Jesus, Mary, and Joseph...



**thud**

(that would be the sound of me hitting the floor)

Labels: celebrities, funny stuff, pretty, Prison Break, TV

If you know me, then you know that I like to keep myself occupied at all times. I'm truly happiest when I have some kind of project to tackle. Nothing excites me more than a to-do list. It keeps me out of trouble (read: distracts me from my shopping addiction).

Obviously, home improvement projects have been keeping me considerably busy for the past year. We've done a lot of work to the house since we moved in last August: some basic landscaping, upgrades in the forms of new ceiling fans, lighting fixtures, and plumbing work, and TONS of painting. That's all well and good, but lately I've found myself wanting to engage in more cerebral pursuits.

My friend Christina recently emailed me and asked me to join her book club. I've also been investigating an advanced non-credit Spanish class at a local college, just because I love foreign languages and I miss using that part of my brain.

And then there's Toastmasters.

My career will soon be taking a turn that will require quite a bit of public speaking. I find that prospect at once exciting and utterly terrifying. Contrary to all outward appearances, I am really very quiet. Unless, of course, there are copious amounts of Bacardi involved. Last year, I blogged about the results of my Myers-Briggs personality type indicator (which I found to be DEAD-ON for me, incidentally) and I am a true INTJ--introverted to the extreme. Most days, my job requires me to be the total opposite of who I naturally am. It's almost like flipping a switch.

Anyway, back to the public speaking thing. I'm wondering if any of my (laughably few! but very loyal!!) readers has experience with Toastmasters. Are they really as cultish as they seem? I guess I should check out a few of my local chapters, just to see what exactly goes on in there.

Labels: friends, home improvement, Toastmasters, work

Though I'm still toying with the idea of going for the QPFC designation, I saw some sobering statistics this morning:

Only 37 (!) people who sat for the PFC-1 exam passed it.

Only 17 (!!!) people who sat for the PFC-2 exam passed it.

Gulp.

Anyhoo...in keeping with the above title (quite literally), I'm going to a client meeting later this morning near Oxford, PA. With today's humidity level at nearly 100%, I'm sure to enjoy the lovely aroma of manure that permeates the air in that part of the world (DubyaTM). Most of the mushrooms consumed in the U.S. come from that region--Kennett Square, Toughkenamon, West Grove, et al. Called the "Mushroom Capital of the World." And you know what mushrooms are grown in, right? Yup. Horse and/or cow crap.

The last time I was down there for a client visit coincided with an intense heatwave back in July. I got out of my car and was just about knocked over by the stench of, um, that fresh country air.

I have no idea how people live there. It's a million miles away from everything, and it stinks.

That's all I got for today, folks.

Labels: decisions, travel, work

So I've decided that I have a new celebrity object of desire. Keanu has been removed from my List of Five, replaced by this guy:



Helloooooooo, Wentworth Miller!

It's all Brian's fault. He made me watch Prison Break with him on Monday night. Now I'm hooked. So I guess that means he can't complain when I slobber all over the place during the show.

You might also recognize this hottie from a couple of Mariah Carey's recent videos ("It's Like That," and my personal favorite "We Belong Together," from whence I stole these screencaps).





Plus he's a Princeton alum, so he's got major smarts in addition to that pretty, pretty face.

Smoldering!

Labels: celebrities, music, pretty, Prison Break, TV

Lush. Warm. Intimate. Mellow.



These are the words I'd use to describe the Foo Fighters acoustic (or "afoostic" as they've been referring to it) concert on Wednesday night. I was really blown away by how lovely the show was.

Frank Black (The Pixies) opened--I have to say I was counting the minutes until he got off the stage.

Then Dave Grohl strode onto the stage, picked up his guitar, leaned into the mic and said, "Hey everyone, how's it going?" and began playing "Razor" (my new favorite song) all by himself. It was INCREDIBLE and haunting. His voice sounded better than ever. Near the end of the song, Chris, Nate and Taylor joined him onstage, along with guitarist Pat Smear (former Foo/Nirvana guitarist), keyboardist Rami Jaffee (The Wallflowers), violinist Petra Haden (The Sellouts), and a second percussionist, whose name now escapes me. Sorry, castanet-dude.

The setlist included a few songs from their latest double album (Over and Out, Miracle, and Cold Day in the Sun, which featured Taylor singing lead), a rare B-side song Dave had written years ago (Skin and Bones) and some classic Foo (Big Me, Walking After You, My Hero, Times Like These, Floaty, February Stars, Next Year).

This is the second concert I've attended in which the audience remained seated throughout, up until the encore. As always, Dave entertained the audience with his sparkling wit, poking fun at Yuengling lager and the now-cancelled TV dramedy Ed, as well as accepting a gift for his 4-month old daughter from a fan.

Dave reappeared for a three-song encore (Friend of a Friend, Best of You, and Everlong) at which point I had managed to sneak down to the pit in front of the stage. By then, I think the ushers had pretty much given up on trying to enforce seating. So I got to stand directly in front of Dave--near enough that I could see all the details of the tattoos on his arms! I was seriously shaking like a leaf in a windstorm because I was so damn close to him. As he played Everlong, the entire theatre could have come crashing down around me and I don't think I would have noticed.

Fantastic show. If they ever come around again, I'm just going to bite the bullet and cough up major cash for a really good seat.

Tomorrow is the Steely Dan concert with my mom...

Labels: concerts, Foo Fighters, music

I am so freaking psyched about the Foo Fighters concert tonight.

First of all, we're having dinner before the show at Pica's in Upper Darby (my hometown!). I worked at Pica's as a waitress for three years while I was in college, and I have extremely fond memories of the place. One of these days I'm going to write about my experiences there. I've been begging The Huz to take me there for months now, because I miss their famous square pizza! Mmmm-mmmm. Can't wait!

On to the concert: this is their first-ever acoustic tour, so it promises to be different and interesting. The reviews so far are excellent--supposedly it's intimate and subdued (in a GOOD way). They're performing at the Tower Theatre, also in Upper Darby, which is a wonderful little venue. It was built in the gothic style in the late 1920s. Originally used as a theatre for vaudeville acts, the Tower later became a movie theatre before being converted to a world-class concert venue. It seats only 3,100 people. I've never been to Radio City Music Hall, but I imagine that the Tower is a miniature replica of it. Its history and atmosphere are so rich.



I can't wait to hear the acoustic version of "Everlong"--which is easily my favorite Foo Fighters song, and possibly my favorite love song of all time. The reviews I've read stated that the Foos play "Everlong" as one of a two-song encore, and that it literally stops the show. I have goosebumps now just thinking about it.

This just may qualify as my idea of the perfect night.

Labels: concerts, Foo Fighters, food, FYI, memories, music, Upper Darby

I must be crazy. Or a complete masochist, at least.

Remember how I had tied myself into a veritable ball of knots for the past year while studying for the ASPPA Qualified 401K Administrator designation? And how many hours of sleep I lost due to my extreme anxiety about taking those damn exams?

Well, just call me a total sucker for punishment. Because now I'm mulling over the idea of going for the latest ASPPA designation, the QPFC (Qualified Plan Financial Consultant). This designation is brand spanking new--it was just created this year.

I just have this thing for collecting as many designations as I possibly can. Most likely because I don't have a college degree and I feel like I need all the professional credentials I can get. I already have the NASD Series 6 and 63. I already have the Pennsylvania life insurance and annuities license. I already have the QKA designation.

Since I already have the QKA, ASPPA will waive two of the four exams for the QPFC designation for me. So that leaves only the PFC-1 and PFC-2 exams.

It's tempting. So very tempting. But studying for these exams is an enormous time-suck. Three months of my life devoted, in nearly a monastic way, to studying. Housework falls to the wayside. Working out falls to the wayside. My social life falls to the wayside. My marriage falls to the wayside. And yet, it's like a need. I must do it, just to prove to myself that I can. There is no other explanation.

In the week or so before the exam, I am an utter wreck. Insomnia sets in. I cannot fall asleep, and when I finally do, I cannot remain asleep. I cannot eat. I feel like there is a 250-pound weight on my chest, and I cannot take a deep breath.

After I pass the exam, I have no idea what to do with myself for at least a month. I feel like a stranger in my own life.

There are many things to consider, not the least of which is that The Huz and I are trying to conceive. I'm afraid that I will get pregnant and either lose interest in the exam altogether, or I will be so exhausted and mentally distracted that I'll fail it.

What the heck should I do?

Labels: accomplishments, decisions, work

The internet makes the world smaller every single day.

After dinner last night, The Huz announced that he was going to head over to the municipal building to pay our annual tax bill. He asked me if I wanted to go with him, but I declined.

Turns out I should've gone, because when he got home, he said to me, "The tax collector said hello."

I said, "Whaaaa? Yeah, right."

He said, "No, seriously. When I got over there and wrote out the check, he saw your name on it and told me, 'I read your wife's blog.'"

I said, "Heh, that's pretty funny. So what did you tell him?"

He replied, "I told him 'thanks, I'll let her know.'"

So say hello, Mark! I'm very impressed--you must have a hell of a memory to remember my full name. Don't be shy!

Lastly: I got a joke a few weeks ago from a friend of mine that I've been wanting to post here, but just never got around to it. It's definitely not PC, but it cracks me up every time I think of it:

Two dwarfs go into a bar, where they pick up two women and take them to their separate hotel rooms.

The first dwarf, however, is unable to get an erection.

His depression is made worse by the fact that, from the next room, he hears his little friend shouting out "Here I come again! One, two, three, UH!" all night long.

In the morning, the second dwarf asks the first, "So how did it go?"

The first mutters, "It was so embarrassing. I simply couldn't get it up."

The second dwarf shook his head. "You think THAT'S embarrassing? I couldn't even get on the bed!"

Bah-dum-dum!

HAPPY FRIDAY EVERYBODY!

Labels: funny stuff, local news, technology, writing

Last Sunday night, I had a startling realization.

I am OLD.

Sure, I'm only 28, which doesn't sound old on paper (or onscreen, as it were). But don't laugh! I am dangerously close to treading into curmudgeon territory these days. Let me explain.

Last Sunday around 11 p.m., I was in bed, watching a documentary on ancient Egypt on the History Channel. I was sandwiched snugly between my two cats, Bailey and Sebastian. The Huz was in one of the guest rooms, watching The Godfather. Our bedroom was dark, save for the comforting bluish light emanating from the TV. I was beginning to drowse off when...

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! whacka-whacka-whacka THUMP! from outside the house.

I gritted my teeth and turned up the volume on the TV slightly, waiting for the assault on my eardrums to end.

Ten minutes passed and the noise still hadn't subsided, so I tore out of bed and stomped over to one of the bedroom windows. Peeking out on the street from behind the cellular shade, I witnessed about a dozen boys, among them the three sons of our next-door neighbors, playing basketball in our cul-de-sac.

At quarter past eleven. On a SUNDAY NIGHT.

Actually, I stand corrected. Not all of them were playing ball. Three of them were circling the cul-de-sac on their bicycles, wielding flashlights, which they proceeded to aim into a number of windows in the other houses on the street--ours included.

What pissed me off the most is that our neighbors, the parents of three of the boys involved, were standing outside in their driveway, chatting and laughing and not paying a whit of attention to any of these kids. Am I wrong for thinking that these people are complete assholes?

If it were a Friday or Saturday night, I'd feel differently. Sure, 11 p.m. is still pretty late to be making that kind of ruckus, but I think a little leeway can be given on weekends. But on a Sunday night? When most, if not all, of the neighbors on our cul-de-sac have to go to work on Monday morning? That's just wrong. And the parents should know better than that.

So I called the police to file a complaint. I gave my name, address and phone number, described the problem, and told them I wanted to remain anonymous (yeah, I'm a pussy). The dispatcher agreed that it was way too late for kids to be outside playing basketball on a Sunday night, and assured me that a local officer would be stopping by shortly to talk to them about it.

Cackling like an old witch, I hung up the phone and went into our darkened master bathroom, where I could sit on the edge of the tub and spy on the street from between the tiny louvres on the plantation shutters in the window without being spotted.

But the police NEVER came. Nice. Our tax dollars hard at work. Like Sunday nights are so fraught with crime in freaking Limerick, Pennsylvania that they couldn't spare a single stinking cop to do a five minute drive-by. Please.

I swore I would never, ever be the evil bitch on the block who called the police on the kids. I swore I'd never, ever be the busybody neighbor who spied on everyone else through the blinds in the window. So much for that.

Damn whippersnappers! Now, where did my glasses and Geritol go...?

Labels: bitching, neighborhood stuff, premature mid-life crisis

You know, I was looking through some old posts here and realized that somehow a few of them were gone. Poof. Vanished.

So here's one of them, with a new addendum at the end. Enjoy.

The combination of nostalgia, intense curiosity, and sheer boredom can do a real number on you. I have recently started Googling or searching MySpace for old friends, acquaintances and even ex-boyfriends.

The results of my searches have frequently surprised me: a handful of old high school buddies are now doctors; some are still single, some have kids, some are divorced, and some happily married. A few of my old friends are scattered across the country, but most have remained in the Philadelphia area.

I can’t ever think of the people who have come and gone from my life without thinking of Brian L. We had attended the same high school, but he was a year behind me, and I didn’t really know him until after we’d both graduated. Although we only spent a few short months together during the summer between my freshman and sophomore year in college, I know I will never forget him. He made that big of an impression on me.

I was totally and shamelessly crazy about Brian. He was probably the closest thing to a soul mate that I’ve ever had. We understood each other perfectly. He was sensitive, quiet and somewhat shy but wickedly funny, smart as a whip, and incredibly, incredibly hot. Just the thought of him made me drool all over myself.

We spent most of the summer of 1997 together, getting stoned, going to the movies, to the diner, playing video games, and talking about everything under the sun. On the rare nights I was not hanging out with him, I couldn’t even sleep, so consumed by my thoughts of him was I. I spent those nights listening to my Walkman, wandering up and down the driveway of my parents’ house, chain-smoking and brooding. I just ACHED for him, the way that only lovesick 19 year-old girls can.

Early that summer, I had bought a small, green-bordered book entitled "Getting to Know You." It was a book of questions, such as "Name the three things in life that frighten you the most," or, "If you had only 24 hours left to live, what would you do?" Basically, these were the kind of questions that provided outstanding conversational fodder for the semi-intellectual stoners we were. I don’t know what prompted me show it to him, but as soon as I did, he was immediately fascinated by it, and expected me to share it with him.

And so we spent entire nights, often from midnight till sunrise, poring through this book together while lounging on sticky vinyl lawn chairs in his dimly-lit backyard. We took turns asking each other questions from the book and discussing our answers at length, absolutely hanging on each other’s answers, and only occasionally breaking for a cigarette or passionate, urgent kissing.

As the pitch-black sky slowly turned steely grey and pink, he’d walk me to my car, where we’d cling to each other like the last two people on earth, until I tore myself away from him and went home. I realized that I really loved him when one late night, around 3:30, I asked him (from the book), "Who is your best friend?" He looked at me and said softly, without a pause, "You are." SWOOOOOON!!!!! Yes, I loved him. I really did.

There were some problems, of course. The first big issue was that, although he and I did everything together, he refused to call me his "girlfriend." He said he did not want to put a label on our relationship. At the time, this bothered me immensely, though looking back as an adult, I don’t understand why. I guess I was overly concerned with labels back then.

Secondly, we had some, ahem, physiological difficulties, if you will. We spent hours kissing, touching, exploring—but when it came time for the act...poof! The moment was gone. I guess that, technically, we only ever consummated our relationship TWICE. That was it. But still, I loved him and it didn’t matter to me. Until I met David, who would be my last serious relationship before I met my husband.

David was just about the polar opposite of Brian. He rubbed hot and cold with me. Sometimes he’d show up with dozens of roses for me for no apparent reason; other times, he was grumpy and distant, tantalizingly uninterested in me. A real challenge. Oddly enough, in my youth, there was nothing I liked more than a challenge. The thing that drew me to him the most, though, was that David had no problem with the boyfriend/girlfriend labels. How I wished Brian had felt the same!

For a while, I somehow managed to date both Brian and David simultaneously, even going to see Rage Against the Machine and Wu-Tang Clan with both of them. Looking back, I’m sure they both knew what was up, but I was just enjoying myself at the time.

Then, a few weeks after the concert, David asked me to be his girlfriend. As in, exclusively. As in, there would be no other people for either of us. Honestly, I can’t remember much about those days (all that pot-smoking destroyed large portions of my memory, sadly), and I can’t recall how difficult it was for me to decide what to do about Brian.

If I knew then what I know now, I can say with unqualified certainty that I would have--and should have--stuck with Brian L. I do remember, however, that shortly after David asked me to date only him, Brian and I were hanging out, as usual--making out in my car, in fact--when I dropped the bomb on him. The conversation is hazy, but I can remember this much:

Me: “This probably isn’t the best time to bring this up…”

Him: “Hmmm?”

Me: “Well...David asked me to be his girlfriend...and to go out with only him...and I said yes.”

Him: “WHAT? WHY? How could you do this, without talking to me first?”

If my (admittedly spotty) memory serves me correctly, Brian was crushed and furious with me. I felt awful, but in my mind, David was giving me what I wanted. I wish that I could recall more from that incident, but that’s it. And I never saw him again after that night. It was August 1997.

Fast-forward to the present: I know exactly where Brian L. is today and what he’s doing with his life, thanks to mutual acquaintances and my penchant for internet detective work. He’s in the Air Force, active duty, and living in Texas. This cracks me up because I can’t imagine him in the military at all, based on the person I knew way back in the day. Of course, we all grow and change, so what the hell do I know? Also, he’s got a daughter who is preschool age, and I think he was recently remarried.

For a while, I toyed with the idea of emailing him, just to say hello and see how he’s doing. Then I decided to go for it. I doubt anything will come of it. He may not even respond to my email because he either doesn't remember me or thinks I'm some kind of nutty stalker. So I don’t expect to get a response from him at all.

Have any of you ever contacted someone (a friend or an ex) from your past? I want to know what happened! How did it turn out? Were you surprised? Disappointed? Happy?

Labels: childhood, concerts, memories, nostalgia, technology

My friend sent me this link to a story about an American woman living in England who wrote that motherhood bores her. The comment my friend sent me with the link was "No, these kids won't be too scarred for life." After reading the article, I have to say I disagree with her.

When I was a kid, my mom didn't play with me all that much. Instead, she encouraged me to go outside and knock up for the other kids on my street and play with them. There were days that I hardly saw my mother, except at meal times, because I was so busy playing with the kids in my neighborhood. Yes, there were times she took me to the playground and pushed me on the swings, or occasionally treated me by taking me to Chuck E. Cheese--and that was HUGE deal; it wasn't an everyday occurrence. Hell, it wasn't even a MONTHLY occurrence. I had to do something pretty damn spectacular in order to spend the day at Chuck E. Cheese--like get very high marks on my report card.

But my mom didn't stop her life because of me. She worked part-time as an ER nurse, and if she had errands to run on her days off, she took me with her. I didn't have a choice about how we passed our days together. If we weren't out grocery shopping or going to the bank or the post office, she spent most of our time at home with her nose in a book. I was made to understand that adults were entitled to having some time away from kids, and I was perfectly OK with that. My mother often told me, in a most loving way, that it was not her job to entertain me constantly. So I learned to entertain myself. Sometimes it was hard, because I was an only child, so there weren't any siblings around to play with. Yet I found things to keep myself busy, by reading books and playing games by myself if the neighborhood kids weren't available. I give full credit to my parents for making me the independent person I am today.

From my observations, I would agree that many parents I've seen these days have become too child-centric. Children should learn to amuse and occupy themselves. I think it helps them grow. It's not good for kids to believe that it's all about them 24/7. Because when they grow up, their expectations are completely skewed.

I don't know. Maybe I wouldn't be a good parent. If you do read the linked article, be sure to click on the reader commentary -- I'm amazed by how divisive this piece is. There are some really harsh comments and it's clear how passionate people are on both sides of the issue.

But do you think the backlash this article is getting would be anywhere near as severe if it were written by a father? I don't think so!!!

Labels: childhood, family, friends, meme, parenting