The McRaezy Huck O' the Irish

As I snapped this smug shot of Sean in what is now his front yard yesterday, I couldn’t help but think about my own first piece of Atlanta real estate. Hold up. I’m 25, work for a not-for-profit and irresponsibly invest more in designer denim than I do in the Dow Jones. That said, my first piece of real estate was a far cry from the eco-friendly, 3/2 on a corner lot that is Sean’s new abode: 'twas the 4x2 cubicle that comprised my workday home at McRae, my first job. I loved every square inch of that cube—all 18 of them. It was there on the 32nd floor of the Equitable Building, pulling all nighters at the copier, forcing elevator conservations to last 32 floors and crafting office pools for looming engagements, that my 9-to-5 neighbors became my Atlanta family.

The agency life that was McRae fit me like a pair of Kelly bootcut Citizens of Humanity jeans. Sure, the place had its quirks. I got stuck in the elevator. Twice. A walk from the creative lounge to account service saw a 15-degree dip in temperature. And I never did figure out what one particular colleague, armed with a briefcase full of cosmetics and hand towels, did in the bathroom from 12:30 p.m. to 1 p.m. every day. But, it also had its charm.

Aesthetically, the office had a killer view of Atlanta, and the look and feel of a carousel. It was also home to the 3 p.m. disrumption (nope, no typo there), when the jam of the day—be it Flo-Rida, Michael Jackson or Stevie Wonder—prompted the account service team to bust out with a three-minute afternoon intermission. And, more often than not, there was vino in the fridge.

In early March, I sought the guidance of one of my favorite creative mentors for this year's St. Patrick’s Day card. Without skipping a beat, he was onboard, and the below masterpiece hit the Flynnbox the next day. That's McRaezy. More accurately, that's you, Bill.

Without further ado, in honor of St. Patty's—

the very day that answers The Killers' query "Are We Human, or Are We Dancer?"

—let the day of the 24-hour, jig-ified disrumption begin with this, my parting e-gift from McRae.

The Brothers Flynn and the Flynn Family Nemesis

Meet Sean Flynn. Sean invests in low-risk portfolios, dreams of a world where babies' first words are "reduce, reuse, recycle," and spends weekends lifting weights and eating lean proteins. Meet Brian Flynn. Brian invests in lush tapestries, dreams of furniture that requires rainforest deforestation and harm to small animals, and spends weekends lifting base coats and eating Mexican. And he's hyperlink-able.

Things in common: DNA, need for oxygen, sporadic middle name usage, affinity for mocking the other brother's profession.

Sean discounts Brian's success in the world of interior design, convincing people who hear that he has a famous brother that Brian is a "decorator" by trade and employed as Vern Yip's assistant. Brian mocks EPA-employed Sean's quest to save the environment by blaming his routinely 15-minutes-late self on having been burning rubber tires or pouring crude oil into creeks.

Here's a snippet from the latest Facebook war between Captain Planet and That Guy From TV:

(Font becomes somewhat legible when you click on the image.)

As the above spat took e-shape and a mini blizzard pounded New York, Shannon exchanged the below with the family nemesis that is Braden's kindergarten teacher:

Hi [Braden's Passive Aggressive Teacher],

Just so you know, we still do not have power and are staying with my in-laws across the river. I think Braden is a little out of sorts. He told me that his stomach hurt today and that he was in the nurse's office. He also came home with a pair of pants that don't belong to him. He didn't really give me any details. Do you know what happened with him today?

Thanks,
Shannon

Hi Mrs. Stroppel,

Braden had a meltdown, tears and hysterical crying, saying his tummy hurt. When he got to the nurse, she found that his pants were soaked, and she gave him dry ones to wear. He cried that he'd spilled water on them at home. He also said he was upset because you were angry and yelling just before he left for school.
I've put the pants in a bag, and they should come home today.

Regards,
[Braden's Passive Aggressive Teacher]

Flynnbox (4): Meet Braden

Whether you've been my best friend since we fought over Gerard in Mrs. LaBranche's fourth grade class or you're the mystery crew with whom I shared a Buckhead-to-Virginia-Highland cab ride on New Year's Eve, you likely know three things about me: high heels are a recipe for Neosporin, I speak faster than most Toyotas accelerate, and I adore the living crap out of my two nephews. The pint-sized comedians are products of my sister, who lives a gazillion light years away in New York. Braden will be six in August, Brennan will be four in October.

Flanked by half Flynnified DNA, Braden has an uncensored gift of gab. Consequently, he's the subject of many an e-mail titled Deep Thoughts by Braden Stroppel. By way of my sis, this one hit the Flynnbox last week:

"So being the Catholic practicing at a Methodist church (as I like to call myself) that I am, I was teaching Sunday school the other day. I read the children a story about Jesus being in a house where people were trying to see if he could heal the sick. Three male friends carried their crippled friend to this house, but it was so crowded they could not get him in. The friends persevered and climbed on the roof and cut a hole and lowered their dear friend into the house where Jesus of course performed a miracle. Braden and Brennan were in my class...

Nanny [paternal grandmother] comes over and says to Braden, "Did you go to Jesus's house today?" They both say, "No," then think a little harder and agree that yes, indeed, they did actually to go "Jesus's house." Nanny asks Braden if he sang any songs in Sunday school and he says, "No." I then tell Braden to tell Nanny what the story was about in Sunday school. Braden said, "Oh, Jesus was in a house and some guy was trying to get in so Jesus broke his legs."

Yep, that's my godson.

'Twas The Night Before Lent

‘Twas the night before Lent, and all through my Catholic veins

Not a sacrifice was stirring, gluttony paraded down Flynn Lane

My vices were hung from the bar with sloppy care

In hopes that self control soon would be there

Huck was nestled all snug in his (my) bed

While visions of spring festivals danced in my head

I’d forfeited chocolate, sodas, four-lettered words in years past

But what about alcohol—for 40 days—could I last?

Oh Oysterfest! Oh St. Patty’s! Oh start of wedding season!

Oh soccer practice! Oh patio happy hour for no reason!

Surely not all wine, maybe just no chardonnay

But who in the La Crema was I kidding, no way no wine for 40 days

What about my other tasty friend, the very proof that God loves us: beer

The same frothy treat that spawned courage to Saran Wrap a sleeping Leah Logue sans fear

Surely not all beer, maybe just no more Belgian wheats

Who in the Newcastle was I kidding, no way would I not cheat

Now wait just a minute, a good Irish Catholic this mindset not make

As guilt settled in, brewskis mentally became a holy bet I could take

So, today I bid farewell to the liquid vice behind Freshman Fifteens

Goodbye Sweetwater, goodbye Shiner Bock, goodbye TAP post-work scene

Goodbye Coors, goodbye Blue Moon, goodbye Passport Club at Taco Mac

For 40 nights I shall dream about you, but on Easter Sunday I’ll be back

With nary a Fat Tire in the fridge, the coozies out of sight

Lenten cheers to all, Irish you a strong 40-day fight!

You Had Me at Resume

As the rare singleton among social spheres of wives, fiancés and soon-to-be-fiancés, I was delighted to receive an e-mail from a gal pal titled "Found Your Dream Husband." The e-mail included an excerpt from a resume this pal came across at work. Tucked at the end of a 15-page, medical-jargon filled resume of an IRISH surgeon was the Holy Grail of perfect-on-paper.

Interests and Hobbies

Backpacking and Travel

• Attempting a red slope in Lillehammer, Oslo
• Finding a clownfish scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef
• Swimming in a thermal spa in Budapest in winter
• Standing in Plaza De Mayo in Buenos Aires, Argentina
• Indian-Pacific railway journey across Australia
• Camping in the outback in Toodjay, Western Australia
• Hiking in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt
• A Singapore Sling in Raffles Bar in Singapore
• Climbing the Dome of the Duomo in Florence
• The Beer Festival in Schuzfeld, Bavaria, West Germany
• PADI certified Open Water Scuba Diver
• Skiing
• Member of the Irish Film Centre
• Jogging and Flying [me likey that flying is last and on par with jogging]

Since hitting the Flynnbox, this list has hung in my office cube, conveniently just under my prized photo with Matt Ryan.

As with all Atlanta-based fairytales, this story has a predictable ending: Adventuresome Irish Surgeon is married.

P.S. Happy Valentine's Day

Flynnbox (3) The Sisterhood of the Black Listed Pants

Thanks to a satin-loathing terror from Cornell University, the former Panhellenic recruitment chair in me is feeling better about the zero-jolerance (that’s no denim) dress code enforced during my recruitment reign in ’06.

A fellow former soristitute tossed the below gem into the Flynnbox. The post sheds light on said terror from Cornell as she John Edwardses her chapter’s national reputation with a six-page diatribe of recruitment fashion do's and are-you-@#$%-kidding-me's. Through jabs a la

“No one looks good in satin dresses unless it’s from Betsey Johnson or Dolce & Gabbana, you weigh less than 130 pounds, have three pairs of Spanx on and it’s New Years Eve,”

this monster (I like to think her name is Mary Catherine Grace) makes the cast of Mean Girls seem more like The Babysitters Club.

Her full manual, found here, forbids glittery butterflies and "gross, plastic shizzzz," but notably condones denim leggings. Eh, agree to disagree.

Cake in Breakfast's Clothing

If Jon and Kate buried the hatchet and renewed their vows and Tiger Woods called on me for advice to help with his current branding woes, I'd suggest he research the ultimate marketing success story: the breakfast muffin. Society's acceptance of the muffin is nothing short of miraculous, if not downright bizarre. Essentially cake, the arbitrary label of muffin transformed a mix of sugar and butter into an acceptable alternative to oatmeal.

Unless you've been hijacked by a kindergartner, it'd be social suicide to cruise into Starbucks and ask for a cup o' joe and chocolate chip ice cream. Contrastly, pair your grande with a double chocolate chip muffin, and $7 later you're armed with morning props ripe for the office break room. If the moniker switcheroo worked for cake, why not pulled pork? Show me a marketing team who can put pulled pork on the menu at Panera Bread, and I'll show you the mindset who can lead Tiger out of the woods.