Saturday Salutations!

Not sure if this is:

a. just a cute duckling OR

b. proof that there’s a card for every fetish?

Let’s hope for the former. Sorta the duck rabbit for perverts in cute chick card form.

Between National Talk Like a Pirate Day on September 18 and the anniversary of the Alienstock Raid Area 51 5K on September 30, it has been a champion week for bad jokes around here. Personal fav:

Q: what do you call an alien spaceship that goes from planet to planet to planet?

A: A UF-Ho!

If I was a UFO, I would totally camouflage my spaceship to look like a cloud: they could come in totally undetected, t ake what they wanted (maybe work some alien-style photosynthesis where they take some of our carbon emissions to save versus desecrate the environment – like Ninja Eagle Scout aliens?) and leave without us even knowing. If that was ever discovered, the alienstock breed would have all time crown worthy “I told you so” rights. So long as the Bachelorette and Kardashians continue to get ratings, we all hope that maybe intelligent life exists elsewhere in the universe.

Hopefully your crew has found equally immature levity to keep your spirits high. Radiation turning you purple, you say? Like Grimace or Barney? Redefining purple hooters – not sure I’ll be able to (or should) order another one of those again with the visual. This time next year you’ll have new boobs and a full head of hair. Eye on the prize.

The latest from upscale Mayberry:

One week til Italy. Cannot wait! Will see la mia famiglia a Napoli! They are so wonderful. I have literally known them since the day I was born; I met nana before I met my birth grandmother. She old school italian cared for me when my mom ran errands. It had been years since they had a baby in their home, so I filled that generational maternal gap. My first memories are of crawling on the rust orange and royal blue patterned tiles of their Sicilian family room in the house near my parents rental when the Navy stationed us in Catania: an unbelievably beautiful haven in the upper boot of Sicily. I was the toe head blonde that scampered with and was protected by a sea of the most beautiful olive skinned children imaginable. I was raised on the heels of stunning Sophia Lauren caliber panache women that rival the best cooks on earth: arancini like that do not exist beyond the walls of certain kitchens. I have seen many of them stateside over the years and we connected with others when we were in London for vacation and then Germany when a slew of us from each of our families celebrated turning 40 by being derelicts at Oktoberfest. We went during what the Munichers call Italian week: raucous, loud, lots of men loaded with cash and machismo. Very very fun. My grandfather was a world class boxer in the WWII Merchant Marines; he worked with two of their children from the 1940s to become the italian version of golden glove accomplished Welterweight boxers; years later my father helped two of their next generation sons when they were struggling to navigate the ropes to becoming aviators in a space in history that was sadly unwelcoming to many foreigners; in exchange, they are my international network. Years ago, I was on a work trip to Providence, RI which has some of the best stateside Italian food. I was there on a work audit, met two Italian cousins that happened to be in town, and another friend that was going to Brown. My Brown friend (as if writing that doesn’t conjure all sorts of unintended negative connotation despite her looking about as white as an albino’s backside) is a bit of a trust fund kid and drove a Range Rover. The valet parked the car when we got there. It had gone “missing” by the time dessert was served. My cousin, we will call him Vinny, excused himself, walked into the back kitchen, and five minutes later our car was returned, driven by an extremely apologetic young man with an aesthetic that also appeared to have connections to the Old Country. Ironically, Vinny, his brother and I were probably the only ones in the sea of customers that were legitimately born in Italy. Maybe that bought us our street cred? 😉

That’s the great irony of living in this neighborhood with me. I’m not part of “the organization” but I’ve got legit connections to the legit Old Country. My old next door neighbors were supposedly part of that; and the wife was crazy bright. Maybe it’s paranoia, but I think she had her suspicions. I don’t ask questions I don’t want answers to. These are not people that make false promises. These are not people that threaten; these are people that act. They want to become boxers or pilots, they find resources to help them. They want to do other things beyond my line of sight, I’ve no doubt that grit is still present. When they say to call if I ever need anything, I know they mean it. Difference is I would never use that as a veiled, or in the case of Fanucci outright, threat. I’d just make the call and let life happen. It’s been one of the great blessings of my life: I look like everyone’s anybody and nobody’s someone. You look just like my niece’s friend, my neighbor’s babysitter, my coworkers yoga instructor. (Never like J.Lo or Jessica Chastain, but that would put me on the radar and my point is that I’m always just by bland default never on the radar). I can be in a room with people talking about me and it takes them eons to even realize I’m there. These are skillsets I learned from the amazing Italian women from my childhood: the understated confident observer almost always wins.

And knowing there’s a trump card to be laid, along with the additional cameras I had installed, brings me more peace of mind than the clowns down the street could ever imagine.

Back to Upscale Mayberry:

I’ve got my appointments for the circuit (nails, tanning, hair and wax). Pete was here last week which means he saw me at my least (furry, untamed) finest. Men say they don’t care, but THEY SO DO CARE. And WE KNOW THIS because in shape tan chics with good hair, nice bodies, painted toenails and hardwoods get far more dates than their counterparts.

Pete’s prep work involved getting a haircut and a tux. He is wonderfully unpretentious, so having to spend $750 on a decent monkey suit was insane to him. Part of him wanted to collab with another friend attendee to do the peach and sky blue dumb and dumber tuxes, but we have not yet met the bride and I’d like to spend time with them when we are all back in the US, which she may not be willing to do if we’ve foibled her wedding pics.

We have ANOTHER wedding next month – that one is in Cali and 1920s speakeasy themed (fun!). Guests are expected to dress in era attire. I’ve got the best flapper dress and headpiece). But back to my engagement angst … Yikes. It’s like the world is conspiring against me. A friend of mine who is not yet even officially divorced also just got engaged. How is that fair?! As did Pete’s cousin who said he would never marry again. But he has no intention of actually marrying her ever, so not sure that’s a comparable win.

Still pisses me off.

But we are a few months away from Turkey Day and invitations have not been provided nor airline tickets booked for non mi famiglia. Tick tick tick.

Threw my hat in the ring to be on the Hampshire District Parent Liaison Committee. They SAY they are choosing five parents to revisit school by laws and serve as a conduit for local school opinions to report to the school board. My fear is that they really WANT people who will just agree with their bogus approaches. However, interest has been lackluster, so they might have to take me if five others don’t step up. I was one of four candidate applicants with only hours left for others to submit when I last checked. I got mine in on day 1 that the portal opened.

I really hope I get picked because I would really like to be a part of the peripheral positive change. I want teachers to be able to teach history – just teach it. Columbus came here by right of a generous empire building queen, killed off the Indians with disease, and we are now evolved to know to respect people of all races, creeds, colors, origins and sexual proclivities. Period. I want teachers to be enabled to teach to the students and not to the test. I want the bar to be raised for everyone and not lowered to meet in a new standardized middle. I want project based hands on make learning active (Like Schade the teacher, not Schade the masochist) fun engaging. I want a safe kid for kids to go before and after school; to make sure every kid is fed and has clothes that fit. How the hell are you supposed to learn anything if your pants are too tight? I want kids to get service hours for tutoring so that even if your folks aren’t great about working on schoolwork with you, there’s somebody in the same room during tutorial study hall that can. The educational field of dreams: if you let the amazing community build it, the successes will come.

However, I’m guessing that a single mom attorney that can decipher a budget might be their version of an infected foot. But I applied, so we will see! Sometimes even Mayberry surprises to the positive. I even submitted letters of recommendation from my neighborhood moms. Upside is everyone supported me and wrote really great things: downside is they’ll all know if I don’t get it. The District has been phenomenally successful at thwartly dismissing any and all of my ideas: limit standardized tests, consider polo shirts and khaki pants for school uniforms since kids can’t hide AR-15s in the attire and it levels the spendy clothes playing field (although shoes are the great divider); allocate funding for classroom aids, encourage kids to learn both punctuation and cursive. You’d think I was asking them to show sex tapes during pep rallies and endorse child labor violations.

Hope the kickstart to school is going well for your crew. Hard to believe we are over a month into the academic year already. Five years from now Syd and Lana will be doing college tours. Maybe we can get them to go to the same place which would make parents week for us freaking epic!

Hang in there – xoxox love ya’, Stormy