For six months, I thought we were going to a Nude ranch. Bringing the three boys seemed a bit odd, but my wife always handles our vacation arrangements so I let it go.

Then the informational packet arrived from the Pine Grove Dude ranch in the Catskill Mountains. Not an exposed buttocks in sight, unless you count the horses. Just snapshot after snapshot of cowboys and cowgirls hiking, milking, camp-fireing, and, did I mention it already, horseback riding.

Now, I’m just not an “animals” kind of guy. Don’t like to pet them, feed them, or especially mount them. So when I read that horseback riding was the primary activity at the Pine Grove, I visibly winced.

“It’ll be fun,” my wife exclaimed.

“That’s what Washington told the troops about Valley Forge,” I replied. “Besides, don’t you remember Santo Domingo?”

Fourteen years, eleven days ago, I went horseback riding for the first time at a resort in Santo Domingo. It rained so heavily that my size 8 riding helmet shrunk to a skull-pounding size 5. The horse I rode was called “Diablo” and should have had a Surgeon General’s warning branded on his backside. Every time we encountered rocky terrain, “Diablo” would break into a gallop ,then jerk to a halt when we reached a smoother surface. I iced my groin for three days after our brief engagement.

“Just try it once,” my wife implored. “Give riding another chance.”

We arrived at the Dude ranch around 4pm Sunday. We all ate “cowboy steaks” for dinner then a magician from New York City entertained us. The first horseback ride was scheduled for 11am Monday. We retired early.

It was hot on Monday morning. Garbed in a long-sleeve denim shirt and blue-jeans, I was sweating more than a Texas prisoner in solitary confinement.

“We like to match the horses with the rider’s personality. What type of horse would you like, Mr. Fusco,” the perky cowgirl in the corral asked me.

“How about a horse that’s really lethargic,” I replied.

They paired me with Luke, an animal whose hips were wider than a two-door garage. As I was trying to rub the cramps from my thighs, the perky instructor rode up to inform me that Luke had recently developed the cute little habit of brushing riders against the tree-branches along the trail.

“Don’t let him do that to you. Show him who’s boss,” she smiled, not revealing the management technique I would need to control a 900-pound misguided associate.

For forty minutes, I tried cajoling, pleading, shouting, then finally strangulating Luke. For my efforts, I collected a lovely bouquet of twigs and leaves in my hair and ears, an Al Capone-like scratch on my left cheek, and a deep shoulder-bruise.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it,” my wife asked, looking fresh as a daisy after her initial jaunt with Chestnut.

“No more chances,” I replied.

I spent the rest of our time at the Dude ranch immersing myself in non-animal activities. Preparing for retirement, I played plenty of shuffleboard and learned the intricacies of Bingo. I finished second in the ping-pong tournament to a 12-year-old with a wicked slice then black and blued my elbow trying archery with my nephew. I watched my oldest son win the free-throw contest and my niece scale the rock-climbing wall. My vast knowledge of serial killers helped my Trivial Pursuit team finish 2nd and I entertained some vacationers from Westchester County with my Karaoke version of Loudon Wainwright III’s “Dead Skunk”.

I also donned the mantle of Dude ranch “Food and Beverage” critic. I warned the other patrons that the hash browns at breakfast were strictly for decor, but reassured them that the drinking water that smelt like rotten eggs was just sulfuric not poisonous.

By Friday afternoon, my wife was galloping on Chestnut like a Pony-Express woman. I had a sudden urge to give Luke one more try until I saw a man with twigs and leaves in his hair and ears at lunch.

“Still up to his old tricks,” I smiled.

“That’s the last time for me,” my fellow vacationer exclaimed.

“Amen, my friend,” I replied. “How about a nice game of shuffleboard!”.

The creation of a diorama is a rite of passage for all parents of – oops! Pardon me – children in the early years of school.

Parents must learn (Sorry: there I go again)… children should learn to create dramatic displays that highlight their vision and are commensurate with their skills.

Consider my daughter’s most recent project. She had to create a diorama based on her recent research of an animal of her choice; and she chose zebras. Zebras? Zebras?!

I had tried to convince her to consider an octopus, or a preying mantis, a vampire bat, or maybe a penguin (proof that God has a sense of humor). But Zebras? (I reminisced about my own experience when Theresa Hynes turned to me in fourth grade and, upon hearing that I chose the element molybdenum on which to do my report – while everyone else was doing oxygen or hydrogen or carbon – said “you would pick something no one ever heard of.”) So it was zebras.

She completed the research report; and it was an excellent one at that. I never knew that the one purpose of the stripes is to confound the stereo vision of predators; or that the alternating black and white stripes creates regions of light absorption and reflection that, in turn facilitates heat conduction and exchange in their bodies on the hot plains. Good stuff! And then it came time to construct the diorama.

“OK,” I said, “Now how about we recreate the plains of Africa and place a herd of zebras and off in the corner a lion is eating a zebra she has just killed – red paint for blood and some brown Play-doh for the organs that spilled out.”

A look of horror came over her face and she exclaimed, “No! They will be grazing!”


“OK, then how about a lion just hanging out in the corner checking out the zebras – just for the drama of the diorama?”

“Grazing!”

“But they gotta be doing something! They can’t just stand there!” I rebutted.

Silence.

“OK, how about we hang a helicopter from the top of the diorama and Sarah Palin is leaning out with an assault rifle, trying to take down a few?”

“Grazing!”

Silence.

“But!”

“Grazing!”

I gather myself up for one last Hail Mary pass.

“OK, say, one is sitting back playing the flute or lute, like one of those half man, half horse animals in ancient Greece. Say, he just got out of prison and is still wearing stripes?”

She quietly walks away.

I turn to my son. His diorama is up next. He wants to do the Titanic. “There’s hope,” I say to myself as I say to him “Now we use a plate of glass and split the diorama and place miniature people in the water about to be crushed as the ship breaks in two.”

“I just want to see the boat floating on the water,” he answers.

Where has the drama gone?

My family just returned from vacation. But as my husband ushered us out of the house a little too early so that we could “salvage” our travel day, it occurred to me that my husband’s directives were neither relaxing nor restful, and that vacation styles often clash.

Commando Vacations
Commandos have extensive itineraries. Days start early and end late. There is little time for rest. I recall a trip to London with my commando friend several years back where we were allotted ten minutes at Parliament before we headed off for the Tower of London, which we did in fifteen minutes before running, literally, through Hyde Park to catch the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. It is easy to identify the commando traveler, as they bark over at their straggling companions to “keep moving!”

The Executive’s Vacation
The executive resembles the Commando in her authoritative style. However, unlike the Commando’s “go-go!” mentality, the executive’s objective is to be as organized as possible to ensure maximum relaxation. My friend Beth, is the consummate executive. A year before departure, Beth cheerleads, “Who is psyched for vacation?” Three months before, babysitter services and golf outings are booked. A working schedule is submitted for approval and printed in duplicate. One copy is displayed in the vacation house, and one must be carried around for instant consult. Each year the Executive conducts an annual review of the previous year’s trip to discuss what must be purchased to make the livin easier. Last year, it was the Wonder Wheeler, a contraption that allowed us to load all beach gear and make one trip. This year, it was the umbrella anchor which made sure gale force winds wouldn't send our beach umbrella flying. The executive will be the most relaxed person on the beach if it kills her!

The Weatherman’s Vacation
The weatherman is the person who obsessively checks the weather on vacation. This is my husband. The TV is tuned to the weather channel as he simultaneously consults an on-line weather site to keep abreast of when the first raindrop will fall. Plans are redrawn around the weather report. “The first raindrop will fall at 2:02, so we can get our hike in, and then be seated with a bag of popcorn in the cinema for the 2:30 showing. Oh wait! Now they are saying the rain won’t arrive until 5:00 PM. The movie is going to have to wait.” Often, the Weatherman never leaves his accommodations as he is too busy analyzing conflicting reports.

The Goal Oriented Vacationer
This type of vacationer is easy to please. As long as she accomplishes her goal, she is content. Goals vary from “Just let me finish my book!” to “I haven’t worked out in six months, so I am going to run 20 miles every day.”

The Wife’s Vacation
The wife’s vacation is a farce. It consists of laundry, food preparation, and childcare. It is eerily similar to her life at home. In fact, vacation is worse for the wife because it has the added responsibility of packing and unpacking for her temporary relocation.

I am a little bit wife, and little bit goal oriented. As I finish this vacation, I reflect, like the executive, about how to improve for next year. First, my husband will golf each morning. It is the best aphrodisiac for doing laundry, so I don’t need to be the Vacation Wife. Next, since neither of my goals was reached-I have fifty pages left in my book and I did not get to take that long bike ride-. I will lower my expectations for the next vacation. I will bring a shorter book. “Green Eggs and Ham”; I can finish that! I will get my bike ride! This I decided after my family, led by my husband, told me we had to quit our family ride. We had gone a quarter of a mile. Next year, I will make sure to contact Beth, our executive, about putting my bike ride on the schedule. I am expecting her to call any minute now to let me know vacation is right around the corner- 355 days away.

www.ljlicht.wordpress.com

If you are going to compliment someone, then my belief is to make it worthwhile. Sure saying "That’s a pleasant sun dress you’re wearing" and "Your eyebrows look symmetrical" are nice gestures but it’s difficult to determine the sincerity level. The ulterior motive of the giver could be avoiding awkward conversation silence, buttering up for a favor or filling a mandated compliment quota. They may not think the praise was deserved but want to say something safe. It’s comparable to offering someone cookies. There is no danger in offending anyone, unlike if you were distributing fruit.

Speaking for myself, I have given the occasional counterfeit flattery. Once, I noticed a casual friend from afar wearing a hideous sweater. As he drew closer, my brain repeated "Don't mention the sweater, don't mention the sweater." Unfortunately, the first words that came out of my mouth were, "Wow, that sweater is absolutely amazing! Where did you find it?”

With my overacting, I am sure my colleague sensed that part of the compliment was a fraud. There was no winner in this situation as I felt dirty for lying and he most likely became self-conscious about his attire. After that encounter, I decided to supply less compliments but make them more meaningful. If I was cornered into small talk, I’ll stick to generic topics like the weather or geometry.

In order to achieve this, I have come up with two ways to deliver a substantial compliment. The first requires a time table of a few days. On a day I notice a person wearing something noteworthy or sporting a hip hairstyle, I’ll show my approval. Nothing dramatic like “That gorgeous smile of yours makes me want to touch you inappropriately” or “I would murder my own mother for that parka you’re wearing.” Just something simple and nice while walking by.

The next step occurs in the future. On a following day, regardless of the person’s appearance, I’ll disagree with an element of it. Again, I won’t get out of control by declaring their socks as repulsive and make fake vomit noises. In a mature fashion, I’ll assure them their look is suitable but I believed their previous presentation was superior. This will successfully cement the prior compliment as valid and significant.

The other option I’ve devised takes place in one setting but is riskier. It starts the same as I compliment a person of choice but they must be surrounded by others. For example, I’ll pass a group of shoppers in a department store and say towards a target “Hello Sweetheart, that blouse brings out the sparkle in your eyes.”

At first this remark likely confuses the lady as to what my intentions are. She’s pondering if I really believe her blue top nicely accents her eyes or was I trying to charm her into buying discounted kitchenware. The flattery is not fully accepted yet because she is unsure as to what my angle is.

That brings me to the difficult part which transforms the mundane compliment into something memorable. I’ll pick one of the neighboring people and insult them. This part is delicate as that last thing I want is to appear cruel. I usually choose a skinny or non-threatening looking patron wearing basic apparel and mention something similar to “And you Stickman, you look ridiculous in those brown slacks.”

Slandering a scrawny man in tan pants is usually a secure move. By no means will I degrade a bodybuilder wearing a tight pink shirt with an orange checkered vest. I’ll leave that gentleman alone and as a general rule, probably never speak to him.

Anyway, now Ms. Blue Blouse can be confident that my compliment was genuine since I wasn’t fishing for anything in return. Albeit, it may have been at expense of an undernourished man but maybe my mocking will strive him to become a fashion model. In fact, I could’ve brightened the lives of two people concurrently.

As you can see, my approach is not to shower people with compliments like confetti on New Year’s. Only offering positives leads to a decline in credibility. To maintain a listenable opinion, it’s necessary to mix in some dislikes even if they’re exaggerated or imaginary.

To offer proof that these methods succeed, I will inform you they have worked reversely on me. People are always telling me that my essays are terrible and I finally discovered the reason isn’t because they’re idiots. They are setting up authenticity to rave about my future ones.

http://roadtoabsolutezero.blogspot.com/

I’ve started playing tennis again. Like, organized tennis.

After a 3-year hiatus and with so many of my fans begging for my comeback, I have dusted off my racket – nay found and then dusted off my racket – and returned to the court.

Okay, perhaps the only begging was coming from my muscles after the first practice.

At any rate, I am enjoying being on the court again. It’s the one thing I have truly done my entire life. And as I explained to my muscles last week over a pint of Ben and Jerry’s…its good for me.

This weekend, my sister and I were floating off of our first week victory in our triumphant return. We were ready to show another set of doubles-players that this court wasn’t big enough for the four of us.

I have to say that one of the most difficult things for me on the tennis court is the side game that is always being played. It’s a little game I like to call “Post Shot Comments”. It’s the finale to each point. The thing you say to the person that made the good shot and/or the person that made the point-losing shot.

This, I find, is way more difficult than an easy game of doubles.

Ladies tennis is full of frustrated moms, wives, working women, etc. They have had about all they can take of their week and the tennis court is ground zero for a frustration outlet. It can get ugly. It can get uglier than the black and navy tennis outfit I put together last week.

For the most part, I’m okay with whatever is said to me on the court. I can take, “good try” from the Venus and Serena play-a-likes who should never have stepped foot on a C level team. I can even handle the “hang in there’s” from my partner when I double fault more than once.

The only thing I cannot stand to hear on a tennis court is the dreaded non-compliment, “Nice Idea.”

You aim your backhand to hit a winner down the alley of the girl at the net. It is so wide it hits the Gatorade bottle on the bench…one court over. You cringe.

“Nice idea, Rachel.” You hear your partner or your opponent or (even worse) your mom from the stands shout as you walk back to position.

Hmm…I would have preferred “Good try”, “Shake it off” or even, “What was THAT?” Instead, I get, “Nice Idea”.

“Nice Idea” is actually short for, “Yea, I see what you were trying to do there. It’s a shame that you weren’t able to execute that particular shot.”

This weekend it seemed like all of our shots were “nice ideas”. Our opponents shots, however, were more of the, “THAT’S HOW WE DO IT!” kind. Followed by fist bumps.

The scene looked like the following: Our opponent would slam a perfectly aimed ball in the general vicinity of where we weren’t. We would trip over our own feet trying to make an attempt at getting the shot that we would ultimately miss. The opponent would then sling her racket over her shoulder and continue discussing her spring planting ideas.

“I’m thinking about Marigolds for the front yard,” she would casually mention to her partner who was examining her manicure.

Meanwhile, my sister and I were reevaluating our goals in our pre-point huddles.

We went from “We are going to kick some butt, girl. We got this.”

To, “We’ll get them in the next set. No worries.”

Which led to, “Look, let’s just get some games here. I don’t want to leave here without any games.”

Which became: “Can we not win any points? This is ridiculous…did you kick a puppy on the way here? Let’s just focus on winning one point.”

And finally, “So, who do you think is going to get kicked off Celebrity Apprentice this week?”

After the public smashing, we walked to the center of the court to shake hands. Anna and I congratulated our opponents on their victory. One of the girls shook my hand, shrugged her shoulders and could only manage, “You guys were funny.”

So I take it back, there are two things I can’t stand to hear on the tennis court.

I was going to report a second victory for us this weekend.

I know. I know.

“Nice idea, Rachel.”

www.littlebinky.blogspot.com

You would think, as an elected judge in a small county, I would naturally fall into, or at least be considered for a place of leadership at the place where my family worships.

Apparently, however, my history of throwing sinners in the penitentiary, putting a legal stamp of approval on marital break-ups and sharing an occasional beer with my constituents makes me somehow unfit to serve as an example of church values.

Instead, the preacher assigned me to serve as a front door greeter at my little Baptist church. From an appearance standpoint, I am near perfect for that duty. At 5’6”, middle-aged and looking like a cross between Dennis the Menace and Alfred E. Neuman, I am non-threatening to visitors, children and old people.

Most Sundays, my job as a greeter consists of handing out that Sunday’s Order of Service, shaking hands, directing folks to the nursery, opening/shutting sanctuary doors and counting attendees. A couple of Sundays ago, our church was doing the Lord’s Supper and, for what I am sure were Biblically legitimate reasons (cough), half the deacons were not in attendance. Six guys are needed to pass out the bread and grape juice to the congregation and since they were one short, I was recruited to help. I must say, I did a damn...I mean, darn good job. No juice was spilled on my watch and I limited child and old person touches to a minimum. After throwing back my own shot glass of juice, I returned to the seat next to my adoring wife, sure that the admiring eyes of the congregation followed my every manly step.

After a few other church service items were taken care of, it was time to pass the offering plate. Once again, I was asked to help. Glad to. I strutted down the aisle and took my place with the other men in front of the podium. It was then that we realized that there were too many of us. Someone had to go. With the church membership watching, the eyes of the other gathered plate passers turned to me. I didn’t budge. After all, I was standing at the wrong end of the line and it would be embarrassing as hell...I mean, heck, to go back to my seat at that moment. Silence...then the preacher smiled, stared me down and with a half smirk, gave a slight nod toward my seat. I had been fired. Let go. Terminated. Sacked from my job as a plate passer.

I think I was selected for elimination because of prejudice. Of the guys standing up front with me, I was the shortest by a good half foot. Maybe it was my hair or lack thereof. One dude was clean shaven bald but the others sported full heads of hair. My barber charitably describes my mane as “getting a little thin”. Maybe it was my appearance. Starting from the other end, the attire was suit, suit, suit, nice slacks with a blazer, starched jeans with cowboy shirt with a bolo tie...and then me. Tie loosened, hair mussed, shoes in bad need polishing and wrinkled Dockers worn a couple dozen times too many. Clearly, my preacher is prejudiced against short, balding, poorly dressed guys that strut.

I stepped out of line and meekly made my way (slunk) to my seat with the eyes of 132 near-snickering fellow brothers-and-sisters wondering how I had tricked my wife into marrying me and worrying about the state of the judiciary. I tried to maintain a brave face but the level of humiliation was enormous. I sat down and my not-so-proud wife scooched away from me. Little children were pointing. The folks behind me were whispering and I heard words like “sap” and “loser”. I stayed almost to the end of the service then faked a coughing fit so I could leave a bit early and avoid facing the masses and their end-of-church pitying looks.

Somewhere in one of those Corinthians parts of the Bible, it says (and I am paraphrasing a little) that everybody in a church needs to do their bit for the cause. Therefore, I will return to my assigned post. Nobody can open doors and count people like me. (FYI non-Baptists, knowing the exact number of folks in attendance each Sabbath is thought to be vital to the very existence of a Baptist church.) Besides, people need to feel better about themselves after they attend religious services. That’s another thing I do. One look at me and people automatically feel better about their lot in life. I’m important. The Bible tells me so.