Chlorine in the gene pool

My hero

2012-01-13T19:55:00.000-05:00

Years ago, as a teenager, I thought my future was being a cartoonist. My inspiration came from many sources, but my favorite cartoonist of all time was George Booth of New Yorker fame. This cartoon was my absolute favorite and continues to be the absolute essence of cartooning for me.

And interestingly, if you were to ask me what image encapsulated my life - this would still be the one I chose.

I love and treasure George Booth's work, as I love and treasure my own life. Not surprising that the two meet somewhere.

There is a difference

2012-01-10T10:14:00.002-05:00

Cooking With Chlorine - Episode 1: "It's in the bag"

2012-01-08T18:15:00.000-05:00

As many of you who either know me or follow this strange little blog of mine will know, I love to cook and to entertain. My kitchen is full of gadgets and gizmos and my adoring husband keeps me very happy by keeping me stocked in all the latest and greatest offerings by Williams Sonoma and others.

This year, my Santa brought me the All-Clad Slow Cooker with Anodized Aluminum Insert that can be used on stove to or in the oven to sear, braise or saute - then placed back into the slow cooker for a deliciously slow cooked finish. Santa also brought me a Calphalon Frittata pan set. OOO-EE!

Anyway - this is like food porn to me, so I have been slow cooking and frittata-ing everything in sight. This resembles last years Mario Battali Panini Pan episode, where everything in my house, at some point, became a pressed sandwich.

But I digress.

Yesterday, as I was helping the husband out at the flower shop, so his partner could take a day off, I ran some deliveries and generally helped around the store.

As I left around lunch time to deliver a funeral piece to the town just north of us, he said, "Why don't you stop at McDonald's on the way back and pick up some lunch?"

Now - we're not big fast food eaters. We do try to plan and eat better meals than that, but some days - you just need a Big Mac and some fries. So, I said, "fine."

When I returned to the shop, our friend Estella (originally from Oaxaca) arrived almost simultaneously with some freshly home-made quesadillas made with her own corn tortillas, queso blanco and chili verde - with a fresh avocado guacamole as an accompaniment.

The McDonalds bag was summarily dismissed to the corner of the design room and many quesadillas were devoured.

As we were preparing to close the shop and head home, I - the one of the Midwestern upbringing with two grindingly poor sets of depression era grandparents who made my own parents think they were living in their own depression - thought about what a waste it was to just throw away a $14.00 bag of food, just like that. After all - couldn't parts of it be reheated or repurposed?

Then it hit me. I needed to find a way to repurpose what was in that bag and create something entirely new.

Now, I don't watch enough TV to know if someone else has done this as a chef's challenge or an elimination round or whatever. If they have, I'm not aware of it and I am definitely not purposely copying something someone else has already done.

And frankly, I am not interested enough to Google, so shut up.

Game on.

Sunday - the challenge

Hubby wanted to document this, so he created a visual for what may or may not become a series here - "Cooking with Miss Chlorine." For which, he appropriated my drink and raided my collection of 1950s hostess aprons.

Here we see the raw ingredients of what I had to work with. A double Quarter Pounder with cheese, a McChicken sandwich, a six-piece Chicken McNugget with honey-mustard sauce, and two large french fries.

My plan was to desconstruct the various elements to their basest nature to be re-used as I would other, more normal (and healthier) elements. So, I scraped the buns and meat clean, chopped the burgers, diced the chicken and hacked the fries into uniform length potato bits.

Here are the deconstructed elements plus the chopped onions and farm fresh eggs I planned to use to create two very distinct frittatas.

To start, I sauteed the onions in some olive oil an added - in order - the chopped french fries, cooked until they started to crispy-brown; the chopped burgers with cheese; and finally, a handful of the chopped buns. I lightly seasoned the entire pan with some Montreal Steak seasoning for a flavor punch.

Now the egg mixture was prepared. Four fresh eggs, a splash of milk, and a dash of the Montreal Steak seasoning. Then poured into the pan.

I prepared the frittata as you would an omelette. Letting the runny eggs bits drizzle down the edges as it cooks, until you're left with a lovely and only slightly raw eggy top. Then with the brilliant pans I have, you hook the second over the first pan, flip them and let the frittata finish for about four minutes.

Once the frittata is flipped to finish off, you can attend to other chores - such as refilling ones drink.

Once the frittata is completed, it appears puffy and golden brown in the pan.

Now it's off to the oven to stay warm at about 170 degrees while we prepare frittata number two!

Fortunately, we remembered that as morning was getting on and we were working with somewhat hazardous materials, Brian made sure to take a double dose of his high cholesterol medications to bolster his chances of seeing tomorrow.

"I'm not cutting you loose, you know...they'll all be after you...," he slurred at me. "Sure -

I may die, but I'm coming back. To haunt you. With clowns. See if I don't, you bastard."

"Does this big bottle really say 'take with food'?"

[Cut to me, singing "Somewhere over the rainbow"] and 5...4...3...2...1..

So - I wanted to create something at least a little different than the Double Quarter Pounder frittata, so I decided to steer our culinary journey towards France and came away with the idea that I would make a Chicken Frittata Provencal.

To start, I sauteed the aromatics - a little onion, some celery and a clove of garlic in the frittata pan and added a pinch of the diced fries for a starch.

Atop this, I added the diced Chicken McNuggets and the diced McChicken Sandwich patty, with a generous handful of freshly diced parsley and a good sprinkling of Herbes de Provence.

To the egg mixture, I added the packet of honey mustard dipping sauce. I then poured it over the pan contents and repeated the steps outlined before.Once complete, I sprinkled some more fresh parsley across the top of the frittata and placed it in the oven to stay warm.

Now, the only remaining piece of the puzzle was what to do with the rest of the food? The last of the fries and the hamburger sat greasy and congealed - thoroughly unappetizing in their icky cold greasiness.

But I espied the chopped bun bits and cried, "CROUTONS!", at which point Brian and two dogs fled the room, having absolutely no idea what the hell as going on.

I threw together a quick Romaine lettuce and garden radish salad with a Basil olive oil and red wine vinaigrette.

Once the croutons were finished, I prepared our plates. One of us had the hamburger-based frittata, the other the chicken.

The outcome:

Okay - I have to be honest here. I half expected something good to come from this.

The high point of this brunch was the croutons and salad. They were absolutely the least inoffensive part of the entire meal.

However, that's not to say they were without fault. The bun materials reacted with the vinaigrette in a way I've never experienced. Instead of the croutons merely becoming soggy or soppy, they literally dissolved into a gummy paste-like structure that B equated to eating snails (not that he'd know - but he probably did chew his pencil erasers in grade school, so I gave him a pass). Needless to say, it was disgusting.

The Quarter Pounder frittata struggled to be somewhat worthwhile, but - in the end - ended up tasting like a big old greasy two-day old hamburger that someone blessed on to eternity with a fried egg as a final offering.

But as bad as that was, nothing had prepared us for the Chicken Frittata Provencal. This was just nasty. But beyond the basic, elemental nastiness of it, it was a struggle of good against evil.

B looked at me and said, "I taste what I want to like...the herbs, the eggs...but the rest of it - it's like 'hey there - let's put the worst possible ingredients EVER in here and see if anyone notices'. "

And it was true. The chicken paste/melange/horror show that comprised the McSandwichThing and the McNuggets had become this god-awful, other-worldly anti-food that sucked anything tasty or joyful or lovely into a pasty, disgusting blech-fest of sputum and bad word hurling.

You could literally taste the good ingredients shouting, "Fuck this!" as you attempted to eat the damned egg product.

"You have blasphemed against us," they seemed to say. "You have defiled us by putting us in this damnable concoction that only serves to show how you as a species have let yourselves go - falling into the abyss of the feeble and uninspired - the slothful and indigent - happy to be fed whatever pap your eventual torpor-inducing overlords deem worthy to serve you."

Dude - spices and condiments can get really angry and will read your ass. Trust me. Especially the European ones. I once had to skip work for a day after a bottle of HP Sauce kicked my ass.

Anyway - the end result was - this 'food' was shit. It wasn't even worthy of being in my kitchen.

I - we- are taking a new look at this kind of food as we realize, it isn't real food at all.

I mean - I can take a $3 chuck steak and make it taste like dinner at the Ritz. I can take root vegetables and make a soup that will make you think you've died and are riding on a velvet covered bed to heaven.

But you can't turn crap into non-crap. I was so disappointed, but not really surprised.

It's a glaring statement about what we've settled for.

I really hope to share more positive food experiences on this blog - but I had to share this one, even if nothing else comes of it.

This was non-food. It was disgusting and vile and wrong. And as much fun as the hubby and I had doing it, it was a regrettable waste of good food (onions, herbs and eggs) trying to make a silk purse from a sow's ear.

And even that would probably have tasted better.

This made my entire weekend.

2012-01-07T17:44:00.000-05:00

via Joe. My. God.

Happy New Year!

2011-12-31T19:04:00.000-05:00

Party like it's a Mayan apocalypse, bitches!

boom.

Tune in

2011-12-19T12:41:00.000-05:00

You think I'm kidding. That's an ugly surprise at 6 am.

A classic...

2011-12-16T19:12:00.002-05:00

...is worth repeating.

Proud moments

2011-12-15T16:59:00.000-05:00

There are those times in life when you wonder if your life has any impact at all.

But not long ago, I walked into Brian's flower shop and - for whatever reason or mood I was in - I performed the beauty queen pageant/Queen Elizabeth wave - the rigid hand held aloft, only rotating about 90 degrees in each direction.

Brian's partner's husband - a gruff, military school graduate, father, grandfather and ex-(long time) CIA man of very few but well chosen words - looked at me with disgust from behind the counter.

His exposure to the gay community and sensibilities has been largely fire-hosed at him since we went into business together last year. He is so welcoming and so affirming - it's been wonderful - but you always wonder if you have pushed him too far.

Standing up - he glared at me and raised his own hand.

"You never raise the hand above the crown," he said. "Don/'t you know that?"

My work here is done.

New chapters

2011-11-09T15:28:00.000-05:00

They say the hardest part of being thrown from a horse or a bicycle is getting back up on it. It's hard, but essential. Essential if you are going to carry on and keep moving forward.

I can't recall the last time in my life that I have felt so drained. So absolutely spent. As I sift through my accumulated work e-mails, I see dates from the last two months that simply don't register. "Where was I on that day - what was I doing?" It's like someone fast-forwarded ahead two months and suddenly hit the play button again.

So. Here I am. Back on the bike. A little unsteady, perhaps - but fairly confident.

A parent's death is an amazing event. My Dad's was even more - what word am I looking for? - bewildering? convoluted? - because of his disabilities and the life, the existence he and my mother had created around him and for him.

The week I spent at home felt like floating. There were things to be done, assuredly - but schedules and clocks meant little. We went through online checklists of things you should do when someone dies. We sorted through photographs, made the appropriate phone calls, reminisced, ate, slept, and cried on occasion. But it was very fluid.

My brother had changed drastically in the space of a month. When I visited in September when Dad was still in the hospital, Mom had told me that he never confided in Dad - never talked to him about more than generalities. All serious discussions were held between my brother and Mom. I wasn't really surprised. My brother and father are nearly mirror images of each other - in both appearance and temperament. Take two selfish, bullheaded, quick-tempered individuals and lock them in a room together and you end up with a broken room. That's pretty much them.

Now - my brother was all efficiency and care. Making sure things got done, people were notified, checklist items checked off. It was weird. He had this hollow look behind his eyes that I hadn't seen before. Something about Dad's death had impacted him dramatically.

Mom was abnormally okay. There were tears when friends would visit and console her, or walk up to us at the grocery store or post office and offer their condolences. But she carried on.

The coffee pot full of Folgers - three scoops - ran 24/7. Breakfasts, lunches and dinners were on time and portioned so that my brother an I always ended up with abut 75% more food on our plates than she did. Dishes were hand washed and put away. So many elements of normal life just kept happening, automatically.

In between, there were chunks of time where my mother had no idea what she should be doing. She needed to be doing. Walking the dog, laundry, sorting - she had to stay in motion.

Small projects got started. Simple things - things that wouldn't be jarring or potentially upsetting. Removing the roll up bamboo blinds on the dining room doorways - the room that had most recently served as my father's bedroom and lavatory. Opening windows - just a bit - to air the house out since my father was no longer there to complain about always being cold. Opening the white window blinds behind the lace curtains to admit light - there being no more potential for my father to suffer bodily indignities that might be visible to passersby.

Bottles and bottles and bottles of pills were collected - painkillers, blood thinners, antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, God knows what all. There must have been at least two trash bags full -- and we kept finding more.

We met with the funeral director who wanted to know more about Dad and his life. He was to write the obituary, file the death certificate, put cards out at local businesses, post notices in the newspapers - stuff we never knew they did.

Mom warned him that with my brother and I in the room, he might learn more about Dad than he wanted to know. We're not shy people. For the next hour, he was laughing uproariously with us.

Dad was cremated - we selected a container. A plain, simple maple box - elegantly understated. Not fussy.

Brian did the flowers - beautifully, of course.

We met with the pastor to discuss the service. We wanted it to be a celebration of his life - not a mourning of his passing. Mom and my brother had selected some of Dad's favorite, uplifting Christian music.

Dad used to sing - here at the church. He performed solos and sang with the choir. He was a part of the church's 'Glory Gang' puppet ministry - yes, hand puppets for Jesus. But only when he felt good - and those days got less and less as time went by.

By dinner time on Saturday, everything was arranged.

Now we just had to make it to Monday for the service.

To be continued...

I think he said goodbye

2011-10-19T16:44:00.000-04:00

My father passed last night.

The end was mercifully quick and painless.

A pulmonary embolism. His breathing faltered and his blood pressure plummeted. Five minutes after being taken off his resuscitator in the ER, he slipped away - just a little after 2:30 am.

My mother and my brother were with him. Their pastor was holding his hand and offering him words of comfort.

Numbness. Efficiency. There was little time for anything else that took place over a few brief phone calls.

Afterwards, as I tried to sleep, my mind was whirling. Sleep would not come.

As I lay there in the near pitch blackness, curtains drawn against the streetlights, I found myself staring at the where the ceiling fan would be, just over the bed.

In the darkness, I felt movement. A vague swirling of shapes in various shades of black seemed to manifest themselves around the spot.

Then a light - dim at first - a pale amethyst that seemed to alternately brighten and fade, swirling into and around the black shapes.

Then green - a pale emerald that seemed to have more definition than the amethyst hues.

The colors slowly mingled and merged with the blackness. I felt that I could suddenly see through the colored forms - like a window to lavender and green skies and landscapes. Inside those shapes, other forms coalesced and moved, adding dimension to what I was seeing.

Purposely, I averted my eyes to other spots in the darkened room, thinking this must be a trick of the eyes. I looked at the drapes - firmly drawn. No light from outside penetrated the room.

I saw nothing - felt nothing. But when I returned my eyes to the swirling mass above the bed, it was still there. No trick of the light, no optical illusion.

Shapes and forms seen through the windows appeared sharper, more in focus - yet nothing but vague cloud shapes were recognizable.

I reached out my hand - nothing. No warmth, no chill - no vibration emanated from the cloud. The shapes just continued to swirl slowly, noiselessly.

Shapes began to creep in to the edges of these colored windows, almost familiar but lacking definition.

I wondered why there was no feeling - no sense of joy or dread.

I simply whispered "I love you" and saluted the place with a grin. Dad hated sentiment - but he loved a wry smile.

As slowly as they came, the colored lights dimmed. The shapes returned to a uniform shade of black.

And then the blackness was still.

And for me - that was enough.

Until we meet again, Dad.

With apologies

2011-10-17T13:59:00.001-04:00

I know I've kept some of you waiting for the third and final installment in my little family psychodrama, but a heavy workload and a lot of fall weather madness has kept me from fulfilling that promise.

So, I promise - soon, my darlings, soon.

Until then, a few vintage postcard greetings to bring a smile to your day:

Being home: Chapter 2 - the art of English to English translation

2011-09-26T13:28:00.000-04:00

The flights to Chicago and then Omaha were uneventful.

On the first leg, my seat mate was a well-dressed but fidgety young lady who appeared to be fighting with a significant other via text messaging – a battle she was obviously quite anxious about putting on hold between takeoff and landing. She curled in her seat, contorted herself against the window and basically looked uncomfortable for the hour and a half ride. At the end, she apologized for being such a fidget – to which I politely acknowledged that she hadn’t bothered me in the least (except for the way she kept turning her smart phone away so I couldn’t read any of the scintillating details).

The brief jump from Chicago to Omaha takes just over an hour, so the fact that the plane was jam-packed and that I had been seated in a 2-seat aisle with someone as tall and broad shouldered as me didn’t seem too big an ordeal to face.

My seat mate on this flight was obviously a local. St. Louis sports team ball cap, crew cut, dressed in Lee apparel from head to foot – Nordic complexion and features – and as bland as a third cup of tea from the same tea bag. Everything about him screamed “beige”.

As we approached Omaha, the extent of the Missouri River flooding became apparent. An entire interstate highway shut down – major sections under water. Bridges and sections of roadway gone. Fields and homes inundated.

My seat mate turned halfway to me and uttered his first words to the person he had literally been hip and shoulder to for the past hour.

“That’s a flood,” he said.

Only the word flood was pronounced more like ‘flUud’. Like the soft U had not only been verbalized, but dropped onto the kitchen floor like a 50 lb. sack of wet corn meal.

“Oh. Yes,” I said. “I left quite a bit of that home in New York. Where I am from… We had a hurricane, you know… Ooooh – lots of destruction…”

Nothin’.

Minutes passed.

“How’m I gunna git home?” he asked to no one in particular.

“Swim?” I threw out there.

<*Blank stare*>

------------INTERLUDE-----------------

Just over two hours after landing, I pulled my rental car into the driveway of my parents’ home.

Mom – of course – had dinner waiting, even thought it was well past her normal dinner time.

We chatted a bit and I turned in early to go to bed and read – and to rest and prepare for the week ahead.

The next morning, Mom made breakfast and we spruced up and headed to the hospital to see Dad.

I had been prepared to see quite a bit of aging and deterioration with the old Pater, but was still kind of surprised to see how much he truly had aged - reminding me more of how my grandfather had looked in his later days.

Dad was his usual mess of drips and wires and bandaged spots and IV lines – this stuff seems to be increasingly more standard apparel each time I see him.

For someone four days after his first chemo treatment, having suffered swooping bouts of emotional roller-coastering, and facing his eldest progeny who – just 48 hours ago – had told him to get stuffed, he didn’t look too bad.

As the week went by, it became apparent that he was feeling better and improving. His physical therapy folks were happy with his progress and he became increasingly less gray hued as the week rolled along.

The real education for me during this visit was two-fold. There were lots of little bits I needed to respond to, fix or make go away (like finding out that everyone my parents know thinks I single-handedly created Watson, the Jeopardy playing computer – or that I live in a Jewish neighborhood based on the fact that there IS a temple down the street and Dad once got “Shalom’d” by a passing Rabbi) – but the major issues were quite eye opening.

The first discovery was that my job for the week was to act as interpreter. I quickly realized that I was occupying a space with two people who were very well rehearsed at talking and reacting AT each other – instead of actually communicating TO each other.

I was handed all the obstacles they could muster as to why the situation was so dire.

Mom - “Your father will never leave this house. But I can’t care for him in a space not designed to accommodate wheelchairs, lifts and crutches.”

I asked Dad – “So – if you and Mom needed to move to a senior apartment designed for medical needs, you’d go – right?”

“Yep,” he said, “There’s absolutely nothing tying us to that house anymore.”

???

Dad – “I worry about your mother. I try to get her to take care of herself but she won’t leave me for any extended period of time. She needs some time to herself.”

Me – “Well, quit calling her every ten minutes, for Christ’s sake. She doesn’t need a first hand account every time they successfully get you to the commode on time - or be alerted to the fact that you finally figured out how to adjust the volume on the TV. ”

Hmmmph.

I spent the week asking each one questions and then attempting to get an answer from the other one.

Dad – “Your mother would never let me go to a nursing home. It would kill her.”

Mom…

To save time, I’ll just say that his head would spin if he was aware of how ready an already exhausted, asthmatic 71 year old woman would be to have someone else hauling his flabby butt between bed and wheelchair.

The next discovery was how hard it really is to care for someone in this condition, especially when they are not at home.

The week practically flew by. At first, I didn’t understand why Mom had so many errands she had been unable to complete, small projects to finish, etc., since Dad was safe and sound in the hospital and she pretty much had the house to herself – especially since my lummox brother was working steadily.

But I came to discover that you can easily eat up an entire day from eating breakfast, getting ready, driving to the next town over (about 15-20 minutes – but when he is hospitalized in Omaha or Lincoln, it’s more like 1.5 hours), visiting for a few hours, grabbing lunch somewhere, visiting some more, driving home, making dinner, a little TV or computer time…and you find you are dead on your feet, wondering where the day has gone.

Add to that, my Dad calling every time the wind blew and nosing in on stuff he wasn’t handling or able to handle anyway:

Dad - “Did you call the insurance company about blah-blah?”

Mom - “No – I haven’t had a chance.”

Dad – “I need to understand coverage limits for blah-blah. Damn it – give me the phone number and I will call them.”

Mom – “Fine. What day is it and what’s your middle name?”

Dad – “wellphhhh!…fluster-bluster-blubber-blub!!!..what’s that have to do with anything?!”

Mom – “You called the house at 5:30 this morning to sing me a song about the pretty cow out in the field. I’ll handle the insurance.”

O_o

Dad’s on methodone, an oxycontin-type painkiller, mood stabilizers and much, much more. He has trouble operating a phone, let alone negotiating benefits.

Friday morning was Dad’s birthday, so we invited his morning coffee buddies from the local diner to join us at the hospital where my mom provided a cranberry/sour cream coffee cake and coffee all around.

The nurses had Dad bathed, dressed and combed and in his wheelchair by the time we arrived. He had a great time and made it for a couple hours before needing to go back to his room.

He really looked the best we’d seen him all week. His moodiness was lessening, he was much more alert and aware. And best of all, the visible lumps that had first indicated the presence of cancer had all but disappeared.

After we left, he had a few more visitors and a half dozen phone calls from family and friends. All in all, a big day for him. But he was so much the better for it.

Fortunately, he was so tired from the day’s events, we were able to skip the afternoon visitation.

This allowed me to prepare for the next exciting installment of my visit home.

The first meeting between my brother and myself in over 25 years – one that didn’t involve law enforcement officials of any sort.

Stay tuned.

Being home: Chapter 1 - Why having family is a really bad idea

2011-09-18T18:24:00.003-04:00

Posted 9/18/11 - written 9/17/11

Well – here I am. Five days later, trying to get home. Unfortunately, the assholes at United Airlines had other ideas.

I’m currently on a flight from Omaha to Chicago, where I will then be required to find accommodations for the night. I will also need to locate a toothbrush as my luggage won’t find me until tomorrow.

My originating flight didn’t leave until two hours later than the original departure time, making sure I missed the last flight out of Chicago to Albany by ANY airline.

Given this past week, this reminds me of the old adage, “No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.”

You see, this has been a rather difficult and uncomfortable week. My presence was required to fly in and help my parents deal with a cancer diagnosis for my father. He was diagnosed with Stage 4 non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma after a recent CAT scan.

For the last 20 years or so, he’s been plagued with myriad health problems including but not limited to two knee replacements that have gone bad, leaving him with no knee in his now-fused right leg; a hip replacement on the left leg that went bad – and not just with any old infection, mind you, but the flesh-eating bacteria kind. He now has no left hip. He also enjoys a completely destroyed immune system and has had a heart attack, pneumonia, bronchitis, a pacemaker, and a variety of other charming illnesses.

And just prior to the diagnosis, he broke his right leg. The only one he could stand on.

So – in a hospital bed he lies, waiting to find out if he will ever stand again – should he beat the cancer, that is.

To make matters even more fun, my journey home requires me coming face to face with my long lost brother, who I haven’t seen in more than 25 years.

I can’t quite remember our last face-to-face meeting, but I am sure it was right before I slapped him into jail for the first time after I found out he had been writing bad checks on my account.

Since that time, he stole my identity, sold my vintage comic book collection for drug money, ran up bad debts in my name, ripped my parents off for thousands of dollars, and – if that were not enough – spent three years as me in a Federal penitentiary in Louisiana.

As you might imagine, I was less than thrilled to see him again.

In fact, I think I conveyed my dismay to my parents quite eloquently some time back when I heard he had returned. It was during a phone call where I wept, wailed, made strange keening noises and occasionally screamed out loud to Jesus for no reason in particular. This is particularly disturbing as my religious identity as an athiest-leaning-agnostic-but-I'll-try metaphysical-stuff-too person doesn't limit itself to one deity.

I have strategically avoided visiting over the past few years, hoping that my younger (and only) sibling would meet an unfortunate accident with a piece of farm machinery before I was recalled to the nest.

But it was not to be. In just over a week since the happiest day of my life – my wedding to my life’s love of 20 years – I was on a plane heading west.

We had come to a family accord (meaning, I cleared it with Mom) where the miscreant sibling was to vacate the premises and abide with a friend for the length of my stay.

This, however, prompted a last minute decision by my father who – thanks to a combination of chemotherapy, methadone, a sense of the dramatic and mystical, and a heaping dose of martyrdom – decided I should not come out if it meant that my brother had to leave.

In response, * I informed him of my advanced age and accumulated wisdom, my general lack of interest in a teary reunion with the jerkling, my extreme distaste for the smell of burning martyr, and my driving impetus – to free my poor, retired mother from the bonds of indentured servitude to a man who was now about as much fun and useful to the rest of us as a pile of disgruntled meat with a major over-acting problem.

You may find this analysis a bit harsh, but let me assure you – I am coming to this from a place of love and forgiveness. I have made my peace with my father and his foibles. I have forgiven him his insanities and his abuses. I have received his apologies with grace and have never taken him to task for anything he has attempted to make right.

Imagine what I though of the bastard before.

Anyhoo – my mother called me very early last Sunday morning - in tears - to tell me he said not to come. I told her I would respond after some coffee, proceeded to pound down three cappuccinos and then dialed the asshat up.

I presented him with the above information (*see previous) and explained to him that if he didn’t care to see me, he could call the nurse, get himself lifted into a seated position and take a fucking flying jump at himself.

He backtracked, of course, said he had been misunderstood (as he climbed back up on his cross – they have phones up there. Who knew?) and then began to lament that he was “fighting for his life” (Yeah – when aren’t you fighting for your life? Jesus on a cracker…) and that he could not cope with our family being in discord as he struggles to save his life (Cue: dramatic music, dark clouds roll in from afar).

I basically said, “whatever” and hung up.

Next day – I’m on the goddamned plane.

(To be continued)

Stay tuned for Chapter Two where I tell you how Dad and Mom actually do and why being near and actually smelling my brother reminds me of the cigarette butt, pack and sad coffee cup littered cab floor of a 1972 Ford pickup with an exhaust issue.

Jesus.

OMG - a new favorite

2011-09-10T16:30:00.000-04:00

If you haven't read this blog and you're a foodie - it's the ultimate unexplored realm of food. Aggravated assault cookery with second degree bitch slapping for good measure.

From the site:

Cooking for Assholes

"You suck at cooking. You fuck up rice. You think Cayenne is that fat bitch from around the way and Old Bay is the piece of shit that keeps calling the cops on you and your boys. Stop being such a fucking loser and grow a brain. Cooking is easy as shit. Learn it."

Dive in, kiddies.

Good news, bad news

2011-09-10T16:16:00.000-04:00

The good - nay, GREAT news is that we received our official marriage license today via the post.

To frame? To lock into a vault box? What to do?

Maybe we'll just have cocktails and wave it around for a bit.

Because we can.

The bad news - well, I'm heading back to see the folks in Nebraska.

A couple days before the wedding, my Mom called to tell me that my Dad was diagnosed with Stage 4 Lymphoma. A CAT scan revealed spots across his chest, lungs and spine.

So - it's home I go. To help Mom work through the diagnosis and to help plan what comes next.

Look for some tough discussions on the near horizon.

But there may be a silver lining.

My younger brother will be vacating the premises during my visit, which tickles me all kinds of pink.

At this stage of my life, I'd rather avoid meeting up with him and becoming a crime headline.

Wish me well, kids.

Wedding anecdote #2

2011-09-06T19:56:00.001-04:00

Interestingly, this squeaky rubber chicken played a pivotal starring role in the brilliantly funny, heartfelt and moving wedding toast made by my beautiful sister-in-law.

For those of you familiar with our family, something like this will come as no surprise.

Video coming soon.

and by the way, who has a more gorgeous sister-in-law than this? I ask you.

Love you, Dah!

Wedding anecdote #1

2011-09-05T15:04:00.001-04:00

Our great friend AerialPJ provided the music for our wedding via one of his iPods (or so we thought) and his Bose Sound Station with a special playlist he had created for us.

Earlier today, Brian was bemused while perusing AerialPJ's gift - an actual iPod Nano with our entire wedding playlist on it.

He turned and asked me what was AerialPJ thinking, giving us a blue metallic bath tile that plays music....until I explained it him.

Ladies and gents - there has not been such wonder since man discovered fire. Or Nell.

He's still freaking out.

Here come the grooms

2011-09-05T12:14:00.000-04:00

More photos on the way - but here are two early shots from our wedding on Saturday.

Thanks, AerialPJ!

The disaster is unimaginable!

2011-08-28T15:32:00.000-04:00

Death came by today in the form of a hurricane and took our darling brugmansia:

Before:

And then death came

It's been a very Bergmanesque day.

I had an Aunt Irene once...

2011-08-26T20:01:00.000-04:00

..and she was a total ball-buster.

Let's hope this one isn't like that.

The hardest part of today was trying to look cool and "I am so not shopping for hurricane supplies" at Target today, when everyone was OBVIOUSLY hurricane shopping.

You can only be so blase about 36 taper candles and 400 tealights atop your two 24 packs of bottled water as you peruse the cracker selection.

Fortunately, we're an hour and a half inland and are only under a tropical storm watch.

This is still gonna totally suck.

(hunkering down)

Proper wedding attire

2011-08-23T10:46:00.000-04:00

This online discussion took place yesterday between my local BFF and me:

BFF: and as for attire...suggestions... thing that must not be worn? Lol

Me: summer casual - slacks, no jeans - no ties

BFF: perfect... I'll be lovely

Me: of course you will!

BFF: I have my fave wedding pants to wear

Me: just don't outshine me. it's my day

BFF: oh... right...

Me: ha

BFF: I'll not do my hair - and get a zit

Me: rofl

BFF: that's how much I love you

Me: aww

BFF: I will start spreading butter on my face now

Me: <==cracking up

Sunroom Redux

2011-08-15T16:21:00.000-04:00

As our wedding day approaches and we prepare for the influx of family and friends, naturally we've decided to make our lives even more stressful by tarting up the old ranch a bit.

Honestly, it's been a great motivator to finish up those "oh - I'll get to it" type projects that never seem to creep forward.

The latest was the final transformation of our sunroom from unfinished pit with sagging ceilings and exposed insulation to a lush and lovely room where morning coffee is enjoyed amidst chirping birds and where the dogs can now destroy yet another piece of furniture in their quest to frighten away any marauding squirrels.

So - over the past few weeks, we've gone from this:

to this...

A classic antique settee gets an update with patterned cushions and a graphic rug. Contemporary leather swivel club chairs make the most of the compact space. (The art deco buffet is soon to leave, opening the room up even more)

The room's southwestern exposure ensures lots of light for plants in the winter time, but in the summer an oak Victorian reading table hosts a reproduction radio/turntable/CD player and a vintage cinnabar lamp. We framed a Motawi Craftsman tile in an oak period frame to make a key hanger inside the back door.

A 'found' Hoosier cabinet and wall-mounted hat and coat rack round out the room, providing storage and utility. Finally! A place for all my cookbooks!

We're official!!!!!!!!

2011-07-24T20:19:00.000-04:00

We were the fifth couple today to apply for a marriage license in our town and we had the delightful experience of seeing another male couple being married on the steps of City Hall as we entered.

Our wonderful friends and chosen family, Galen and Liz, were with us for the historic moment.

The magic all happens on September 3 - the weekend of our 20th anniversary of being together.

Best wishes and love to all New Yorkers whose dreams are finally coming true!!!

Wedding realness

2011-07-12T19:57:00.000-04:00

Not to mention all the coworkers whose weddings we were not invited to - suddenly sniffing around for an invite.

Really?

You are making Baby Jesus cry. Stop that.

Bells are ringing - for me and my guy!

2011-07-12T15:02:00.001-04:00

I realize it's been a while since I posted, but things have been very exciting round these parts.

On June 24, New York passed marriage equality in a late night, end of term session.

The buzz has been amazing and the response from friends and family has been nothing short of incredible. The day after this took place, I walked into a shop where Brian had worked previously and was greeted with shouts of congratulations, handshakes and hugs.

Business calls with close associates begin with questions about wedding plans. My Facebook page was swamped with wonderful posts from friends all over the world.

And yes - we're finally getting married. Our 20 year engagement will be brought to a hard fought but wonderful close over the US Labor Day weekend.

We'll be in line for our marriage license when the Town Clerk's doors open on the morning of Monday, July 25.

The minister has been chosen.

Our dear friends here in town have offered us their historic home and garden as a venue.

A truly wonderful friend has offered to cater the event as our wedding gift from her.

Nearly all of our closest friends from everywhere we've ever lived have indicated they are coming.

We both sometimes just stop and wonder at the absolute joy and generosity we're getting from this wonderful circle of friends and family. And we've been so wonderfully overwhelmed to the point of crying about it at times.

We'll be combining our last names. That's decided already.

We're on our way. Now...just cake, vows, chairs, tablecloths, dishware and flatware, favors - what do we wear? Who's staying where? OMG.

Yeah. It's exactly what it looks like on TV.

I swear I will NOT become Groomzilla.

Wish us well, kids.

(and thank God we're part owners in a flower shop - it's one thing I won't have to think about)

New York City Pride

2011-06-27T13:49:00.000-04:00

This photo gives me happy tears.

Historic images to cherish

2011-06-25T13:12:00.001-04:00

THANK GOD! We won!

2011-06-24T22:55:00.001-04:00

Thank you, Jesus. I'm tired and off to bed.

Here's hoping that this helps turn the tide to bring marriage equality to the rest of the United States. Next stop - DOMA!

Much love to y'all.

XOXO

No balls for Greg

2011-06-24T11:46:00.000-04:00

My e-mail sent today to Senator Greg Ball:

Senator Ball :

You could have been a hero. You appeared to be willing to check your personal beliefs at the Senate door and have a legitimate conversation about marriage equality.

Instead, you allowed your personal beliefs and career to trump the rights of your fellow New Yorkers.

You asked New Yorkers how they felt - by Twitter and Facebook. Responses to both were overwhelmingly pro-equality.

You obviously never intended to listen at all.

You chose to use your power and influence to try to keep a subset of tax paying New Yorkers as second class citizens - while creating unnecessary protections for tax-exempt religious institutions.

I hope. Senator, that you will remember this day and understand the slap in the face you have delivered to millions of New Yorkers who support marriage equality.

Thanks for nothing, Senator.

The F word

2011-06-21T21:58:00.000-04:00

Words fail me.

This evening, I had chicken on the grill, a fresh green salad mix freshly picked from the garden, and a lovely cous cous salad cooling on the counter.

Dakota Staton was on the stereo, chilled cocktails were in hand.

And then it happened.

I first heard Brian conversing with our neighbor - and all I caught was "..it's the first time that's happened since we've been here."

Then he came into the back patio where I was and informed me that some man/teen driving a green mini van had driven by and shouted "faggot!" at him.

I was stunned. I was angry. And what pissed me off the most was - I was afraid.

I literally regressed thirty plus years back when people actually wanted to beat me up for who I was.

That word - that fucking word. How does it retain such power? In the space of twenty minutes, I wanted to cry, I wanted to beat the little bastard's brains out, and I wanted to install a home security system.

What the hell??

How does a word create so much emotional turmoil?

Because - unlike those who are fighting against us in marriage equality and in society in general, you're not going to shit your pants if I drive by your house and call you "Christian!" or "Conservative ass!"

Chances are, you're going to laugh, pour another highball and go make an eTrade that kills another 5% of the rainforests in South America or enslaves another third world labor force.

Meanwhile, people like me are being attacked, injured and killed all over the freaking planet.

Well, you know what - it's time to stop. Call me a faggot - sure - go ahead.

But be damned sure that I will prosecute to the limits of the law if you fuck with me or my family. Got it? And beyond that - you've never seen me angry. Ask my reprobate brother who was once pinned into a corner of his bedroom with the razor sharp shard handle of a softball bat pressed against his throat.

I waited for the van to return - I was ready. My BFF Peter has my bail money - I know this without asking.

It's 2011. Fucking evolve.

New York: NOM Cheats again!!

2011-06-21T18:44:00.000-04:00

Spread the word, kids!

If you don't agree with them, they don't include you.

Troll baiting

2011-06-21T17:20:00.000-04:00

I've been having way too much fun in the opinion pages of one of our local newspapers about the pending vote on marriage equality in New York state. (Click to embiggen)

You said it!

2011-06-16T06:39:00.000-04:00

"Only second-class states have second-class citizens," said Assemblyman Charles Lavine, a (NY) Democrat who voted in favor of legalizing gay marriage.

Send this man some love.

Okay. Two comments here...

2011-06-14T22:25:00.001-04:00

Is it me or is Ben Shapiro one eyebrow waxing away from a lost weekend involving a sling, spurs and an unhealthy amount of a lubricating substance? Really. "Lifestyle choices?" Ben - you are practically a ladies' epsadrille with an unibrow. Stop - for all our sakes.
Okay - can Pat Robertson just die now? I mean really - he's so old he goes in for carbon dating. NO ONE CARES ABOUT WHAT YOU SAY! You could say you stick brussels sprouts up your nose and shoot them out your ass as glitter - and NO ONE WOULD CARE. Sweet Jesus on a pogo stick - go find a comfy bench in the sun and expire! You are ridiculous and no one will miss you except the mentally ill and much of Kansas. God wants you home. Really.

Fucking asswipes.

P.S. Ben Shapiro is one hell of a whiny little vagina - grow a pair, Ben!

It's time!

2011-06-14T16:35:00.000-04:00

Wish us well - and hope that the right thing will at last be done here in New York. I look forward to being at City Hall to get our license on the day this takes effect.

Cuomo intros same-sex marriage

Proud to be - really? Part One......

2011-06-05T21:34:00.001-04:00

WARNING: I am assuredly going to take heat for something in this post. I recognize and admit that I am not being politically correct and all sunshine and rainbows and unicorns. But, man - I have to wonder about where we as an LGBT community are at and where we need to be - or not....

Today was an educational experience. B and I attended our first LGBT Pride Festival since we met and were dating in San Francisco in 1991.

After that - living in San Francisco's Castro District as we did - Pride for us meant a huge inconvenience. Throngs of people, no parking, and usually...someone eventually urinating, defecating, fornicating and/or passing out on our front steps. So for Pride, Halloween - any gay high holy day - we split for points North. Mendocino, Napa, Petaluma - anywhere the thousands of gays weren't - we were there.

Living in the Castro is difficult if you are a committed couple. It's great if you're single and on the razz, as it were, with bars every few doorways (handy if you need a restroom!) - but when a spontaneous demonstration prevents you from getting home for three hours after innocently walking two blocks to the Walgreens for toilet paper...just because you are on the wrong side of the street...well, it's a bit wearing.

Anyway - back to present - we have actively avoided Pride festivals since - for better or worse. But our memories of that one that we did attend was about community and friends and neighbors. We bought art and crafts and whatever from GLBT artisans - I still have the tank top that I bought that reads "I'm not gay but my boyfriend is." It was a celebration of ourselves and our abilities and our joy of living.

Our local Pride event today was a sobering encounter. To begin with - we were there as a vendor trying to introduce ourselves as a half-gay-owned business to the community while simultaneously raising funds for the local LGBTQ center here in town. Only to find out that the only other vendors there was some woman who painted celestial visions that she had apparently channeled while downing a fifth of Jack Daniels, three food booths (Caribbean BBQ, corn dogs and funnel cakes, and hot dogs), and us.

The first wave of interest we encountered was from the insane and addicted, who came before the parade because there was really nowhere else to go and get free things. Their contribution amounted to "Oh those are pretty", "Can I have this?", and "bebbebEEE NEE souhahaha - Martha (drooling noise)!"

As the parade and attendees arrived some time later (hours - goddamn, we set up at 10:30 and had to wait till 1:30 for people to show up) we actually had some lucid customers buying flowers and were able to shake the hands of noted dignitaries who had appeared first thing so they could escape the sad spectacle as soon as possible.

Then the disco/rap/hip hop tent launched and nobody heard anything for an hour.

Following this - sadly - came the speeches and the local talent. And in what I refer to as the Holly Near-Death Experience - (Google Holly Near if you don't get the joke) - we were then subjected to nearly two hours of ululating lesbians and zaftig belly dancers and drummers -- singing and drumming and wailing about social justice and empowerment and peaceful protest - until the entire tent became a huge, vaginal sweat lodge.

Estrogen-sicles formed on the tent poles and anyone walking by became disabled. I swear this is true.

Side note - what the hell is up with lesbians and being disabled? Do they put you in a wheelchair when you declare your lesbianism? Honestly - does someone just show up and mess with your ovaries or knee-cap you or something? Jesus. If I saw one more paraplegic lesbian today, I was so going to cry.

Needless to say, this was a huge surprise for our straight but supporting business partners who were experiencing this for the first time. And for us.

I mentioned how many vendors we had - they were only outnumbered (and easily) by the number of tables featuring mental health providers, "ok, we'll accept you" churches, and "Hi - we're masquerading as an affordable housing developer with Mafia connections that no one talks about. Trust us." organizations.

No alcohol. Anywhere.

Except for the totally cool interfaith minister and his boyfriend next to us who turned out to be really fun and cool and snarky - and who live just a few blocks away (YAY!). Their friend, who looks and dresses like Snookie and owns a winery, dropped by with six bottles of Syrah.

And there was not a corkscrew in sight.

Besides, today was totally cloudy but warm - a Rose' or unoaked Chardonnay kind of day.

-->To be continued<---

I have seen my future...

2011-05-27T13:19:00.000-04:00

...and I am strangely okay with that.

Ghost dog does not approve

2011-05-23T21:07:00.000-04:00

In honor of the rapture that wasn't - a classic

2011-05-21T19:50:00.000-04:00

Now - go party like it's 2007 in Latvia. ROCK!!!

Ladies who lounge

2011-04-30T16:27:00.000-04:00

On a lovely Spring day, the girls love nothing more than a little sun and little luxury.

Clockwise from L: Lucy the increasingly hairy Shar Pei (yay!), Patsy the Escape Artist (hence the lead), Eddie the cutie pie, and Sophie the old and largely unaware brown dog.

I love Karma

2011-04-29T18:24:00.001-04:00

This weekend marks a significant milestone.

There are two weddings taking place that are among the first where Brian and Liz have outdone competing florists (vs. a couple of other weddings for people who already knew them and sole-sourced - or were spontaneous locals) to do the flowers for the wedding and ceremony. Keep in mind that May 1 marks only six months of being in business - and business is FABULOUS!

In fact, they have multiple weddings already booked - stretching throughout the year.

What makes this weekend even sweeter is that one bride, who shall remain deliciously anonymous, had originally consulted with Brian's last employer - the one who did everything she could to tarnish his reputation and posted fake on-line reviews about the business (among other childish shenanigans) until our lawyers shut her down.

The bride arrived - almost in tears - after her encounter with the (adjective) (noun). And with absolutely no mention of the previous working relationship or animosity (or lack of anti-psychotic drugs), she elected to go with Brian and Liz.

It's going to be such a great 6-month anniversary gift, given all the crap that we've had to deal with.

I heard an interview on NPR the other day about a new book called "The Thank You Economy" which focuses on some real basics about customer care, acknowledgment and reward. It focuses on businesses being authentic, honest, creative and original - which is exactly what L& B are doing. It's real, it's personal and it's successful.

There is Karma in this lifetime and I, for one, love that there is.

(and 500 Sparkly Princess Points to Bob in Smallville for calling it ahead of time! Yay, Bob!!!!)

I have a cute post office

2011-04-29T08:33:00.001-04:00

Apparently.

At least that is what I was told I said out loud in my sleep last night.

"I have to go to my cute post office."

You see, I've recently and suddenly begun talking in my sleep. It's not something I've ever been known to do before except under post-surgery medication and that particular week was a bar none all-singing, all-dancing extravaganza of epic proportions.

No, the talking I do in my sleep is minimal. But we're still not used to it.

Much of it is unintelligible, but I seem to be speaking more clearly and more often.

One morning about a week ago, I was making cappuccinos and Brian sleepily stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen and asked:

"So. Who's the asshole? Me?"

I had apparently flung that little gem out in the wee hours. But I assured him it was not meant for him.

What really worries me are the little gestures that sometimes accompany these late night shenanigans.

Let's just say that waking Brian at 2 am with a kidney punch is not something I ever hope to experience again.

But it's not all violent. It is, however, frequently wet.

We both keep large acrylic (thankfully) tumblers of water at our bed side - y'know, the kind you buy for ice tea in summer, over-sized, gaily decorated, and double walled for insulation (ours feature flamingos and palm trees).

On more than one occasion, said tumbler has been knocked across the room - usually full - resulting in a frantic search in the dark, foul language, a damp carpet and bedding, and an agitated, wet dog who had been innocently sleeping on her now-saturated dog bed next to the night stand.

I'm curious to see where this leads, but for now I'll be grateful that I haven't said or done anything to cause irreparable relationship damage (yet).

Wish me well. And do come visit my cute little post office sometime.

What is it with Republicans and fetuses?

2011-04-15T19:52:00.000-04:00

God on a wheel!

First, we have Babs Bush keeping her darling almost-offspring in a mason jar - something I am sure helped shaped the mental stability of both GW and Jeb as their lunch, testes and cerebral cortex all exploded out of them upon seeing their almost-sister removed from storage in the pantry where I am sure she was stored among the dilly beans and pickalilly.

Now we have Rick "Frothy Mix" Santorum - wait...that's redundant.

Google 'Santorum' and see what shows up first if you are curious. I refuse to post a link here. We are a family friendly blog, after all.

Anyway - Little Ricky wants to be president and has his own fetus story to tell.

When his wife - sadly - miscarried one of their children, he not only didn't he settle for the WASP protocol of see nothing - say nothing - show nothing, but he went - in my opinion - a little nutsy-bo-bo.

Apparently, Mr. Santorum took the - pay attention here - 20 week old fetus home, wrapped in a blanket, showed it to his children and they sang songs and prayed and talked to it and stuff. For HOURS.

WHAT!?

Okay - at the risk of being exposed as an actual feeling person - I get the overarching "kids - you had a little brother on the way, but he didn't make it" thing.

And side note - smell!?@!

But listen to me - I had two - TWO - almost-brothers that I thankfully never had to hold in my arms and sing to. Okay? I was in blissful ignorance until later in my life when my main goal in life was to make Brother #4 (the one who did make it - damn it to hell) nothing more than a bad smell in the attic.

But if I think about my parents bringing home a 20-week old fetus and expecting me to do some Sound of Music schtick for it - no way. MMmm. Not happening.

F that S.

I may have some room in my pantry now that the dilly beans and bread-and-butter pickles are gone, but - hell no.

It's bad enough to have the brother I do have back in my family's life. If this were a game show, I'd trade him for one of the ones behind the curtain that didn't make it. At least your brother who never quite made it doesn't steal your identity and spend three years in a Louisiana prison as you, which you only find out as you are being security checked to join a Fortune 100 company.

You bring home a dead baby in a snood and want me to meet it - and sing to it. That is some f***ed up sh*t.

That's called THERAPY.

I am so sick of these "holier than thou" sick mother-grabbers telling us how precious life is then working to deprive the rest of society from the same litmus test.

While you're singing and praising your dead fetus, you're simultaneously pushing for the death penalty and the deprivation of the elderly, the sick and the poor through cuts to social safety nets - so your big business buddies can stay fat and happy - and OH yes - I also mean the businesses of the Catholic, Mormon, Baptist churches and all the rest.

You, sir or madam, are a hypocrite and evil to boot.

Take your pickled fetus and shove it.

A moment in time

2011-04-10T18:54:00.000-04:00

When I was a child, I can remember visiting my great grandparents on my mothers' mothers' side. Great Grandpa Charles was a somber and precise dictator. My Great Grandmother Lily floated in his wake - ephemeral and insoluble - as if she waited for his command to appear.

As such, they were far from the approachable and lovable people you remember from other people's stories - or the Waltons.

But Charles and Lily and their home held multiple fascinations for me. One was that children were to be seen and not heard - and preferably not seen. My response to this was, a) to occupy, fully clothed, the concrete in-ground birdbath upon arrival, and b) to bounce Charles' golf balls in unsupervised rooms where I might end up breaking a leaded glass pane(s) of Arts & Crafts/Mission style origin.

All resulting in an ass beating of epic proportions.

But the thing that fascinated me most was being alone in that turn-of-the-century Ohio Craftsman home - all dark oak, built-ins and leaded glass window panes - was the silence. When Mom was in the kitchen with Grandma Lily, I might be unattended on the sun porch, bouncing a harmless rubber ball. Or I might find myself eating a sandwich (God forbid - Charles must be golfing) seated on the prickly horse hair sofa in the living room.

And what I remember is the peace. The tick and tock of the grandfather clock in their house, the rare motes of dust floating in the sunshine through through the windows, and the warm, mellow smell of bees wax and furniture polish. To me - this was where time ended and heaven began.

In years since, I've striven to find this - to create it. But it never seemed quite genuine.

But today, as I was preparing for a brunch with our wonderful friends, I took a moment to look at our home through new eyes and I realized, the Eastlake clock on the sideboard, the Grandmother clock ticking away in the hallway, and the silence - (Brian was out getting propane for the grill) - made me feel for one moment like I was a kid again. Suspending time - and simply sitting in the sun and loving and honoring my family and those who came before me....

...and wishing I could travel back in time to tell them just what they meant to me.

Something I actually said to my dog today

2011-04-09T19:44:00.000-04:00

So - our Lucy - a Shar Pei whose previous owners had neglected in diet to the point that she had lost her fur and was actually red hot to the touch just before we adopted her....

I'm pleased to report that constant attention to her diet, medicated baths and scrubbing the old stuff away - has paid off. Lucy is downy - she literally looks like a 30 lb. Easter chick. She has little white hair ridges all over her.

Just a minute ago, I was praising her and her new coat - remarking that she was so pretty - no longer the gray, emaciated thing we had adopted.

When I realized...

That was exactly what Brian's mother thanked for when I first met her.

"He's no longer gray. And not so thin. Good job."

I'm a rescuer. What can I say?

My favorite film!

2011-03-30T18:11:00.000-04:00

They're honoring Jean Harlow this week on AMC, so we were privileged to catch my favorite movie of all time last evening and watch it in bed. Dinner at Eight is one of my self-prescribed Gay Essentials - it includes a blonde bombshell (Harlow), a drag queen (Marie Dressler), a put-upon hostess (Billie Burke) and enough over-the-top camp acting to fill a pink Hostess Sno-Ball that would cover Times Square.

If you haven't seen it - it's absolute genius. And Harlow was such a talented comedienne. It's shame we lost her so young.

Some treats!

Scooby Don't

2011-03-29T07:51:00.000-04:00

Flew to Chicago, San Francisco, Paris and Egypt last night - solving an international mystery puzzle involving ghosts, castles, fine dining, amorous suitors and villainous henchmen...in Dreamland.

Now sitting slack-jawed and exhausted over my morning coffee, struggling to hold my head up.

WTF?

I'm absolutely shattered.

And I still haven't solved the "where is my night stand water glass? - and why is the carpet on my side of the bed all wet?" mystery.

And I think I may have punched Brian at least once.

Welcome to New York - now go back to Jersey, you moron.

2011-03-27T17:04:00.000-04:00

So - we had a lovely day today. The sun is shining, the snow is gone and the Spring bulbs are bursting.

We had breakfast out - took a lovely drive up through Marbletown, High Falls and Stone Ridge - and we even ventured across the Catskills to check out the Ashokan Reservoir that supplies New York City.

A beautiful, leisurely day.

We got onto Route 28 to head for home and, no sooner had we turned onto the highway, Vinny and Snookie from Passaic and their offspring and over-bred, pedigreed dog with its head hanging out the window - driving the largest possible land ark that Ford can make- is suddenly in my rear view mirror.

The douchebag in the ball cap driving was alternately tailgating me or falling back on the 2-lane highway down the mountains.

About the time I slowed down to the legal speed limit, Vinny would back off - when I was high-tailing it (well - 60 in a 55 mph zone) I could see my reflection in his wife's D&G knock-off sunglasses.

We were both very aware of his douche-y driving - but I refuse to get a ticket because some dip-bag feels he needs to run his V8 Hemi at maximum power.

Wherever passing was allowed, I drifted to the right, indicating "pass me you Jersey douche bag." And although he tried on a couple occasions, traffic or the landscape intervened.

Finally, as we approached Kingston, the highway expanded to two lanes each way and we (gratefully) drifted into the right lane, allowing Mr. Summer's Eve to pass. We knew this stretch of road - it was a highly enforced speed trap - designed to catch tourists visiting the Catskills or Woodstock.

Best not to speed. (giggle)

He sped by - we made no eye contact, no helpful gestures...nothing.

I felt hollow - like this douche had won some unspoken victory.

but then....

As we approached the city limits, we saw a State Trooper pull a U-turn across all lanes of traffic as the white Ford Douche-mobile sped past.

Lights flashed, sirens wailed and the Douche-mobile pulled over to the shoulder.

I rolled my window down.

Brian: "What are you doing?"

Me: "I'm going to beep and fist pump as we go by!!!!!"

Brian: "You are not. Put your window up."

Me: "Oh - please?"

Brian: "You will not do anything - you will drive by and you will not make eye contact."

Me: "You're no fun."

Brian: "Look - be happy that there apparently is a god - or at least a sense of justice in the world."

Me: "I'd rather flip them off and make PHHTTT noises at them."

Brian: "Karma."

Me: "Shit."

Truthfully, it made my day.

A lady, a legend

2011-03-23T10:59:00.000-04:00

A lady.

A legend.

A passionate advocate and activist.

One of the last true stars.

We love you.

Thank you.

And farewell.

Enough is enough

2011-03-20T18:43:00.000-04:00

I love this kid. And his sister. And his dad.

I was Casey once. Until a bully in the 6th grade pushed me too far.

The result? My upper teeth driven through my lip at a drinking fountain - followed by the decimation of numerous classroom modular walls, chalkboards and desks as we rolled through nearly an entire wing of Gus Grissom Middle School.

The fight ended when I split a molded plastic school chair over his head.

He suffered a concussion and I was held in the principal's office, bloody washcloth pressed against my bleeding lip, until my father arrived.

The principal was waiting for my father's arrival to inform him that I had seriously injured another kid and that I would be subject to corporal punishment - 'swatting' - as it was called. The bastard of a principal had a fiberglass paddle with holes drilled into it for maximum sting (circa 1974).

Proudest moment of my life re: my father?

Dad arrived - all 400 lbs of angry, repressed, high blood pressure rage. He asked me what happened and assessed the situation.

He turned to the principal and informed him:

"My kid was defending himself. You can paddle him all you want - but you're going to have to take me down first."

The paddling never came.

From that day forward, I knew I had backup. And when you back down just one bully, other bullies take notice.

Be there - for your kids, your nephews and nieces, or your friend's kids - any kid, for Pete's sake. All they need to know is that someone cares about them and who they are.

Just thought you should know....

2011-03-18T14:46:00.002-04:00

This-n-That

2011-03-18T11:30:00.000-04:00

Courtesy of Joe My God:

"This new al-Qaida magazine for women has beauty tips and suicide-bomber tips! Gimme a break! That is as ridiculous as two men kissing on the mouth! And I don't care what is politically correct. Everyone knows that two men on a wedding cake is a comedy skit, not an 'alternate lifestyle'! There I said it! Ridiculous! Did you see Glee this week? Sickening! And, besides shoving the gay thing down our throats, they made a mockery of Christians – again! I wonder what their agenda is? Hey, producers of Glee – what's your agenda? One-way tolerance?" - Former Saturday Night Live cast member and Tea Party hero Victoria Jackson.

Okay. Two things. Oh wait - no, three things.

Why in God's name were you watching Glee if dude-on-dude lovin' makes your lady parts explode? I mean, it's the gayest goddamned thing on TV.
Anita Bryant called from the 1970s and she wants her schtick back.
The Lost and Found Department called - your talent has never been found.

And, oh. Thing 4.

Ethel Mertz. On crack. Think about it.

Moving on.

Courtesy of Gawker: "Qaddafi threatens to GET CRAZY"

Um.

Too late.

It's kinda sad that in addition to all the violence and killing and terrorism and stuff, that as a young man, dude was kinda good looking.

Crazy ages your ass. And that's why you now look (and dress) like a Libyan Bea Arthur after a stroke.

From The Daily: Homos with enough money to know better have a doll as a son.

In the category of "If you aren't helping the cause..."

Okay, you're rich so you are 'eccentric'. If you weren't, you'd be living in a group home with the rest of the doll baby families.

Digby - the son - is 20 years old, wearing matching outfits with his mommies and makes Gary Coleman and Webster look like giants. This kid is overdue to knock over a liquor store and then OD in an RV somewhere in the Southwest.

I gotta go lie down.

An amazing performance

2011-03-16T09:30:00.000-04:00

I recently discovered this video over at Chateau Thombeau and am absolutely smitten!

In addition to the lush orchestration by David Arnold (gorgeous guy at the piano), David McAlmont's vocals are spot on and compelling. Layer that with Rocky Shenck's gorgeous directorial vision, and anyone harboring a Shirley Bassey/Bond theme lust will be ever so gratified by this video.

Enjoy!

Anyone still here?

2011-02-24T23:34:00.000-05:00

My friends - I've missed you. It's not that I haven't wanted to catch you up - I simply haven't had the time.

You see, I've been a little busy working to get the word out about a certain quiz show contestant. Like, since last October, I've been busy on this. You may have seen him on TV recently.

Anyway, now that he's the undisputed grand champion of all time, I have a few minutes to catch my breath and bob up to say hello (before again submerging into our upcoming 100th anniversary in June - oy - it never stops).

Honestly, this Watson guy is truly amazing. There are lots of great videos and information about him here, if you care to look past the loopy predictions that he's the Terminator's Great Granddaddy or that his one of his progeny will be an astronaut called HAL. He's got a great future ahead.

And, of course, the first show of the three-day match aired on - you guessed it - Valentine's Day! Fortunately, I saw the taping in January, so I didn't miss anything - because I was delivering >ta-da!< flowers!

As you might imagine, Valentine's Day is huge when you have a florist business in the family. Especially when it's your very first - it really sets the tone of how your business is going to do.

It's madness - everyone waits until the last minute to order, you run the risk of not having enough flowers, having too many flowers, not having enough delivery people or staff...it's endless and crazy and exhausting and wet and dirty.

But we rocked it. People pre-ordered like crazy - we actually had time to bang out as much as we could in advance of the actual day. Two huge coolers worth!

We did as much strategic pre-advertising as we could and came up with some crazy new ideas. How about this - "Are you Mild or Are You Wild? In addition to your traditional roses and baby's breath, how about this HOT arrangement with a "re-usable" feather boa?

We had to stop taking orders because we ran out of the dozens of boas we had purchased.

We must have some mighty adventurous folk in this here town. I mean, we know the drag queens and it wasn't them.

We had three delivery people running all day - brought in an extra designer that Brian had worked with before - and from Friday thru Monday - V Day - people were standing in line. We got a last minute order for 20 restaurant centerpieces for dinner - at 2:30 pm. It was NUTS.

Brian was there at 5 am on V Day - we finally got home at 9:30 that night.

And on Tuesday - the day after...dozens of phone calls and e-mails from people who loved their flowers just contacting them to say so and to say thanks.

Not one missed delivery. Not one complaint.

And on that same Tuesday, a local restaurant owner walked in with a four figure wedding flower order for the following Sunday. He bought out all the remaining roses, and everything needed to create an outdoor gazebo wedding for his impromptu nuptials.

They actually had to order flowers the day after Valentine's Day - cleaned out - zoop! - just like that.

I think there's an Irish saying about something like falling in manure and coming up with clover. That's Brian and Liz.

I need to find that.

I digress. So - on a balmy, breezy 26-28 degree day (F, not C, for our non US readers. Please note the snow and frozen river) last Sunday on the waterfront, we decked out a gazebo - in the wind...to staggering effect!

The bride emerged from the salon she owns just across the street and followed a rose petal path across the street and the plaza, leading up to a gazebo adorned in green leaves, wreaths and planters of baby's breath, and silver ribbon shimmering in the wind - where the couple would exchange vows.

We were able to adjourn to a nearby pub to warm up with adult beverages while the nuptials took place. We then returned to disassemble the decor - and then back to the pub for dinner and more warming beverages.

It's been an amazing February - so much work but so much fun. And so much reward!

I hope all is well with you and hope to get back on the blogging train!!

Cheers - and remember - Spring is just around the corner!

Random thoughts for a Friday cocktail hour

2011-01-28T18:30:00.001-05:00

Why do so many gay bears put pictures of 'Jem' on their Tumblr sites? Seems weird to me.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So - I'm at the Ghettoford the other day, in the produce section, and an elderly woman suddenly screams out loud to no on in particular, "HOW MUCH ARE THE MACINTOSH APPLES? I'M LEGALLY BLIND!"

The produce manager appears and tries to help her by telling her the price.

"$1.39 A POUND?! WHEN DID THEY GET TO BE SO EXPENSIVE?!?"

(Authors note: It's winter here in the Northeastern US - it's not like the orchards are burgeoning with fruit right now)

"WHAT DO YOU HAVE THAT'S CHEAPER?"

The produce manager escorts her to some lovely Gala and Empire apples that are $0.99 a pound.

"BAG ME A POUND! I CAN'T SEE! I'M LEGALLY BLIND!!!"

The produce manger helps her as other bemused shoppers, like myself, are smirking at each other.

I'm already having to hide behind the potato bins because I am already snickering out loud.

"IS THAT A POUND? WHY ARE YOUR APPLES SO EXPENSIVE?"

By this time, I simply have to slip away into the canned soup aisle to avoid exposure for the giggles emanating from me.

I picked up a few items - some sodas, martini olives, tortilla chips, and then, as I round the corner...

"IS THIS THE CRACKER AISLE? I'M LEGALLY BLIND!"

I walked past her without looking and queried a frightened fellow shopper- sotto voce - who is artfully hiding her person behind an aerosol cheese display...

"How in the hell do you think she survived the trip here?"

"I'M NOT DEAF, YOU KNOW!"

Good thing she couldn't see me leaving a cloud of dust behind like in those old Road Runner cartoons. She's legally blind, you know.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I was making a beef roast last night and went to pull out a cutting board that I had drying in the sink - at which time, Eddie, the world's cutest little tank dog did a very silly thing.

As I was laughing and focused on just how cute my little smootchie kootchie was, still pulling out the cutting board, I failed to see the rather large meat fork balanced precariously on the counter.

My world went electric white and painful for a second or so and when I recovered my vision, I saw that I had a 12-inch meat fork solidly piercing THE VERY ARTHRITIC JOINT of the oh-so-painful bunion on my left foot.

Trying not to panic - and already having taken our Lord's name very much in vain - I hobbled to the bathroom, removing the offending fork as I went and - oh god...

I'll spare you the details, but by the time I had begun to clot and bandaged the wound, cleaned the tub, and wiped up the floor, the roast was done.

I called Hubby down and briefly explained what had happened. He was appropriately sympathetic and was surprised not to hear my usual histrionics with language that would make longshoremen blush, but said all the right things.

My response?

"OH MY GOD - You won't believe what Eddie did! It was SO CUTE"

I am truly a sick person.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If Rand Paul and Michelle Bachman had a baby, would it be nothing but a pair of big old crazy eyes?

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Things I'd like to share:

Today's 'tweet' of note about Jeopardy! playing computer system, Watson.

My soul died a little when I saw this. I think it's more because of the couch and the sink being in the same room more than anything.

Simply because I am a sick bastard.

This is true.

I'm constantly amused by how many people don't get this.

Have a great weekend!

YAYYYYYYYYY!

We can learn from reconnecting with the past

2011-01-20T19:59:00.000-05:00

I just shared a story on FaceBook with a high school classmate about jumping off a diving board wearing nothing but an inflatable pterodactyl.

Those plastic seams can be vicious.

Now you know.

My day via email (or why I drink)

2011-01-12T19:25:00.000-05:00

So - we're having a huge company event over the next two days and I have been tasked with getting some graphic images and awards on display for the visiting dignitaries.

This task was presented late last week and needs to be in place by tomorrow, but hey - I'm a man of action. That's why it was dropped in my lap.

One display was easy - it was mostly of my own creation - the awards are already in house and they are actually attractive and related to environmental conservation, making them cool and relevant. So - bingo - we're halfway home. I slap together some text and 'green' graphics and we're solid.

The other display - directly related to the big event in question - has been more of a challenge. I met with two trustworthy and highly-big-event-integrated colleagues who assured me - last week - that they would provide the imagery I needed.

Subsequently, they have waffled and hemmed and hawed and basically told me, "well - I don't think we want to show that after all."

WTF. So what can we show?

Finally, we agreed on some 'okay' pieces and they said. "oh sure - we'll get you those."

Until today - nothing. Well -nothing concrete. We've had discussions via e-mail out the ying-yang every day since. But without result. You see - we're using an 'agency' - in fact, not one - but multiple 'agencies'.

Now - in fairness - I have agency and consulting experience in my background. Basically, agencies and consultants are the people you didn't or wouldn't listen to when they worked for you - but after they left or were 'resourced - they joined 'agencies' and now make three times what you paid them before and you actually LISTEN to them and respect their ideas, mostly because they cost so damned much.

And agencies have 'visions' - ideas about how things should and should not be used.

My take - we're paying you - I will use it however I damned well please.

So - anyway - I finally have the glimmer of a chance to fulfill my display case task with at least one of the outstanding images.What we call an 'op-ad' in the trade - basically a two-page newspaper spread.

Note: Image number 2 magically appeared today after I instant messaged "Bud - I know you're slammed and whatever else is going on just please tell me if you are going to ever get me that poster or not so I can find something else, okay? I've got less than a day. You're killing me here."

But back to the other.

So today, an E-mail arrives from a woman at - well, let's just call it the "Megalithic New York Ad Agency With Whom We Spend Gazillions Each Year" - or MNYAAWWWSGEY.

For simplicity, we'll call them "Bob".

E-mail from Bob: "From Woman whose traditionally English/American yet intentionally misspelled first name indicates you are either 18 years of age, from Long Island/New Jersey, or from a country that uses very few vowels."

We'll call her "Shirlye".

Email chain:

Shirlye: Hi - this is Shirlye from Bob. Here is link to what you requested. Thank you. Have nice day.

Me: Thanks, Shirlye - the link takes me to a download page where it asks me to enter my e-mail address to download - but it refuses to acknowledge my e-mail address.

Shirlye: Here is the files(2 attached)without having to use the download express tool.

Me: These are great - there are plenty of images in here. Hoo boy - lots of images of the graphic avatar piece of the Op Ad - but boy - there's every shape, color and combination. But what is lacking is the actual full OP AD.

Shirlye: I am sorry you are having such troubles. I sent you the OP ad in another e-mail (which I never received) Here is link to the what you request.

(Me: bangs head on desk and throws pens at monitor for a few minutes, hoping random velocity will lodge one in my eye, one day ending the pain I feel.)

Me: Shirlye. You sent me back to the download tool that STILL refuses to accept my e-mail. To (my colleague on copy): Is there some kind of terminology or language thing I am missing here? This request seems very clear to me and I am running out of time - please intervene if I am drooling and rambling, as I have clearly lost my mind.

Colleague: Send me the link so I can see if my e-mail address works.

a few minutes later...

Colleague: Nope

Shirlye: I am sorry you are having such troubles.

(I am having troubles?! I am having troubles?! You, LADY, are the one with troubles! I can't believe we're paying you to be even less responsive and productive than my cat - a cat -I may say - who could do your job a damned sight better! TROUBLES! You don't know troubles - I'm stressing out about a display cabinet no one will ever see because its in the hallway next to the damned bathroom - and I am about to have SHINGLES because you and my co-worker don't understand that as menial as this request is - it means f%*ing something to someone or they wouldn't have asked me to spend days of my life chasing after a f$$@ing poster, okay?)

Shirlye: Here is new link to attachment without download and email troubles.

Minutes pass.......

Me: Thank you, Shirlye - this is exactly (f*cking finally) what I needed (even though it was the wrong size and resolution - I finally had SOMETHING).

Thank you.

Drooooool.........

Minutes pass

Shirlye: I am glad you got your troubles sorted out.

......................

(logs into Blogger......)

Have an Unconventional Tuesday!

2011-01-10T23:48:00.001-05:00

Tune in

2011-01-01T13:40:00.001-05:00

Updated!

Listen in as Liz and Brian return for another episode of The Garden Show with Sally Spillane on radio station WKZE!

The Garden Show | WKZE 98.1 FM Red Hook, NY - Salisbury, CT

Welcome 2011

2011-01-01T11:07:00.000-05:00

Best wishes for a prosperous and totally classy new year!

The beauty of the Snowpocalypse

2010-12-30T09:25:00.000-05:00

Shot by filmmaker Jamie Stuart in Queens during the snowstorm on the night of December 26th, this video has been called "Oscar-worthy" by Roger Ebert.

Idiot With A Tripod from Gothamist on Vimeo.

I dare you...

2010-12-29T16:55:00.001-05:00

...not to find this funny. (Click here to make with the funny)

What a huge pecker!

2010-12-29T12:52:00.000-05:00

Just spotted this guy outside of my home office window. He's a Pileated Woodpecker - only rarely spotted in this part of the Northeast. Very impressive guy (or gal)!

In case you missed the Snowpocalypse

2010-12-28T09:03:00.000-05:00

This video captured 20 hours of snowfall in 40 seconds - probably some place like New Jersey, closer to the ocean than we are.

December 2010 Blizzard Timelapse from Michael Black on Vimeo.

Snow Angels

2010-12-27T08:20:00.001-05:00

We're waking up to more than a foot of snow in Eastern New York this morning, our first real snow storm of the season.

It's just a few minutes past 7:00 am.

About 45 minutes ago, I was practically hurled out of bed by the mass pandemonium of the three younger dogs losing their minds (plus the elderly one being agitated and confused and randomly slamming into various pieces of furniture).

I listened as the barking ceased and heard only the faint sounds of snow being shoveled up the street.

I returned to bed.

"Knock-knock-knock" from the front door.

CANINE PANDEMONIUM PART DEUX

Not even half awake - having spent the previous six hours alternately snoozing and tossing and turning, dreading the shoveling awaiting me in the morning - I pulled the closest thing resembling a bathrobe around me and rapelled my way downstairs alternately using the wall, banister and stairs to change my direction, bearing and speed - much as I imagine Helen Keller might have, had she been awaken suddenly, violently and without a frantic explanation made to her palm.

I struggled to open the front door, with three snarling and yapping demons behind me, leaping around under and up into the front hall Christmas tree, ornaments pinging and shattering against the oak desk and paneled staircase.

In the periwinkle darkness of pre-dawn, a slight and mildly spotty youth stood without, his nose red with cold, the faint odor of stale cigarettes hovering round him.

"Sorry to be coming by so early - did you want us to clear your sidewalk and driveway?" he inquired.

"Who am I?" I thought, "...and why are these magic wolves destroying the tree of light and fantasy? Why am I here - who is making those speaking noises? Is it God? God - hello? No? Then be QUIET or the Cafeteria Lady will HEAR you - and you know what she's like!! "

(Brian will absolutely confirm that this is spot-on in terms of how I dream and then wake up)

Out of my mouth, however, came, "Great! Just the sidewalk and in front of the cars where the plow came by would be great, okay?"

Off went my snowy savior to join his two comrades who attacked the snow with an energy and vehemence of hobgoblins disemboweling an unwary traveler. Snow flew this way and that as I watched blearily from within.

After a few minutes of wakefulness, I glanced around outside and realized that a good hour of back-breaking shoveling and snow clearing still lay ahead for us.

So, I made espresso and waited patiently for the hobgoblins to finish their grim task.

When the head youth returned to my front door, I was able to see him much more clearly. Young, fresh-faced - seemed a decent enough kid/young man.

I apologized for having been out of it when I first spoke with him and asked how much he was owed.

He said "wow - I don't know - um. $10 each?"

I thought - okay - fair enough.

"How much more to clean off the cars and shovel the driveway?" (we have a small parking strip - just big enough to get two cars off the street)

Him: "Hmm - I don't want to hurt you, man - another $10?"

Me (thinking): "Hurt me? Hurt me for another $10. You're actually helping me avoid thousands in possible medical bills when I shatter my spine, slide under Brian's car and am then dragged on floral deliveries for the next three days."

Me (speaking): "Okay. Cool. Thanks."

With that, I handed the $40 in cash to the earnest young man. He then rejoined his compatriots and within seconds, I saw the roofs of our cars emerge from the snow. Then the windows and hoods, and finally, the tires.

And with that, they were gone. Piling into their battered black Isuzu Rodeo, they tore off into the still-dark morning - destined, no doubt, to aid other out-of-shape and confused middle-aged people before the sun rose.

Brian thinks they're crackheads. I like to think they are smart and entrepreneurial young go-getters who know the value of hard work. And maybe beer. Okay - and maybe an occasional dime bag or so in there somewhere.

But more than anything, they are my snow angels. Allowing me to sit and write this blog entry in warmth and comfort while my neighbors toil away.

And like other mysterious creatures - such as Bigfoot and Extraterrestrials, all I have is a memory and a grainy photograph to remember them by.

My Christmas Eve star turn

2010-12-25T14:43:00.002-05:00

Brian's business partner Liz and her husband wanted their granddaughter to have a memorable "possibly last year to believe" by having her sneak a peek at Santa when she came home form church on Christmas Eve.

So - guess who agreed to be Santa? Yep - yours truly.

The setup was that we would leave the church service early - arrive at the granddaughter's apartment, - then leave the front door open and let her find me leaving presents. No speaking role required. Then I was to leave via the back door and disappear into the night.

As it happened, we had a few slight improvisations: the boyfriend of the mother of the grandchild was home sick, vomiting. And after I sent him to the basement to pluck meaninglessly on his guitar, I had to wait an extra half hour beyond what I expected in a suit, wig and beard made of 100% man-made fibers (i.e., sweating my balls off) with a beard that refused to stay up on one side and red velvet Capri pants that refused to cover my substantial ass. Add to this, the fact that I had overindulged the night before and had wicked gastro-intestinal issues, it was a scene ripe with unfortunate possibilities.

Fortunately, the entire family arrived shortly before I bitch-slapped the boyfriend into assuming my role so that I could have some privacy in a bathroom somewhere.

The plan did not go entirely as hoped - upon spotting my ample backside while placing presents under the tree, the granddaughter ran to the door and said "Hello."

I had to improvise and - fortunately - was not wearing my designer glasses.

Tugging my wig down as far as it would go and scrunching my eyes and face as much as possible, I held up a white gloved hand with my index finger - indicating a "shush" gesture - while covering as much as my face as possible.

I heard her gasp - and I returned to placing presents under the tree.

As I headed towards the kitchen and the back door, I paused to wink at her and wave with a gloved hand in front of my face.

I'm told she lost her little mind and had the most amazing Christmas Eve ever.

And I am so pleased to have been a part of that. Merry Christmas everyone - I can only hope you love someone as much as these grandparents love their grandchild.

And as much as I love you - Happy holidays, all.


Santa is in the hood, yo!

The fortune cookie knows.

2010-12-21T15:49:00.002-05:00

Who am I to argue?

You know it's a good party when...

2010-12-20T18:36:00.000-05:00

Yummy

2010-12-19T16:08:00.000-05:00

Made my very first amuse bouche for our annual neighborhood progressive dinner party (meaning we go from house to house - not that we're like liberating people or anything).

Anyway - made a lovely spicy curry tuna with dill and chives - a major hit! Yay!

An early Christmas gift

2010-12-18T10:33:00.000-05:00

Just got this from Amazon.com/UK - you can't buy it here in the States yet. It's been a long time since I've enjoyed an entire CD so much.

And it didn't cost an arm and a leg, even with Royal Mail international shipping. Highly recommend!!

Sticky

2010-12-16T18:32:00.001-05:00

I went to our unique "farm stand plus high end grocery" (Adams Fairacre) a favorite destination for people who weekend in Woodstock or the Town of Ulster, and the cashier - swear to God - almost assumed a Sumo position and wished me a Merry Christmas like "say Happy Holidays and I will rip your throat out with my false teeth".

Now - my gay BFF's roommate has posted the "if you cant 't say Merry Christmas, you're fucking communist" on Facebook.

Please - don't we already have enough anger and stupidity to deal with?

Whatever you celebrate - I wish you my very best. Screw the haters.

Tiny Tots....

2010-12-08T10:28:00.000-05:00

...with their eyes all aglow....

I really should get back to work......

Retro Christmas

2010-12-07T18:59:00.000-05:00

We're totally digging our new retro ornaments on our vintage 1950s aluminum Christmas tree (rotating with color wheel). They came from our favorite local garden center, Victoria Gardens.

OH.MY.GOD.

2010-12-06T18:12:00.003-05:00

For my non-UK friends - I have the biggest squishy gay crush on this group - they are fantastic.

Ladies and Gentlemen - The Unconventionals. I dare you not to tap your feet to the Christmas song. (and I generally despise pop music)

There are at least two potential future ex-husbands in this group. This always makes me love music more.

It just keeps getting better

2010-11-28T18:29:00.001-05:00

Based on a poll by readers, the hometown newspaper - the Kingston Daily Freeman - has picked Brian and Liz's flower shop as one of the top two Kingston florists.

On top of that, the days leading up to and through the U.S. Thanksgiving weekend were totally 'ka-ching' for arrangements and walk-in traffic - generating an unbelievable tally for their fledgling business.

Check out some of the design work going out with these two.

I'm so proud of hubby and his partner - and so pleased that their hard work is being recognized.

Put your fetus in a jar - clap your hands - happy fetus time!

2010-11-23T12:41:00.000-05:00

Okay - was everyone as grossed out as I was by the revelation that the America's most retarded President was emotionally scarred by being shown his miscarried sister's fetus in a jar by his mother?

Ew.

But I have to say - it's brought out some of the most creative - and funniest - comments I've ever read.

A sampling:

"This was considered fun at the Bush house?!? Rainy day craft time? We have some miscarried fetuses lying around, let's glue and glitter them and put them in jars with colored sand time?"

"I'm channeling Martha Stewart now:
1. Add some glitter flakes, God's little snow globe.
2. Add a sprig of fresh Rosemary so that it doesn't smell like baby mummy meat.
3. Name him "Mason" set a place for him at the Thanksgiving table with a festive place card.
4. Make him into a lava lamp."

"She should stick a little bit of pimento in the fetus' belly button and name her "Olive" Wait, was it a girl or a boy?"

"Has anyone made the "no child left behind" joke yet?"

"It puts the fetus in the jar or it gets the hose!"

Imagine the poor dweeb who prank called their house and asked, "Do you have Prince Albert in a can?" "Well, something like that, we do"

A Thanksgiving wish and a limerick

2010-11-22T19:01:00.000-05:00

First - to all of my US of A blogging brothers and sisters:

And to the vindictive, crazy woman who continues to keep us in stitches, a little limerick:

There once was a crazy old florist,

Who thought SHE was Queen of the forest.

Her tricks she would play,

Until finally one day.

She found herself one of the poorest.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my blogging friends.

And for the other?

Suck it, crazy.

Local celebrities

2010-11-15T12:42:00.000-05:00

As their local star continues to rise, hubby Brian and his business partner Liz were recently asked to interview on our local radio station's Sunday 'Garden Show'.

Not knowing what to expect, they anticipated being on air for about 15 minutes. Instead, they ended up having an enormous amount of fun with the host and they talked for the whole hour.

Despite nose-diving microphones and not knowing what to expect, the end result was charming and a lot of fun for all involved. (Even our friend Victoria's advertisement mentioned toad lilies, surprisingly!)

If you have the time, listen in and join in the fun!

Update on the 'suspect bride'

2010-11-04T18:26:00.002-04:00

In a wonderful turn of events, the "suspect bride" that called about the time our crazy and evil "friend" started attacking Brian and Liz's new shop on-line turned out to be a real bride.

She had consulted with the previous owners who are physically located an hour+ away - but still representing themselves as being local and at this same location.

So - in came the bride - she was thrilled with the new owners and their proposal - and two Sundays ago, we delivered her wedding flowers to the Rhinecliff Hotel. (and then the four of us went out and had a lovely brunch, cocktails at Terrapin in Rhinebeck and then enjoyed an informative drive through Northern Dutchess County.)

She and her husband came in the following week to thank Liz and Brian - they were over the moon with what they received.

So - it wasn't a set-up, as we had first expected.

And to make everything even MORE BETTER, another bride came in this week - nearly in tears - having been literally SCREECHED at by evil and crazy - and plans to have Liz and Brian do her wedding instead.

It just shows to go ya - taking the higher road and avoiding negativity (not to mention not starting out bat-shit in the first place) and focusing on what the customer wants sure pays off.

Life in the eye of the tornado

2010-11-04T12:39:00.000-04:00

Well, it's certainly been an interesting few weeks.

We had a great Halloween - lots of fun with the neighborhood kids and their families. It's always refreshing to remember that we live among such nice, friendly people.

At just a couple days past one month of being officially open, Brian and Liz's shop is going gangbusters. It's the buzz of the town and everyone (with a notable exception) has been so positive and supportive.

And even 'she' - the exception and vicious crazy person - is nothing more than an annoyance at this point. So - we discount her pointless and increasingly pathetic existence and move on.

Tougher has been the adjustment to our home life. Life is good, business is great and we're both happy and extraordinarily busy - but damn - someone needs to clean and do the laundry.

So - even as I type this - the first housekeeper we've hired since leaving California in 2000 is downstairs cleaning away. Thank God. I was afraid to drop anything for fear of it disappearing under a passing tumbleweed of dog fur.

But life is good - just a little bit fraught as we re-adjust to our new circumstances.

Hope all's well in your worlds - be good to each other and keep in touch!

This weekend's dedication for a 'special' friend

2010-10-29T18:15:00.000-04:00

The sword of Damocles is hanging over my head
And I've got the feeling someone's gonna be cutting the thread
Oh, woe is me, my life is a misery
Oh, can't you see that I'm at the start of a pretty big downer?

It's Halloween weekend, kids! Have a ball!!!

We will ...

Snapshots from life: Cleaning up at election time.

2010-10-27T09:30:00.001-04:00

Last night as Brian was arriving home from work and I was just starting to get dinner ready, there was a knock on the front door. I answered it and was met by the somewhat familiar appearance of our local Democratic Party volunteer. Not surprisingly, as it's election season and Amy - the volunteer - shows up once a year or so to make sure Brian is still planning to vote the D ticket.

She won't talk to me, because I'm not a registered Democrat - I registered as an Independent years ago, simply to cut down on the number of election calls and door-knocking as this.

Through the screen, the lady asked - "Is Brian here?"

Typical, I thought - wants nothing to do with me. I said he had just got home and asked her to wait a second while I went to see if i could find him.

He was upstairs getting changed.

Me: "The Democrat Lady is here to see you."

Him: "Aw - man. Just tell her I'm voting Democrat - that's all she wants to know."

Me: (incredulous stare) "You want ME to just go tell her that. You can't put a shirt on and walk down the stairs to say that?"

Him: "Please. Just tell her that."

So, I stomped back downstairs and went to the door.

Me: "Hi - he's ...indisposed...unavailable. But he asked me to let you know that he plans to vote Democrat in the coming election."

Lady: "What the hell do I care how he's going to vote. I'm here to talk about the house cleaning job."

Me: .........................................................................................

Lady: "I'm Hedy."

Me: (yelling) "BRIAN! PLEASE GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW."

Him: (coming down the stairs) "Hey, Hedy - you DO look like the Democrat lady."

Me: "Thank God - oh, thank God."

We spent the next 20 minutes with Brian explaining the scope of what cleaning we wanted and me groveling and apologizing.

Turns out she knows our neighbors across the street, as well. So she stopped by to chat with them outside afterwards.

I'm sure by tomorrow, it'll be the neighborhood story of the day. But hey - it was funny.

Daliy advice

2010-10-12T16:01:00.000-04:00

I ran across this particularly relevant and timely bit of advice today:

"Should you find yourself the victim of other people's bitterness, ignorance, smallness or insecurities; remember, things could be worse. You could be one of them."

(Not actual psycho bitch from hell. Close, but not her. ===>)

Some people are just awful

2010-10-05T19:08:00.001-04:00

If you've ever wondered how truly awful some people can be - Brian's former employer (who has a history of extremely vindictive behavior) actually posted negative, bogus reviews of the new flower shop he and Liz just opened on Friday.

First clue - they haven't done any wedding consultations. But they DID receive a suspect call from a 'bride' who had booked a wedding with the previous owners and was supposed to call the next day for a consultation - but never showed.

Second clue -she was stupid enough to use her daughter's name as a User ID.

Final clue - she copied a bride's negative review someone left for her! Unbelievable.

I don't use the "C" word often - but man, I want to.

Okay, so it's like this...

2010-09-28T10:56:00.002-04:00

My sincere apologies for not posting here recently, but oh my gosh - have things turned on their heads. But in a very, very good way.

So, anyhoo - something I've not shared here (except in passing when discussing the dysfunctional wine cow and her emotionally-stunted family banning us from their businesses here in town) - the hubby was getting rather tired of wasting his expertise and passion - both in wine and in flowers - for spoiled or uninspired yoyos who either thought "owning a shop is cute!" or had their daddy buy it for them.

Sadly, this has been the case for the last 27 years of his life, ever since his first floral design job in New Canaan, CT. Since then, he's worked with world class wine makers (including wine maker of the year once) and designed flowers for royals, presidents, senators, movie stars, visiting dignitaries - well, you get it.

When we lived in the Napa Valley, he even had one designer in Beverly Hills fly him down every week and then home for the weekends.

The kid has talent.

Recently, some dear friends of ours had expressed an interest in investing in some kind of a business. And initially they thought of opening a high-end wine shop in our uptown area. But finding a suitable space was difficult. We explored cavernous buildings - including a former Woolworth's - that were simply too huge. Others required a total gut and re-do - to the tune of hundreds of thousands of dollars.

But one fine evening in mid August, the four of us were uptown for dinner and I happened to mention that the old Burgevin's flower shop - a fine and venerable old institution here - was closing and the current florist was moving out.

On August 18, we saw the inside for the first time - a glorious old shop that was designed - in 1904 - as a florist's dream come true.

And we're opening this weekend. In less than 2 months, we took this lovely but filthy space and turned it into a showplace.

And on Friday, October 1, 2010 - Toad Lily at the Burgevin opens its doors!! With our friend Liz and hubby Brian in partnership.

It's gonna be great! Take a peek at our progress.

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

Darlings - I've missed you!

2010-09-11T08:41:00.000-04:00

But it's been a mad whirlwind here at Chez DuPree - we celebrated a birthday, went into partnership in a new business, and it's just been full-tilt boogie.

As you can see, it's all I can do just to keep up. The anti-spasmodics are helping.

I promise to give you a full update with all the details just as soon as I can, but until then - know I'm thinking of you and missing you all terribly.

Buh-buh-uh-buh-buh-uh-buh-buh........buh-bye for now!

Feeling gif-tastic

2010-08-28T10:19:00.000-04:00

Okay - yeah. I'm spending WAY too much time on Tumblr.

Know thyself

2010-08-25T19:53:00.000-04:00

From an actual IM with a work colleague today:

Me:  Dude - we're on deadline for a brochure being designed by someone named Bobo Moo.

Me:  You know there's now way I can be an adult about this.

Because you need to know about this

2010-08-19T19:32:00.000-04:00

I can truly smell the freshness.

Mrs. Johnson is very pretty. (well, I think so)

GOP Impact

2010-08-17T20:53:00.000-04:00

I know.

So tasteless.

Giggle.

Oh my papa...

2010-08-14T16:04:00.003-04:00

I've recently spent a lot of time thinking about my family - not always for the best reasons, but thinking about them none the less. And I wondered why - given my extended family of white trash, trailer-dwelling, under-educated and over-fertile, knuckle dragging morons - I ended up being the pick of the litter.

I mean, I'm not all that special. I have a home, a husband of nearly 20 years that I still rush home to see (when I have to actually go to the office), two cars, four dogs, a good credit rating, a great job and a solid career.

I've never been jailed - except for that brief period when my brother had stolen my identity and "I" spent three years in a Louisiana correctional facility.

I've never even been in court except when 1) I was a convenience store clerk busted in an underage beer selling 'sting' and lost my job after claiming 'no contest', and 2) when I challenged a speeding ticket and came prepared with flip charts, photographs, and radar calibration data - and the bastard cop never showed.

The dismissal of my speeding ticket was an extremely hollow victory.

And unlike my cousins, I've never:

had multiple bastard children with people I met on the web, some with life threatening genetic mutations,
been stalked with the intent to kill by a spouse,
announced during a wedding reception that I had taken the bride's virginity,
had my trailer burn to the ground, or
bought hair extensions at the Dollar Store.

Anyway, I was thinking about the difference in how my parents educated me.

My mother taught us by action and by deed. She never said she didn't see differences in color between people - she just treated everybody exactly the same. She never taught a management class - but her employees always loved her and performed to the best of their ability to please her.

My father,on the other hand always rode the thin line between good sense and anarchy. He was a rebellious S.O.B. and - honestly - a thug, who taught me by the age of 6 how he used to pop the hubcaps off a car in under 10 seconds when he needed cigarette money. He also showed me how to smuggle a 6-pack of beer in a tuba, which came in extremely useful during my high school marching band years and garnered me many friends

But in terms of actual fatherly advice, he only ever gave me two things that have proven true - and that have helped to make me the person I am today:

"Who cares how much education you have. Tell 'em you can do anything and study like hell the night before" (This works, by the way.), and
"A pecker (dick or penis, for our foreign friends) has no conscience."

Words to live by.

Thanks, Dad.

Jesus...

The trolls only come out at night

2010-08-10T13:58:00.000-04:00

Or do they?

I just got trolled on a previous post - and responded accordingly. (well, I think it was appropriate)

Enjoy - and feel free to respond yourself!

Read "A message to NOM"

Post-it confessions

2010-08-09T20:25:00.000-04:00

Just another Saturday night at home

2010-08-01T09:03:00.000-04:00

Yeah. Totally gay

2010-07-31T19:02:00.000-04:00

No pizza for you!

2010-07-07T14:26:00.000-04:00

We had a stunning development take place last week here at Chez DuPree. It was such a surprise that we are, frankly, still reeling.

Here's the background: the hubby quit his previous place of employment in January after giving two weeks notice. He was being ignored by the owner, not receiving answers to questions or having calls returned, his hours being cut without notice, and - perhaps the most uncomfortable of all - the gifts he had given his boss for Christmas lay wrapped and untouched on the desk in the office for weeks.

You also need to know that the owner in question is a person of questionable emotional grounding who THRIVES on drama and at being the center of attention. Sadly widowed young in life, but also an elder sibling - she probably found the limelight of attention too pleasurable to leave.

In fact, I've heard her start a sentence with "I did not bury my husband at 40 just so that..." What comes after is not important (it was about her daughter dating someone with a tattoo - but no matter) - it's just so inconceivable that someone could be so wrapped up in their own melodrama and martyrdom.

Most conversations with her include at least some mental gnashing of teeth, rending of cloth and applications of ashes and sack cloth.

Anyway - the owner is in business due to the largesse of her parents who own two pizzerias and a restaurant.

Returning to the hubby - he figures the writing is on the wall, so he pens his two-week notice in the form of a letter of resignation. A more completely emotionless and professional letter has yet to be written - it included thanks for being given the opportunity to work at said establishment, best wishes for the future, happy to work out the two weeks - sincerely yours, yadda-yadda.

My friends - the Drama Hindenburg has just landed and all of America is on fire. Pow. Zam.

Little did we know, a major family revelation had taken place on the other side of the equation and was why the business and the hubby were being largely ignored. But had that been conveyed to her staff - well, things might have worked out differently. That leaked out to us a bit later.

But that would require a break in the DRAMA IN PROGRESS.

The phone rings two days later - "Don't come back. We're done."

So - ways were parted and certain places of business were generally avoided by us to prevent any unfortunate or uncomfortable confrontations.

Humorous stories of the drama left behind kept us generally amused - fanciful explanations of why the boy left were being told and getting back to us - "he was such a baby if he didn't get his way" - "he needed more time at home" - and tales of her showing all and sundry his extremely innocuous and highly professional letter of resignation with exclamations of "There! Just take a look at that!" To the puzzled looks of all who would read it.

Drama!

Fortunately, the best customers followed the boy to his new job and shared tales of hilarious pantomimes and dramatic scenes. And all seemed well, until...

Last Monday, we decided not to order pizza from the crappy pizzeria around the corner that we had been frequenting and decided to try the old family-run stand by.

I called and placed the order - the account is in my name, for what it's worth.

The phone rang a minute later. Hubby answered. He was informed that they would not deliver to us. The mother - who generally runs this branch of the family businesses - had decreed it so.

In fact, we were not welcome at any of the family establishments.

We were stunned. Completely gobsmacked. Adults really act this way? Really??

Anyway - the hubby called back and demanded to speak with the matriarch. It was then determined through increasingly civil and open discourse that there had apparently been a huge misunderstanding.

The boss the boy left - for whatever bizarre-o reason - assumed that knowledge of the family issue was why he had chosen to leave. Huh? He left because you had a personal family thingamie?

No consideration that he might feel - oh, alienated? Undervalued? Ignored?

No - it was about the DRAMA.

I'm told the conversation ended on a fairly pleasant note. Some matriarchal tears were shed over past shared meals and interactions. No voices were raised. Some wounds may have been salved.

But in the end, we never did get the goddamned pizza.

Snapshots from life

2010-06-27T16:05:00.000-04:00

Scene:
My kitchen - again. It's a massively hot and humid day outside - we're wilting from the heat and finding things to do indoors until the sun starts to go down.

When:
Sunday, 3:45 pm

Me (walking in and observing that Brian is wiping off the top of the stove - actual range pictured): Wow - thanks for wiping that down. You know, I usually hit it (the black glass top) with the vacuum first to get the dust and food off.

Brian: Oh - I'd never do that. What about the fire?

Me: Um - fire?

Brian: You know - the fire (pointing) - in the metal box.

Me: You mean a pilot light?

Brian: Yeah - that. If I blow that out - there's gas. We'll die.

Me: It's an electric start.

Brian: No fire. In the metal box?

Me: Am I in the road company of 'Nell"? No - there is no pilot light - look! (demonstrate electric starter)

Brian: I'm going outside.

Philip: sigh - please do.

There's magic everywhere

2010-06-18T21:00:00.000-04:00

Snapshots from life

2010-06-15T17:18:00.000-04:00

Scene:
My kitchen

When:
Tuesday, 5:03 pm

Me (walking in): Hey, honey - whatch'a doing with the Moosewood Cookbook?

Brian: Trying to find a chicken salad recipe- we have all that grilled chicken and I thought we could do something with it.

Me: Okay - you realize you're looking in a vegetarian cookbook, right?

Brian: (Shoots me the 'F You' look - then leaps to defense) No! Hey! Why the hell do you have a vegetarian cookbook anyway? We're not vegetarians.

Me: No - but some of our friends and guests are.

Brian: Okay - well. I didn't think it was vegetarian. I thought it was all desserts - you know?

Me: And you thought it was all desserts and were still looking for a chicken salad recipe.......really...

Brian (glaring): I hate you. (storms out)

And... scene.

Um..okay

2010-05-28T22:06:00.002-04:00

Logged in to Facebook today only to find out that I have apparently cohabitated the last 19+ years with the living dead.