Championable | Love, parenting, politics.

My oldest got a little bit frustrated at his orchestra concert, as did the parents. The orchestra leader went on… and on… and on… about every. single. song. This made us crack up when we played back the tape.

Love to all. Even you, the saleslady at the mall who complained about all those damn Moms.

“Teardrop,” by Massive Attack, is featured on both the TV Show “House” and the video game “Assassin’s Creed.”

This is like being generation-gapped in reverse. This has been one of my favorite songs for years, and now it’s doubly commoditized.  I don’t know why this bothers me.  Other songs I like have been used in commercials, but this is one of those songs I dearly, dearly love.  It makes me a little sad, for some reason.

Love to all.  Even you, Fox.

I firmly believe that any male who orders a Tall Decaf Soy Latte with a straight face causes his and any other male genitalia within a 12-foot radius to fall off the body and flop to the floor, where it vaporizes in a brief flame.  Think magician’s flash paper.

The only reason I was able to order this for my coworker was because I have provably reproduced, thereby conferring a sort of Procreative Innoculation.  A Vaccine by Reproduction, if you will.

If you haven’t had kids, stay away from that shit.

Love to all.  Even you, the lady who didn’t move up in the line… didn’t move up in the line… didn’t move up in the line… and then ran away.

1. I got rid of my Miata and I’m totally over it. I though I’d care more, but I don’t.  It was a car, not a dog. I replaced it with a 2004 Honda CR-V with 29000 miles.
2. I have a sponsee!  I have a sponsee!  For the non-AAs out there, which is pretty much EVERYONE, this is kind of a mentoring relationship between someone who has been sober for a while, and someone who hasn’t been sober quite as long.  My young charge has about 10 days off the sauce.  I’m totally psyched to try and be helpful if I can.
3. My mother-in-law is ensconced in rehab.  Holy CRAP, what a crazy couple of days.
4. Yesterday, my kids had five recitals: violin, piano, cello, guitar, and orchestra.  I only got to film one of them, and I might put a piece of it up here… I was SO proud of my kids for getting on stage and playing their best.
5. There is no five.

Love to all.  Even you, the meeting chairperson who couldn’t help but put down the nice young man who had a suggestion.

Instead of my planned day yesterday, I wound up taking a relative to rehab.  It was 12.5 hours of driving.  My house in Westchester to Long Island to Havre de Grace to my house in Westchester.

I am very, very sleepy.

Love to all.  Even you,  Vollmer Associates.

This is what I’d like to send to people who don’t show up for interviews.  But I don’t.

Love to all.  Even you, no show.

“But, [client], you can still have a lot of fun with 4/5 inches.”

After she sent this to our client, she realized what she said.   I won’t even contextualize it for you, because it won’t help.  Right now, she’s saying “Mother of God,” over and over.

Love to all.  Even you, Mr. 4/5.

In an intricate-but-sturdy network of illumination and social navigation, I’ve had to manage a series of conflicting requests involving how to properly illuminate the house, the yard, and the Christmas tree.

Initially, Maggie told me that, when it came to lighting the house this year, I was weapons-free. After many years of restraint for the sake of things like “elegance,” “keeping with the spirit,” and “not blinding the neighbors,” I was told that I could just go for it.

With some restrictions.

No net lights (too regular, too common, too easy). No icicle lights (too cheesy). A couple of other things. And be inference, nothing made with rope lights. “Weapons free,” maybe, but with a limited arsenal. C0nventional weapons only. Quarter-kiloton or less.

No daisy cutters, please.

I could work with that. I went to target, added a ton of Blue LED lights to our collection, got a big ol’ Polar Bear, and set to task. On Saturday, I did the gutter of the house (thank you, whoever invented the broomstick attachment that lets you hang lights without a ladder!), and set up the bear in a semi-hidden, protective position, which will serve plain notice to all visitors that all who visit this house MUST display the proper Christmas spirit, or they will be promptly eaten

Then it started raining. The trees and holly bushes are going to have to wait until this weekend. I’ve still got 25 sparkling globes, tons of conventional lights in red and rainbow. So we’ve got options.

Last night, there was an amicable debate between Maggie and the kids over what the primary lights on the tree should be. Kids - rainbow. Maggie - white or red. I helped settled that discussion by saying that the tree is “Mommy’s last refuge of non-garishness,” and that we NEEDED all the rainbow lights to help blind the neighbors.

This, they understood.

So. Tonight we’re going to hang ornaments on the tree. This weekend we’ll finish the lights.

Truth be told… I ‘m pretty sure our yard won’t be blinding anyone. We’ll definitely do MORE lights than last year, but I’m not sure that, even when given free reign, I’m the Garish type. I find that vaguely disappointing. We’ll see what you think; I’ll post a video Sunday evening

OH! My neighbor and I made a deal to never, ever, ever obtain or deploy inflatable holiday decorations. Period. We shook on it and everything, so its OFFICIAL.

My train is about to pull into Grand Central Terminal. Must. Hit. Post.

Love to all. Even you, the guy who appears to be infecting us all with some kind of Upper Respiratory situation.

Damn if I havent’ been wasting a shitload of processor cycles. It’s like my motor’s running, but I’m not in gear. Fuck. I just mixed metaphors again. I should just put ‘em all in a big-ass bucket and stir, stir, stir. Simile stew!

Vigilance, baby. That’s the word of the day.

We alcoholics are told that constant vigilance is the only way to avoid a drink… and a drink doesn’t start with booze. It starts with lust. Or fear of failure. Or money issues. Or lust. Or fear of success. Or lust.

You want to mess around with your lust issues? Just walk around NYC when your in a high state of hormonal activity. Be friends with women. Really. That’s all it takes.

You want to really work over your financial fears? Be a fucking serial entrepreneur.

Want to test your anger issues? Have kids. Period.

Writing here has been impossible. Every time I open a browser, my thoughts turn to sand. Nothin’ happens. Which is fucking bizarre, because life is pretty busy. And dandy.

Maybe it’s because I’m fully off the Straterra? Nah, I was off that for most of my blogging life.

Is it the season? Nah. I’ve never been a seasonal depressive.

Is it that my brother, who I haven’t talked to in four years (Hi, Bro!), didn’t return my phone call or letter? Is it that my father, who i haven’t talked to in four years (Hi, Dad!), presented me with a list of irrational demands for MAGGIE to follow before he would ever consider letting bygones be bygones, and start seeing his grandchildren like he fucking well ought to? It is because my mother (Hi, Mom!) is too weak, brainwashed, or bamboozled to see that no, I’m actually not evil?

M-m-m-m-m-aybe. After four years of this crap, I’m starting to get a bit pissed off at my stupid fucking parents for being to fucking ill to know their own grandkids, and my stupid fucking brother for being to weak to do anything other than say “yes, sir.”

Argh.

Here at my house, fun things are afoot. We’re decorating the tree tonight. In fact, my daughter just came to get me. So instead of waiting to finish this later, I’ll just hit post.

Thanks, Dear Tracy, for telling me to get my ass in gear. I love you. Appropriately.

Love to all. Even you, Joshua.