuff – he has a ton.” With no invitation or opening to snicker or deride, the boys just shrugged & said “Cool” and went back to what they were doing.

My little guy skipped back to the table incredibly pleased with his demonstration and had some pizza.

There’s a lot I could learn from this kid. Its amazing the sphere of protection we have when we have the courage of our convictions. No can really pierce your armor when you are passionately committed to what you love most.

I love my boy’s creative little soul and I respect his mojo, which is considerable. I have lived so many years trying to please others or avoid their derision. “Would it be all right with you if I was just a little creative or different?… I’ll do it over here – you won’t notice it at all …”

Not my youngest – He is full out 200% himself at all times. I only hope I grow up to be more like him.

Work that skirt!

Who's the boss?

2006-05-15T18:18:00.000-04:00

A little more than a year ago, I took flight from the corporate world. I was running away from many, many things -- not the least of which was "the man" (and sometimes the wo-man) always telling me what to do. I was bone weary of overscheduled days filled with tedious meetings, process discussions, and ridiculous reports that tracked every tiny detail of my daily grind. Accountability was not only my middle name - it became my first and last too. I used to joke that I was Velcro for action items, leaving every meeting with the longest list of to-dos. Every day I was triple booked for meetings and owed an army of superiors an endless list of "deliverables." Oy gavult.

I leapt, with glee, toward the next chapter of my life - whatever that was. I didn't know what the future held; only that it would not be more of the same. I became a free-agent contractor working towards a more flexible, creative, self-directed existence.

Only a funny thing happened with all that freedom. It became, almost, a burden. What exactly did I want to do next? What did I hope to accomplish? Who did I wish to become? I had stepped off the merry go round with my head still spinning. What to do?

Ask the experts.

I now own just about every chart-your-own course self-discovery book ever made. I've been to seminars. I've been to summits. I began engaging a team to help me find my way. At last count, I have

Þ A personal trainer
Þ A life coach
Þ A writing instructor
Þ A comedy coach
Þ An acting/voice over coach
Þ A financial adviser and ...
Þ A tax accountant

I have a payroll! And as I contemplate all the progress I have made in the last year, I realize that in the corporate world I was paid and told what to do – now I pay others for the privilege.

At first blush, I was horrified by this. After all, wasn’t this I tried to escape? With some more reflection though, I realize I am enjoying the ultimate luxury – peace of mind. For while I am grappling with the larger questions of my life’s purpose and direction, I don’t really have the mental stamina to think through the details … the “how-to’s” of each next step.

The process of radical change and transformation is really overwhelming if you’re constantly thinking and trying to do at the same time. I realize my army of advisors, whether coaching me on how much weight to curl, what jokes to prune, or which IRA makes the most sense, ultimately allow me the mental freedom to reflect, to contemplate bigger decisions and ponder my options. You really can’t see the forest if you’re looking too hard at the trees.

I also realize that I am a person that requires a certain amount of structure and accountability in my life to be my most productive. The difference is its being self-imposed structure and accountability.

In my world – I now am the man. And that pretty much rocks.

Just ask “Miss Pronunciation”

2006-05-08T15:01:00.000-04:00

Yesterday a friend and favorite colleague of mine was giving the office a rave review of her favorite new tea shop “Teavania is so excellent,” she raved. “I just love Teavania!”

“TeaVANA” I stage whispered. “Its TeVANA like Nirvana or Mrs. Trump was Ivana – not vania like Transylvania.”

“Oh,” she said, clearly taken aback.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I just didn’t want everyone else giving you a hard time.”

You see – friends don’t let friends mispronounce, at least when they can help it.

Through the years, my best friend Violet has often corrected my pronunciation. She is far more intelligent and well-read than I -- though I could out spreadsheet her in a heartbeat.

I always wind up feeling punched in the gut when she corrects me, kind of like an errant school child who has been reprimanded. I have a split second of insecurity, wondering if she will still like me after I have mangled a word or misquoted an author. I wonder if I’m one dumb ass move away from being dumped in favor of a smarter girl.

That feeling lasts about fifteen seconds, until it’s replaced by a wave of gratitude. Now I know how to say a tricky word or phrase with confidence. The offending term immediately becomes my ‘word of the week’ to be used with abandon, or until I personally notice the eye-rolling.

Who among us hasn’t longed to utter a phrase or word that we think would be just perfect in a given situation … only to have last minute ‘phrase-fright’? We catch ourselves as rests on the tip of our tongue, unsure if we have it quite right. We stop and turn back to the mental grab bag of the tried & true only to find some hackneyed saying that doesn’t quite suit, but isn’t embarrassingly wrong. If only Google came with speech recognition.

This weekend I attended a five-year-old’s birthday party along with a gaggle of what I refer to as the “Momfia” -- those smug SUV-driving suburban moms with tight abs and a relentless drive to one-up one another.

I was semi-awkwardly making small talk with one mom when she suddenly upped the volume and started monologuing about her recent accomplishments thinly veiled as an “I’m so busy I can’t stand it” complaint.
She began bragging about her law firm’s posh new office in “Pailo Ailto” and I stopped for a second, thinking I misheard her. Then she said it again.

Just I was processing this oddity; she went on to describe an issue with her new car, a “Por-sha Cheyenne.” Now I think Porsche is one of those words that can be pronounced a couple of ways correctly -- like the relentlessly annoying ‘Jag-U-Ar’ (but what am I?), but I am 99.9 % sure it’s a Porsche Cayenne.

“Oh,” I said, quite self-deprecatingly. “It’s Cheyenne? I thought it was Cayenne, like the pepper.” Hey, I’m nothing if not helpful.

“It’s Cheyenne,” she countered, looking at me with far more intensity than the situation warranted.

“Oops, my bad”, I smiled, catching a couple sympathetic glances from other moms. No good deed goes unpunished.

Suddenly my four year old broke the tension by dancing over with a bright purple feathered pencil. “Porsha mom” made a great show of bending down low and cooing over his find.

“Oh … this is my favorite … these soft feathers are called ‘Mirror-Boo’. Can you say ‘Mirror-Boo’?” My four-year-old, thrilled to know what to call his toy, parroted it back for her. “Mirror Boo,” he shouts with glee, jumping up and down.

Porsha mom smugly pats him on the head & runs off to catch her own child.

I grab Andrew’s arm and turn him around. “Honey, that’s actually called ‘Marabou’ – Ok, repeat after me – Marabou!”

“But Darren’s Mom said it was Mirror-boo?” he asks, innocently confused

“Um, yeah … but she’s not saying it right – It’s Marabou. Trust me, I’m your mom.”

“We should tell her,” he says sweetly.

“No, that’s OK. She probably just says things funny, because of where she grew up,” I fib.

“Where’s that?” he asks, wide-eyed.

“Wyoming.”

“Don’t mess with people from Cheyenne, I say absently.

And I only correct you because I really care.”

In which I am pimping for a 4 year old

2006-05-03T11:34:00.000-04:00

Parenting today is different than when I was a kid. As kids, we used to do things just because we didn’t want to find out what “or else” meant and “you’re cruising for a bruising” could be pretty motivating even without follow-through.

Today – kids work for rewards.

My four year old has been doing a bang-up job staying dry through the night. His reward …

A sleepover …

with Harriet.

Harriet has been his pre-school gal pal for the last two years. She’s seen him through his fascination with Sleeping Beauty, Barbie and wearing nail polish.

A funny thing happened on the way to my son’s coming out party though – he’s turned into a hound.

I am now thinking that all those hours spent reading fairy tales, buying Hello Kitty sheets and making princess dolls weren’t him embracing his inner rainbow flag … they were just research for putting bait on his metro sexual hook.

Suddenly his pre-school class has turned into Knot’s Landing with daily drama that makes my head spin. “Dominique is my girlfriend this week -- I traded Catherine and Harriet for her.” “Becky broke up with Ryan because he loves Caroline more.” “Harriet and I are back together – we’re getting married.”

We’ve had to add 20 minutes to our morning school routine so he can pick flowers to bring to class.

He makes his entrance like a mini-Hugh Heffner, casually handing me his jacket and announcing. “Girls … I’m heeere!” They literally come running from all corners of the room, trailing crayons and cheese doodles behind.

“I only have 3 flowers today … but I can bring more tomorrow.”

Girls press closer and start jumping up and down and shouting “Pick Me! Pick Me!”

Andrew pauses dramatically. “Hmmmm, today I pick Harriet, Catherine and Dominique.”

The three girls dance around gleefully showing off the branches broken off our Azalea tree. The others slink back to their seats for a good sulk. It’s like watching The Bachelor play out in munchkin-land.

I have no idea where they get this stuff. My husband certainly didn’t have that kind of rap in college. When meeting me in the dining hall, his opening line was more along the lines of, “Gee you really like black olives, huh?” Hot.

Planning for this sleepover is already in full-swing. On the day I brokered the deal with Harriet’s mom, Andrew announced, “Harriet is very fancy, we’re going to need a romantical dinner.”

“Uh, OK,” I said, unsure of what that might entail.

“You, Daddy and Cameron can eat in the kitchen. You can be our waitress”

He next demanded candles, flowers, and drinks in fancy glasses. He would be dimming the lights – in case I had any delusions that I might be in control.

“After dinner, there will be dancing,” He announced. “And Brownies.”

Phew … I’m going to have to call a caterer.

The next morning I came into his room to discuss the sleeping arrangements. Most nights he and his older brother share bunk beds.

“I want Cameron to sleep in HIS room when Harriet sleeps over,” he said. “I want her all to myself!”

I could see that it was time for a little sit-down.

“OK,” I said. “But lets talk about this, you know you guys have to sleep. You can’t be in here kissing all night”

“Oh mommy … I KNOW! There’s no kissing. You can ONLY kiss your family. I can only kiss you at the sleepover!”

He smiled sweetly at me and batted his big brown eyes. “Te Amo Mommy, Te Amo double!” and with that he gave me a great big kiss.

I am sunk.

Big in New Hampshire

2006-05-02T00:45:00.000-04:00

We have to buy land in New Hampshire. That's where I am the funniest. There are at least 1700 people there who think I am hilarious. I now have 5 minutes of material purely on New Hampshire. I don't think those 'Man of the Mountain' jokes are going to work anywhere else.

My roadtrip with the divine Miss L (pas deux) was spectacular. Great theater, great night and a self-pleasuring audience. Honestly, I think I could have pulled out a snowman in a wagon and they would have laughed their butts off!

When I listened to the audio tape I made of the set, I heard myself actually stepping on laughter to deliver the punch lines. They were guffawing so mightily at the set-ups, I almost had to ask them to simmer down so I could get the punchlines out. May that be my biggest comedy problem! I'll never get an audience like this again ...

So now I'm the David Hasslehoff of New England comedy. Still struggling in Massachusetts ... but boy they love me in New Hampshire!

The entire experience was delieriously wonderful & stood in stark contrast to the comedy week I was experiencing closer to home.

A good friend and fellow mom-comic aka 'momic' in town was hosting a charity benefit for a local youth organization. She and I are pretty tight, having been writing partners, fellow competition contestants, and performers in a local comedy line-up we jokingly refer to as the "comedy all-stars" since four or five of us seem to perform so often on all the same shows that we should rent a little bus and come out like the Harlem Globetrotters.

I first found out about this local benefit while attending this momic's 40th birthday party. I saw a poster for the show in the club and a partial list of comedians. I had a little thud in my chest when I didn't see my name, but quickly rationalized that you need to mix up the line-ups now & then so the shows don't get stale for the audience. I pushed myself back to a happy place and continued to celebrate.

Then things started to get a little funky. Every time I saw subsets of our "All-Star" group, everyone was talking about the show in front of me, as if I knew all about it and had opted out. My momic friend never mentioned the show to me directly or asked me to be a part of it. I just sort of ignored it and played along.

The week before the show there was a big article in the paper and when I saw all the comics listed ... I saw that I was the ONLY comic that fell off the "All-Star" bus ... they only left little Medowlark Lemon behind :( .... there went my 'mixing it up' rationalization.

Just as I was headed out for a Doctor's appointment one of the other comics I have been writing with sent me an email suggesting we get together and do some writing that Saturday afternoon since she had to "be in my town anyway" for a show that night. THAT show ... thanks for reminding me. I literally groaned out loud.

Then ... like herald trumpets from above ... I checked my Blackberry in the Doctor's waiting room only to find a message from the Divine Miss L.
"I think you are a fabulous woman. Would you like to open for me again this Saturday in New Hampshire? The limo can pick you up at 4."

I think my answer began a little something like "Hot diggity dog!" About this, I do not exaggerate.

How delighted was I to politely decline the writing session because something wonderful had 'come up'! I was absolutely thrilled and tickled pink that Miss L. had been so happy with last week's performance that she invited me back.

It was like getting a free ticket to go back on the thrill ride again and I could even get some more mileage about of my New Hampshire jokes. Had the gig been in Rhode Island ... I'd have been sunk!

Everything happens for a reason, so they say. And, if I had previously committed to the charity benefit -- I would have had to say "no" to Miss L. This would have been devestating for so many reasons. We had great mentoring time together and her brand of inspirational comedy is giving me a whole new path to consider, away from the bar circuit.

Even though I was thrilled with the outcome, I had repeated pangs of feeling left-out when I saw the local event advertised all over town. There was a flyer from school in my son's back-pack, the car wash had the show advertised on their sign and my husband teased that the School Superintendant had left a town-wide voicemail on our phone encouraging everyone to come out to the "SueB-free comedy night."

I'm trying to be less conflict averse in my middle-age, so I finally got up the gumption to call my momic-friend on Sunday to hear about the show, congratulate her and ask the awkward question: "Was there any specific reason she didn't ask me to be on the show?"

"No" she replied. "No reason." "I just felt bad asking people to do a free show."
"Please don't ever feel bad asking me to work a benefit. I'd love to do it." I replied. I thought she would know this about me.

I don't know if that was the real reason -- given everyone else's participation. I have a feeling its something more complicated and maybe even subconcious. There wasn't an obvious "thing" though and that made me feel better.

We comics are a complicated group. The drive to connect, entertain and express is intertwined with a need to feel needed, validated and even loved. We're quirky that way. I don't know if I'll ever know the "real deal" or if there was one.

Heck, I had a hell of a swell gig at one of my biggest venues ever, quality time with a wonderful mentor, and my momic offered me a paying "guilt gig" on a show for her this summer. That sounds like a win/win/win to me.

And if it ever gets too "chilly" here in MA ... I'll always have New Hampshire.

Magic happens – The “Deets”

2006-04-28T22:19:00.000-04:00

Don’t worry – I haven’t gone all “angels are in the air” or “pixie dust sparkles” – I just had an incredible Cinderella evening. The last three weeks have been almost wholly consumed with preparing for and stressing out about my performance opening for the divine Miss L.

When I was invited to open three weeks ago – I neglected to mention that I had never performed in front of more than 300 people or performed more than 10 minutes of material. I am new to the business and am still, in the words of my comedy coach, “SueB the newbie”

I am still getting used to the incredible idea that people would actually pay money to hear me perform jokes I have written!

“Sure, I can do 15-20 – no problem!” I say to Miss L’s booker. It’s that can-do attitude that can get you into trouble. Hence, the stressing.

I focused on appearing nonchalant throughout the entire process. “Photo and bio? No problem – I’ll send them right over.” (after I write one and find my crayons)

“Do I need anything on stage? Goodness no, I am incredibly low maintenance. I just like to have a stool, so I can keep my water handy. I bring my own stool.”

I realized, shortly after this answer, that ‘bringing my own stool’ made me sound like an OCD Howard Hughes-type or a garden-variety dork. Or possibly worse … like I’d be bringing a “sample” in a zip-lock bag. YUCK.

I needed the stool – three legged variety – in truth, because that is where I planned to stash my crib notes. Having never before performed 20 minutes of material and having recently developed the very bad habit of checking my notes even during 10 minute sets … there was no way I was going on stage without my cheat sheet. It was my very necessary security blanket. Hell, there’s 900 people out there – you think I’m going flying without a net?!

On show day minus one, the divine Miss L’s handler told me Miss L had invited me to ride up to the show with her in the stretch limo. Opportunity!!
“The limo driver will pick you and your stool up at 2:30 if you’d like a ride,” he said.
“Yes, please,” I replied. “My stool likes to be comfy” (Heh ... heh).

I realized he must think I was a super-dork. Fortunately, my comedy coach made me pinky-swear not to use my notes on Thursday evening. I was terrified – but you never break a pinky swear!

Honestly, I am doubtful many comedians are as prepared as I was for this gig. I did research, wrote some new jokes, timed and rehearsed my set, did three sessions with an acting coach, did a session with my comedy coach, performed practice gigs, and even interviewed someone who has performed with Miss L. before.

Man – I can’t afford the stress or the coaching that comes with a gig like this, much less the baby-sitting required to cover a 6 hour round trip!

It all paid off.

On Saturday afternoon, the prom-worthy stretch limo arrived in my driveway. My little boys were blown away! They sat inside, took pictures & made me adorable good luck cards. I sped off in the limo (sans stool) and my boys chased me down the street on their razor scooters.

We picked up Miss L. at the airport and had a wonderful trip up. Great conversation, bonding and lots of laughs. We decided we needed a drink upon arrival and had dinner across the street from the theater. People kept coming up to our table to meet and thank Miss L. for her performances. It seemed everyone in town was going to the show.

We got to the theater & I was happy to be traveling in the wake of a seasoned pro who knew just what to do, how to ask technical questions and know where to go. I followed along & just tried to look casual.

The producer ran through the particulars of the show with us. “You’ll do 20 minutes and we’ll go to intermission,” he said, looking at me.
“Yup, 15-20,” I replied.
“You got 20? I really need you to do 20,” he said emphatically.
“Oh, 20 – no problem.” Gulp.

When we got down to the dressing rooms – I saw copies of the theater poster and a playbill. Inside was a big photo of me and my bio under the words “Sue B – Comedienne.” Let me just tell you how great that felt. Validating!!!

The producer called me upstairs and I was waiting in the wings. The house lights were bright and the director was introducing me. The producer and I giggled about a spider that was hovering right over the microphone. It broke the tension.

They spoke my name and I took the stage to thunderous applause. I let a second go by & then went into my material. I can’t even describe how good the first wave of laughter felt. After that first laugh, I relaxed and slipped into gear. I “leaned into it” trusted myself and the audience and gave my best performance ever.

I hit 20 minutes effortlessly with applause and laughter breaks. I have never had so much fun. There is no feeling in the world that compares with the feeling when you have connected with an audience and you are sharing a laugh together. The universe expands – because together … you have just created joy. It is amazing. The atmosphere was electric. I was sorry to get off stage! All the worrying and stress was worth it.
When it was over, I felt spent in the best of all ways.

I went back out into the audience to watch the divine Miss L. perform. Her brand of humor is unique – for she’s a motivational humorist – she not only entertains, she calls you out on your stuff Dr. Phil style and inspires you to improve your life.

The audience adored her. They were roaring with laughter and laughing at themselves and their own ridiculousness. People wore props and were high-fiving each other. The room was filled with pure radiant joy and everyone was having a blast.

After the show, so many people came up to her to thank her - not just for entertaining them ... but for helping them. That was really amazing to me. Honestly ... one of the top nights of my life.

This so differs from bar-room comedy and I can see there are other humor avenues and other types of audiences. I don't know how I'm going to go back to the stinky bar circuit -- but all my fellow comedians are dying to bust my chops and get me back to paying my dues.

That’s OK … knowing there are evenings like this make it all worth it !

P.S. – After enduring a couple days of the inevitable post-show let down … The divine Miss L. sent me a note telling me I was fabulous and asking me to open for her again tomorrow night! Saturday night – we do it all again! Here’s hoping #2 is even better – Woo Hoo!

Show time!

2006-04-06T09:27:00.000-04:00

I just got my first booking for a "really big show" as they say. I am booked to perform as the opening act for an internationally-touring humorist (think if Dr. Phil and Lily Tomlin had a baby). The theater holds about 900 people and has sold out.

Gulp.

This raises the stakes considerably. With about two weeks to go, the chances of my losing 25 lbs are between slim and .... well, not-slim, which is what I'm gonna be.

I'm having one of those moments where the voice inside my head is saying, "OK, and the reason you are giving up a Saturday night to drive two hours to New Hampshire, pay a babysitter and stand on stage in front of 900 people to tell jokes is why again?!"

Its because my parents wouldn't pay me enough attention. Its cheaper than therapy and making people laugh is addictive. Besides ... I have these voices in my head that demand expression -- though not in a 'Son of Sam' way, so please don't alert the authorities. Frankly the chance to have a microphone and the attention of 900 people is fan-freaking-tastic.

So, why am I scared?

Because I'm up there -- solo -- with only a microphone and a stool. I don't even have puppets to protect me. There's no other performers to work off of (or blame later). There's no scenery or props in my act. Just me and my voice.

It's go time.

Fear and euphoria mixed together in one terrifying, delicious comedy burrito.

A beautiful day in the neighborhood

2006-03-31T15:44:00.000-05:00

Its one of our first gorgeous spring days -- sunny and nearly 70 degrees. My husband and I have a bad case of spring fever so we dashed out for some afternoon delight at - where else? - Dairy Queen.

As we sat there snorfing down our twistee cone and Blizzard, we realized we were being passed by no fewer than six yellow school busses.

I can only imagine our seven-year-old son's face when he looks out the bus window to see his parents slurping down dairy treats without him. Scandalous!

Ladies and gentlemen ... I give you "Parents Of The Year." I'll just pre-pay that therapy tab now!

Dazzle Me

2006-03-31T14:38:00.000-05:00

So last night,my four-year old asked me for a "Bedazzler". More specifically, it was my four-year old son, and he didn't ask, so much as he pitched the idea.

"Mommy, wouldn't you love a Bedazzler? You could make a butterfly! If you had a Bedazzler, I could make a heart on my pajamas that says 'I love Mommy'."

Sold! Actually, he could have stopped after "wouldn't you love a Bedazzler?" Because, really ... yes, yes I would! I have always longed for a Bedazzler, as it was on the long list of forbidden pleasures denied to me simply because they were, in my mother's words, "tacky".

The Bedazzler ranked right up there with the Jordan Marsh sandals that could transform into roller skates and anything made by Candie's. How I longed for red patent-leather platform clogs and a pink jean jacket bedazzled with beautiful jewels. I could have been the hottest thing going in the fourth grade. I could have been a contender.

Instead, I wore Cloud Climbers along with the oh-so-snappy outfits crafted by my mom in her "Stretch and Sew" class. To this day, Mom insists that no one can really tell the difference between denim-colored polyester gabardine and a pair of Levis. Yes, and Thanksgiving is even better with Tofurky.

Now that I am an adult, and a parent, I realize that tacky is sometimes an end-game in itself. I'm one of those backlash parents that over-compensates in the areas I feel my own parents were lacking. I let my kids go to the grocery store in tin foil hats and red velvet capes and I probably over-encourage self-expression.

I'm sure I'll be rewarded with their own rebellion later in life. They'll probably join the Young Republican's club and start sporting searsucker suits with bowties.

Until then, my youngest son and I will be a couple of Rhinestone Cowboys.

I didn't order a bedazzler though; I ordered two. Because I'm sure as heck not sharing ... there wouldn't be nearly enough tacky for both of us.

Cher-konk!

Just "Hirarious"

2006-03-23T00:30:00.000-05:00

Small, true, hilarious thing that made me laugh out loud last week.

My son's elementary school has a wonderful relationship with a sister school in Japan. Every year the children write letters to one another and exchange tokens of friendship.
This year, our school posted letters sent from their Japanese pen-pals. That these 7 and 8 year old children can compose letters written in English is pretty amazing. I am fairly certain that our American students aren't corresponding in Kenji.

As I read the letters that detailed students' favorite seasons, colors and foods, I noticed their teacher's corrective phrasing or spelling in the right-hand margin. After all, its important to be understood.

One young boy had written about his favorite season (fall), his favorite sport (soccer) and his favorite food. His handwriting was a little jumbled, making it somewhat difficult to read.

Luckily, there in the margin, the teacher had carefully written out the message in clear, concise text.

"I LOVE LOAST BEEF"

There you have it ... I am easy to amuse. More loast beef please.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

2006-03-19T12:26:00.000-05:00

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

Several years ago, a good friend of mine was dating someone who appeared to be the dating trifecta - handsome, smart and nice. When they broke up suddenly, I just had to ask “why?”

“He goes to church on Wednesdays” was her reply.

“Oh … Isn’t that technically a good thing?” I asked.

“Ooh, yeah.” I caught myself, and we both just looked at each other.

“I guess that is pretty weird.”

Unrequired church on Wednesdays is simply too much of a good thing. It’s like spiritual OCD. Either you’re on your way to being a religious militant or you are doing serious penance for something we’d rather not know about.

I, on the other hand have spiritual ADD. Being raised by a lapsed Catholic and an Episcopalian who couldn’t care less (I guess THAT’s redundant) church wasn’t really a big factor in my life.

When, as an adult (and parent) I eventually decided to check out which religion might “be for me” I took a shopper’s approach to make an informed choice.

For a while, I thought I might be a Buddhist. That lasted until I received a week of daily Buddhist affirmations and couldn’t understand a damn one. Basically, I got the gist that I would be serene once I surrendered any expectations or attachments to anything. Sounds like the church of apathy to me. Not that I can’t be lame … I just can’t imagine making a practice out of it.

I took an E-harmony-type spirituality quiz that declared me 84% compatible with the Unitarian faith. At last, I thought, a place where I belong!

Unitarians are like the AB+ blood type of religion – they are the universal receiver. Come one, come all & let’s get down. My only spiritually snobbish concern is that this isn’t the church for the discerning spiritualist. We’re reading the Torah, we’re saying the Rosary … it’s almost time for coffee and donut social hour so just hang in.

A pastor gave me a nice overview that sounded like a speech they give incoming freshman at University. “Many of our members go on to become Lutherans, Methodists … even Congregationalists.” He described.

“So this is a little like the religion of the undeclared major?” I asked.

“It’s inclusive” he shot back. I love good marketing spin.

I am now wondering if my next stop will be spiritual correspondence school. I’ll be forced to draw Tippy the Turtle with the Virgin Mary to gain acceptance.

One thing I know for sure -- I won’t be going on Wednesdays.

Happy Hour?

2006-03-18T11:55:00.000-05:00

Just the other night, the head of the illustrious marketing department where I consult suggested we get our rapidly expanding team together for a social outing – all in the name of good cheer.

We selected a nearby watering hole for its ambiance and prepared to settle in for some fellowship. What transpired was something else altogether …
Let’s just say it’s amazing what a little repression, combined with alcohol, will conjure up. The demons came out to dance!

As an outside consultant/free-agent/contractor, I have the benefit of a spectator seat with some really enjoyable objectivity. No one works for me, and I don’t have a boss as much as I have a client. I set the terms of my contract, negotiating both hours and pay. I’ve got no ax to grind and I sleep much more peacefully at night.

I don’t for a minute feel superior, since I have nearly two decades logged in the employee trenches of middle-management. Believe me, I know the drill. Corporate America is a soul-sucker.

During one particularly bleak period a few years ago, I began to pursue greater self-awareness through the exercise of keeping a diary of the first thoughts that entered my head upon waking each morning.

When I look back over those diary entries, I am amazed at the amount of vitriol, of sheer unchecked rage I felt over my corporate bondage. I am shocked by my own anger at a collection of people and projects I can barely recall even a few years later.

On this more recent night, as I sat sipping my martini, I looked around the table at colleagues who, by day, are nothing but civilized and professional. Fueled by booze and a little off-site latitude, these same people reflect a bubbling cauldron of the seven deadly sins.

At one end of the table sat Anger – One Grey Goose in and you could already see her furious Irish whispers with her small clique who feel particularly unappreciated and left-out. Nasty dagger-filled glances made their way down to the other end of the table and their glasses repeatedly hit the table hard.

Closer by, was Gluttony who continuously dove almost to his ankles into whatever food was on the table. No stones thrown from this glass house, since Gluttony has often been my own role of choice as I self-medicated corporate rage with a steady diet of Twizzlers and Ketel One.

Most disquieting of all was the Jeckl and Hyde transformation of our leader into Lustful letch. Almost upon the first sip – every word out of his mouth became a double-entendre, every look lingering, and there was far too much touching and rubbing to be accidental. How a calm, mild mannered Clark Kent so quickly transforms into someone who gleefully describes being the “baloney in a girl sandwich” is beyond me.

Next to me, sat Envy. Envy was sure her life would be perfect, if only she had the apartment, the boyfriend or the size 2 booty of nearly anyone else.

Most obvious and annoying was Pride. Pride “do go on” about how fabulous and brilliant he surely is, and how no one can match his intellect. It certainly is no trick to measure up to your own yard stick. Pride becomes even more annoying the longer you speak with him.

Two drinks in, and up piped Greed. Greed always seems to miraculously know what how much money everyone else makes, and he’ll be only too glad to tell you so you can share the outrage. To make up for any salary imbalance, Greed has an endless number of schemes, from padding expense reports to pocketing Post-its, to bilk the company for the compensation he is due. You have to admire his creativity.

Last comes Sloth. She’s easy to overlook. That’s her plan. She’s the one who just takes it all in. She lives to attend meetings and always does the minimum possible. She’s never unpleasant, always non-committal and easy to miss.

As I looked around the table at all this playing out, I was also struck by how business environments may differ, but the roles are nearly always the same. It’s as though at every new job the announcer might read – “In this office, the role of Envy will be played by Julie.” People move from job-to-job and are pretty well type cast.

During the day, we repress our anger along with the most interesting aspects of our personalities, since being a good corporate citizen requires we fit in. Alcohol pierces the veil and washes away our veneer of self-control. It’s much harder to hide the hate after a cocktail or two.

I am amazed though when I meet a former deadly sin colleague outside a work context and they seem so much more multi-dimensional and enjoyable. This surely is the environment effect.

As for office get-togethers, we should just be thankful for the ‘hour’ in Happy Hour.

I can spell Inaugural

2006-03-18T01:47:00.000-05:00

eek. Blog lesson #1 - don't start at 1:30 AM when you are too tired to spell check ... people will think you are RETAHDED

Inagural blogural

2006-03-18T01:34:00.000-05:00

Oh bloggy,
I am so happy to have started you! I've thought of starting a BLOOOOOOOOOG (or "online diary") as my best friend Violet insists upon calling this, for at least 30 months.
Now I will have to think of all sorts of tres amusing episodes and adventures to fill-you up. Where to start???
This week I made a fabulous impulse purchase -- a $44 plastic handbag in the exact likeness of "The Count" from Sesame Street. Its not a necessity, really -- though it is waterproof, durable-looking, and very colorful - and thus almost a practical accessory. I do love practical.

Those who know me might wonder -- Why a "Count" handbag? Do you really have the lifestyle for that kind of accessory?

Well, truth be told ... Nostalgia. The Count was one of the first crushes I had on TV icons ... My current and enduring fixation with Andy Garcia only goes to show you I stay true to "type". Actually, The Count came after Mr. Snuffleupugus -- but who wants a big brown furry handbag ... really!