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So classy, we wore our matching hoodies.

2 Jan

For the second year running, Alan and I rang in the new year at the state lodge in Berkeley Springs, West Virginia.

Just because you’re probably expecting it, I’m not going to make any jokes about Deliverance. (I think I’m maturing: this trip I didn’t even harass Alan with remarks like, “You sure have a pretty mouth” when he’d leave me to go to the bathroom.)

But I will share a snippet from the drive on Saturday when, utterly hungover from New Year’s Eve, Alan and braved the curvy backroads to find a bar called “Hillbilly Heaven” where people assured us we would be able to watch the bowl games.

“Hillbilly Heaven. Any chance that’s what they tell all the city folks just to set us up if we have to stop and ask for directions?” I continued, “I mean, can you imagine pulling over and asking someone where Hillbilly Heaven is? Sounds kind of insulting.”

“The way this road is going, I’m wondering if they’re sending us to Hillbilly Hell,” Alan offered.

“Hmmm… Hillbilly Hell? So that would be all yuppie-like, where you definitely couldn’t find Pabst Blue Ribbon and where you’d actually need teeth to eat the food, right?”

Definitely going to hell of some sort for that one. Hillbilly or otherwise.

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He sees you when you’re sleeping. Or outsources it to a very lazy elf.

15 Dec

"And this, Bobby, is why you should never sleep naked." Creepy indeed.

Since I don’t have kids, I’d never heard of “Elf on a Shelf” until I read my friend Amy’s Facebook status the other night, in which she stated, “I don’t know if we’re organized enough to do Elf on a Shelf this year.”

Apparently “Elf on a Shelf” is a kid’s book that comes with a stuffed elf. The premise is that every night in December he flies to the North Pole and reports your behavior that day to Santa. AWESOME.

So much more effective than hollow reminders that Santa can see you when you’re sleeping or awake. Any rightfully cynical child these days will say, “Doubtful. The dude only has two eyes.” This elf is infinitely more plausible. And the thing that lends credibility? He is in a different place every morning to demonstrate that he left over night.

Except – and here’s what I REALLY like about “Elf on a Shelf,” – it seems that most of Amy’s friends are struggling to remember to move the elf. So the kids are growing suspicious. Or it’s forcing the parents to lie. (Which, I’d like to remind them: Santa KNOWS.)

I was laughing out loud (LOL’ing, if you will) as I read her friends’ comments, which tended to either offer advice or admissions of guilt.

For those seeking advice, we have the following tips:

I set the alarm on my phone at night to remind us to do it. UGH!

I email myself every night to remember!

And the admissions of guilt:

Our elf tends to spend 2 days in the same location. 😦

I’m terrible at it too! but, I’m becoming a better liar/storyteller as to why he doesn’t move. 😉

And by far the BEST response, which makes me want to call a publisher and get this girl a book deal to write the sequel to “Elf on a Shelf.”

We have had Elf for 3 years…this year is the first year I have forgotten…and I’ve done it multiple times….so I played it off like he is “crazy” this year….somethings wrong with him. I.E he ended up in the fridge, upside down in a stocking, half in half out of the front door, stuck on a fan blade while it is spinning. 🙂

I love that not only are these kids being watched by an elf, but they are being watched by an elf that is so mentally unstable he’s half suicidal. And you know what? Even if you’re good, he’s probably going to make up some shit to tell Santa, UNLESS you actively bribe him. Or, you might need to learn CPR because next trip back might land him in the liquor cabinet, face down in a puddle of whisky. With this guy, you just never know.

I love it. I’m just mad I didn’t come up with the concept. It’s like Flat Stanley, but with the power of mind control.

And after all, isn’t that what Christmas is really about? One month where adults are allowed to lie and kids are actually responsive to fear-based behavior management. T’is the season!

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A Non-Pithy Post: Welcome to the World, Natalie!

28 Oct

Dear Natalie Ellen,

I learned via a text message from your mother that you arrived in the world this afternoon. From your mom’s perspective – it was not a moment too soon. She’s been ranting for the better part of a week that she was ready to have you.

In fact, just yesterday she publicly stated that she was going to “plead her case” to the doctor. I, on the other hand, have been hoping you’d take your sweet time and come on Devil’s Night so I could pass the cool birthday baton to you. For your sake, I’m glad you arrived today!

But enough about your entry into the world – I’m sure your mom will never let you forget it, so I’ll leave that to her.

I want to tell you about the family you’re joining. Your mother is my oldest friend – we’ve known each other even before we started nursery school together – so I think I can paint a fair picture.

First, be prepared to be photographed. A LOT. Your mom comes by it honestly and can’t help herself. When you get irritated by it, ask if you can watch one of the old VHS tapes of her playing softball, swimming or at a dance recital – and then you’ll realize it could be much worse. And if she EVER tries to make you take piano lessons, ask her to play something for you first. I assure you: that will end the conversation.

Second, let me tell you now: You WILL be a Spartan fan. Some of your favorite childhood memories will be of tailgating with your parents in East Lansing and hanging with the children of your mom’s college roommates. You will learn from an early age how to “Sparty On!” and you’ll be able to sing the fight song before you enter kindergarten.

Her text from the hospital said, “We’re all doing fine. I’ll be home for the big game Saturday!” (For the record, MSU is currently ranked 5th in the nation and is 8-0 thus far this season. You’ll appreciate that when you’re older.)

As for your grandparents on the Dickinson side… they were like second parents to me for much of my childhood. They took me on my first trip to Cedar Point in second grade – when I was still too short and skinny to technically ride the Gemini. Your grandpa rode that ride with me and held me in the seat the entire ride. That’s the kind of guy he is – he likes a good time and wants the people around him to have a good time too. (Oh, and there’s the time when I completely ruined the cream colored upholstery in his new Oldsmobile Cutlass – because I’d gotten grease all over my ass at a McDonald’s – and he didn’t even raise his voice when he saw the damage.) That one is a very cool cat.

And your grandma – who doesn’t like to be called Grandma because she’s entirely too young for that – is one of the craftiest people I know. Had it not been for her sewing skills, I would’ve been fated to dress as a ghost every year for Halloween because my mom couldn’t sew. Instead, I always got to wear your mom’s costume from the year before – a dog, a dinosaur, a witch, a clown, a tea bag… (I know, that last one doesn’t quite, fit, does it?) She also taught me to cross-stitch and how to make a “Triscuit pizza” in the first microwave I ever laid eyes on.

As for your dad… make him your ally. Your mom is a pretty tough customer, but your dad has mastered the art of giving her what she wants and getting what he needs. That’s a subtle art, and you will undoubtedly need to call on it – especially when you’re in high school and hate your curfew. (If he sometimes embarrasses you because we owns binoculars and goes birding, let me tell you: you will one day find that AWESOME, so go with it.)

Your brother? Well, I’m sure initially he’s not going to be your biggest fan because you’re new to the scene and stealing his thunder. BUT, about the time you hit middle school and kids are jerks, you’re going to be VERY glad to have Nolan hovering around ready to kick some asses. Oh – and when he’s 21 and you’re not yet legal – you’re REALLY going to appreciate him.

There are so many stories to tell; I could write for hours. But you have years to hear the other stories, and trust me – the older you get, the better the stories we’ll tell you. One day you’ll fully appreciate what it is to be the granddaughter of a BOM. Just wait for it.

In the meantime, just know that you couldn’t be luckier. The world welcomes you and I can’t wait to meet you.

Love,

“Auntie” Alison

PS~ It is a LOCK that your mom is drinking a Miller Lite tonight to celebrate, if I know her.

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I hope this means he has rhythm.

18 Sep

Ah, Facebook. What would I do without you? My life is so much richer for having you in it.

Case in point: without Facebook, I wouldn’t realize that my 12 year-old nephew is actually 68% black.

I know, I know. This might come as something of a shock to people who are familiar with his corn-silk white hair, blue eyes and creamy complexion. But according to a quiz he took on Facebook (titled, “How Black Are You?”), it turns out he’s 68% black.

Now, I haven’t seen the questions that led to this conclusion, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t involve a DNA sample. Perhaps he knows some rap lyrics and can appropriately attribute the “I have a dream” speech to MLK Jr?

I just hope he doesn’t take the result too seriously and think it means he is a good dancer. I made that mistake once myself, dancing wildly to Eminem at a discotheque in France shouting, “Detroit in the house! Right here!” and pointing at my chest. Fortunately, no one in France can dance, so it wasn’t as horrific if I’d made that claim in a NY club.

Another reason I love Facebook is because it allows me to crack myself up. Regularly. Last week I was practically in tears coming up with what I thought were funny comments to add when  “Alan is in a relationship” showed up in my news feed. My first response (which I refrained from posting) was, “…with his hand.”

That had me rolling on the floor, in no small part because I had stolen the phrase from one of my nephew’s pre-teen friends. (Yes, I’m admitting my sense of humor most closely aligns to that of prepubescent boys.)

When I told Alan how much this thought had tickled me, he said, “Good thing you didn’t post that, because my response would’ve been, ‘With YOUR hand.'” Which also cracked me up.

For whatever reason, when I get to laughing like this, it reminds me of how Snoopy would laugh on Peanuts, slapping the table with his paw:

So to all the Facebook haters, I offer: anything that causes that much laughter can’t be all bad. It has to be at least 68% good, right?

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You say goodbye. I say hello.

10 Sep

Liz and Holly came over Wednesday for a major milestone: OUR LAST WINE NIGHT.

No, we’re not all suddenly jumping on the wagon (though that might not be a bad idea)… rather, Liz is moving to Atlanta on Tuesday.

Gasp! I know, right? We’ve had almost a decade of regular late nights, swilling and sharing stories.

I first met Liz in 1999, when I moved into her group house on N Street NW in DC. One of my favorite memories of our time living there together is when she came home from a night out and remembered that she was supposed to make brownies to take to work the next day.

Tired (and probably a little drunk), she mixed up a batch, put them in the oven, and — fell asleep on the couch, only to awake hours later in a smoke-filled living room! Never a quitter, she turned the contents of that pan out into our yard, and made another batch for her co-workers. When we moved out months later, that black brick of brownies was still in our yard. Not even the rats could eat it.

Shortly after we vacated the N Street house, Liz moved to London for a six month assignment with Accenture. It was at her going away party (at The Big Hunt? Lucky Bar?) that I met Holly. While Liz was in London, Holly and I started hanging out regularly, and when Liz returned (in 2001), we had our first three-person wine night and a tradition was formed.

During the past decade we’ve witnessed a lot: there have been boyfriends and break-ups, new jobs and promotions, long distance relationships, sisters moving and marrying, shared vacations, law school,  a proposal, a wedding, a pregnancy and a baby.

I’m definitely going to miss Liz and miss wine nights. But I have to remind myself: had she not moved to London, we wouldn’t have even had wine nights. So maybe her move to Atlanta, instead of marking the end to a tradition, is only the beginning of a new one.

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