unfortunately not overheard this morning

at 6:30 this morning i went through a hateful ritual of putting on a suit and driving to tysons corner for a networking breakfast. long story short, our firm is a member of a business development community called the breakfast club (read: pyramid scheme) that hosts events to draw together professionals (read: whores) to build networks and business. the breakfast is once a month. i have managed to weasel my way out of representing the firm at these glad hand shows for a solid span of 8 months. my arsenal of excuses is exhausted, so there i idled along chain bridge road soaking up some jose gonzalez and practicing my canned responses and intimations of placation.

instead of mixing it up in the crowd, i tend to shuffle my feet in one place in the corner hoping i can make it through the coffee and chitchat hour in the banquet room without having to press my card into a single hand. this is clearly impossible, but i am proud to say i managed to walk out of there with only one card in my pocket. it turned out to be a woman, a guest, who seemed to hate these things as much as i do. in a way we were the greasers at the party of socs, maybe kindred spirits. in any case, i usually survive and should admit that occasionally i have a good conversation.

in these situations, voices in my head, possibly from a darker comedy side of myself, mutter things that i'd dare not literally speak in a social situation. there have been times when i've had to put forth a concerted effort to suppress the urge to blurt one out. these impulses, banal and childish as they may be, put a smile on my face, so i thought i'd share a few with you.

scene 1:

ron: hello, i'm ron pella. good to meet you. (extends limp fish handshake)

me: hi, ron. say, how's your wife doing?

ron:

see, that wouldn't work out so well. raises lots of questions, gets someone hot under the collar pretty quickly. it assumes so much. still, wouldn't you love to say it just once? no?

scene 2:

subtle grunts followed by explosive shit sounds come from the single stall in the country club men's room. snickers come from men in suits pissing at the urinals or picking their noses in front of the mirrors. i'm waiting to enter said stall due to case of stage fright and inability to piss at these particular types of urinals lacking any edge or partition. eventually i give up and decide i'm bailing early on this thing anyway and can make it. before i go, i rap my knuckles on the stall door a couple of times.

poor bastard: what, it's occupied!

me: i know...i just wanted to see if i could get your business card when you're done.

poor bastard: what?!?

me: it's okay, i'll wait out here for you. i'm just going to slide mine under the door now.

scene 3:

a guest speaker, the cliche chest thumper, rants on and on over his slide show presentation. he's so into it. it reminds me of tom cruise's character, frank mackey, in magnolia - the self help sex book author and motivational speaker who coaches guys on getting laid. in a zone out moment i almost expect today's speaker to start chanting "respect the cock!" like frank mackey. when he wraps up his diatribe, he asks if there are any questions.

at this point, i wonder how the crowd, a mixed bag of generations, perceives the breakfast club film reference in the title of this quasi club. each and every time i've been to one of these, the speaker offers to take questions, and the obvious question, which judd nelson framed perfectly, just had to be asked.

yeah, i got a question. does barry manilow know that you raid his wardrobe?

alas i survived and made my exit during the follow-up speakers bit, telling a colleague i was headed to the restroom. he knew i was ghost and whispered me out as i passed with a "keyser soze."

leave it to cleavage

earlier this week human resources informed my wife, through one of her female colleagues, that she is showcasing too much cleavage at the office. apparently some guy went to HR and said he was unable to concentrate in a meeting because he could not stop staring at my wife's breasts. this prompted the HR woman to enlist one of my wife's peers ,who is not her supervisor, to deliver the news.

the ripples of this have not completely settled yet, as my wife is naturally flustered and annoyed for a number of reasons, and i don't blame her. there are a few things about this matter that are not sitting well.

her chest happens to be pronounced these days due to the fact that she's breast feeding. (i enjoy this aspect, of course, but that's another story for my erotica blog.) still, she has not changed her style - classy and elegant - one bit since she joined the firm over a year ago and is suddenly being asked to do so because some guy can't keep his eyes off her breasts and goes so far as to dispense what can be construed as a lewd comment about her. by the way, they were gigantic during her pregnancy, but no one had concentration issues then. does my wife work in a bible camp or a religious setting? ummm, no.

the fact that the HR woman sent one of my wife's colleagues to deliver the news strikes me as inappropriate. this might add up if the HR director was a man. i am not knowledgeable in the ream of HR laws and policies, but i think any HR issue, especially one like this, should be handled with sensitivity and confidence. she should have approached my wife directly instead of threading someone else into this.

the whole thing seems circuitous and messy. some guy - the poor victim - makes a comment, so HR sends another woman to deliver the news and handle it. to me it's almost a watered down version of those terrible rape stories you hear about or see depicted in court dramas on television: well, she shouldn't have worn that sexy outfit. how could i restrain myself from tossing that roofie into her drink? i'm a man after all.

it's hard enough for her being a working mother in a global pr firm where the reward for hard work is more hard work, so, as you might imagine, to be billing in the neighborhood of 60 hours per week, getting thrown under the bus by people covering their own asses (life in a pr firm), catching this kind of hell from HR has found her near the end of her rope.

the situation will obviously not boil down to this, but one of our close friends is a partner in a big law firm's employment law practice. he makes a living raking large corporations over the coals for gigantic settlements. in jest, to lighten the mood of all this, i suggested that she contact him so we can score an early retirement in the name of her boobs. we could buy a place in the BVI, get a yacht, and name it "cleavage." how fantastic would that be?

yes, far fetched, but that won't stop me from rolling down the street to barneys to buy a few low cut items for her on my way home tonight.

melbourne beach memoirs

we are relatively fresh from five days in melbourne, florida, my wife's hometown. the following is a random snapshot of some standout memories...





"dad, look at that bald guy!"

for those of you who don't know me, i am bald. there was a time when i obsessed about it, but eventually i realized that i pull it off nicely. for those of you who are balding, i pity you, but trust me on this one - the destination is generally better than the journey. balding sucks, but once you get here, and assuming you don't have an oddly shaped head, its fine. still, i have a real appreciation for hair, so it's only half a joke when i tell people i intend to live vicariously through my sons' hairstyles. enough back story.

recently i explained the whole concept to the jackal, and he embraced it so much that on the flight to and from orlando, he pointed at several bald or balding men and exclaimed "dad, look at that bald guy!" or "he's bald!" for a fleeting moment i empathized with these guys since it can't feel good to be called out by some 3 year old with a lush head of cascading hair, especially if you are self-conscious about it in the first place (most guys are). then i snapped out of the empathy and laughed my ass off. sorry fellas, sort of.

fear of flying cured

to me, flying is a necessary evil. generally i'm a basket case on a plane and can only be pacified with pills and booze. when traveling with kids, a completely different fear trumps that of mechanical failure and plane crashes. i'm talking about the horrifying prospect of your kids melting down and causing an unnerving scene. i think i have mentioned this before, but i used to be that guy scowling at such scenes on planes. since washing down a xanex with a jack & coke won't fly (no pun intended) with the parental responsibilities, you have little choice but to face the music and hope for the best. somehow we managed both flights without incident, save a couple of milk projectiles on my shirt, but i was always on high alert, ready to make a complete fool of myself to turn a frown upside down. when it all boiled down, i didn't have capacity for panic and sweaty palms for a change.

recently run into the ground

inevitably on any trip some object or phrase becomes a theme that you and friends/family run into the ground. this time a mcchicken sandwich filled that role.

looks tasty, yes? it all started at the mcdonald's drive-thru where after too much sun my eyes were bigger than my stomach and i practically ordered the entire dollar menu. the original purpose was to score a happy meal for the jackal, but i went overboard. when my brother-in-law clint returned from the beach sunburned, he was in search of lotion. i recommended that he rub the leftover mcchicken sandwich in the refrigerator on his skin in lieu of aloe based moisturizer, and the lame immature joke was on. not only did the mcchicken sit out on the counter the rest of the trip like a demented sculpture- clint and i would act completely offended if one of our wives attempted to throw it away when cleaning up - it made its way back to dc in one of my backpack's obscure pockets, courtesy of cint. oddly enough, with no one watching to appreciate the gesture except myself, i double bagged the sandwich and stashed it in the bottom of the freezer. i guess you could say the joke is in a cryogenic state right now and will resurface when the time is right. by the way, i'm months away from 35. what the hell is wrong with me?

scenes from disney world

yes, we rolled the dice and took a shot at the magic kingdom. it was a good way to break the monotony, not that hitting the beach and kicking it poolside was a real drag. still, a month or so ago we promised the jackal we'd take him and he sort of held us to it. no regrets, no apologies, but definitely some lessons learned. for example...

- judging from their behavior, for kids in the 3ish age group, there may as well be a gas chamber, dentist, or barber at the end of the line, not some fun ride with their favorite disney characters. the good thing for parents is your kid is definitely not the only one melting down in line. instead of being irritated by the frightening redhead kid shrieking in my ear, i actually took solace, knowing that mine was not the only one with a short fuse that day. literally, at the ticket counter, they should hand parents some sort of chill pill. hell, the tickets cost enough, so why not?

- asians and white trash love them some disney world. in fact, i think i found evidence of crossbreeding: asian americans walking around gnawing on turkey legs. asian american trash? sure, why not?

- mickey mouse is a high class whore these days. i'm no cheapskate by any stretch, but the $230 cover charge for wifey, the jackal and i to enter seemed sort of extreme. on our exit route down main street usa we hit the souvenir shops, which are completely obnoxious. the jackal was too overwhelmed by the selection and maybe a bit distracted by the lady screaming at her daughter to get really into it, because he didn't seem to be feeling it. thankfully he had zero interest in the cliche' mouse ear hat. when he spotted a matchbox mickey mouse tour bus, he was sold. my wife's clever line on the way out the door resonates: "don't lose that bus, it's worth about $250."


lasting memory

on our last day i woke up early and took baby cole with me on a coffee run to give wifey an extra hour of sleep. as usual we'd put off packing until the morning of our flight, so i had some angst in my stomach. wifey commented several times when we passed the blueberry muffin diner that they have, what else, the best blueberry muffins, so i stopped with cole to grab some on the fly. at the counter sat a couple of red necks who looked like they made it through the night on piss, vinegar, and maybe a little crystal meth. while waiting for the half dozen blueberry muffins i ordered, i couldn't help but overhear their conversation: man, my old lady asked me to go out with her the other night - i said no and went out with the guys - when i got home round 2am she was real wasted - i could tell because it took her a while to throw the rubber to me - but i took care of business and she puked after.

i'll close this diatribe with a quick fuck-off to the washington examiner. before we left town i remembered to put a stop on the washington post delivery while we were away, thinking that would eliminate the dead giveaway that we were out of town. when we pulled up to the house, what else littered my yard but 5 or 6 rain-soaked examiners. i never asked for this half-assed paper and want nothing to do with it. so like i said, fuck off. you are wasting paper and never asked if i wanted to be part of it.

okay, back to real life. bring it...

good morning sunshine

this is the visage i see around 6:00 each morning, tucked between me and wifey, immersed in the remnants of dawn's receding shadows. the total package comes with greedy grunts signifying hunger and a general desire to have solo time with mommy and daddy. sometimes i roll over and take a crack at burrowing back into slumber, but more often than not i accept that the day has begun and wallow in the moment. really, how bad can any day be if it starts with this cat smiling and cooing at me as though his life depends on it? talk about launching a day with a healthy and wonderful dose of perspective.

facebook, really

RIP Caesar

Our dear friends' boxer Caesar left this world yesterday. To me he was the epitome of hilarity and always had me giggling. He was also a good friend to my chocolate lab Baci. Many recognized that he was sort of misunderstood. Aren't we all? In any case, while some might say it's just a dog, I would say dogs are members of families and play a part in the day-to-day and can be part of the bigger picture. That being said, it's with tremendous sadness for my friends and their sweet daughter that I pay tribute here to the Great Caesar. His giant paw print will always remain.

"Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me."
--MarcAntony

email of the day

My boss just shared with me this email from his wife about their black sheep son's latest misadventure at their second home in West Palm. She's a high end DC woman and very proper, which makes this sort of funny to me:

Max had 2 beers, 4 mojitos, white sangria...threw up at the restaurant...I had to go into the men's room to get him while another guy was taking a pee in a urinal...he almost toppled the table...well he did...threw up out the front window of my car...which I have washed...he is lying down on the sofa in the loggia...threw up black beans on the patio...Ellie started eating his throw up...and Caroline and Mary Walsh are attending to him...because he said it was the food and he has a high tolerance to alcohol...so fuck me. xoxo mom