Month: August 2005 (Page 4 of 4)

Yesterday at brunch (Thai 2000!), the karaoke dvd was extra-peppy. One song was repetitive enough, we both thought we could actually do the chorus, despite not having a clue what they were saying. I know nothing about Thai music, but there seemed to be two categories playing on the TV yesterday: ballads and cheerful ditties.

During one of the former, I looked at JWo (who was seated with the tv at his back) and said, “You’ll never guess who this is singing.”
(Pause.)
(He looks at me expectantly.)

“Mariah Curry!”

Well, that got a groaning laugh, and then a minute later, he said, “You know who they’re playing next?”
(me, laughing, “No!”)

“Tom Kha Jovi” (tom kha gai is yummy coconut chicken soup)

Then I said, “OK, we’ve both done one, they are both really funny, we can’t do any more unless they’re really, really good.”

I had one more groaner: Flock of Sea Eaw (phad sea eaw)……

Music & Food, the international languages….

A while back, I asked JWo if he thought I was competitive. He laughed. He said that I am, and that I don’t do things (or try new things) if I think I can’t be the best at it. Well, that rang true, I guess we all have our Achilles’ Heel….. and I don’t like to do things if I can’t win. Conversely, I don’t like to play some things I’m exceptionally good at, because it’s like being in 10th grade English all over again, with my hand up….again. Hell, yes, I was Hermione …. at some things! And I was not immune to the eye rolls that accompanied being really good/smart at those things. The gauntlet is thrown: I flat-out rule at pictionary, and god help you if you’re on the opposite team.

So I’ve been cognizant that my inner Bela Karolyi keeps me from maybe having new experiences, out of the fear I’ll fail, make an idiot out of myself, etc., etc. And when JWo suggested we go to a local pub (and by local, I mean, it’s REALLY close to the house) and play Texas Hold ‘Em last night, I agreed. We played a little at home, with chips, so I could have a bit of a practice. Though I had to ask, 30 minutes before starting, if three-of-a-kind beat a straight. I still don’t have it all down. But it’s a “for-fun” league, there’s no money involved, and everyone’s really friendly & helpful. So I did it! I was nervous as hell, I didn’t grasp everything, and obviously, you won’t be seeing me on the World Poker Tour anytime soon. I was the first person out at our table, though I did last about an hour. After losing, I felt free to drink beer, which I do quite well, and joined other losers for “shit on your neighbor”, which I won the first time I played. (That one is easy to figure out.) Anyway, the point of it all is that the inner perfectionist doesn’t want to play unless there’s a good chance I will win – and yet, you can’t improve if you don’t play! So I’m glad I did it, I did NOT stay for the second tournament (JWo chauffered me home & went back to compete), and will probably do it again sometime. So I tell you, if fear of failure or embarassment or losing is holding you back on something, just tell yourself what I did:

Fuck You, Bela. I will lose, and LOVE IT.

WELL.
This morning? It was so cool, I went outside, and like, I LOVE OUTSIDE! I went good go pee, and I got the PAPER and mostly I ran around on Squirl Patrol, back and forth between these two big trees? Because I can smell them, and it is MY JOB to track them and chase them. And I like to jump up really, really high, and if I keep trying, one of these days, I will land in the branch that hangs down, and then I can run further up the tree? And I will catch one of those squirls! It is going to work. But then, then, Suzy? Told me to point my nose West, did I smell it? Oh YES! I smelled something really good. And I had to run off and find it and see it and then I had to roll in it. I smelled SO GOOD! But then it all went to hell because I finally came back home and Mister grabbed me and got out the one thing I hate more than the vacuum: The HOSE! And then I like, had a bath, and I hate baths, and now I don’t think I smell nearly as good and now I have to stay out in the kennel. Suzy came out a while ago and told me she got all the breakfast leftovers, and I’m starting to think she planned this WHOLE THING. So every so often I bark, just in case Lady is awake and wants to come and get me. Because I’d like to try to jump in the tree again. And give kisses. And Hugs. I am a good hugger. But I never get hugs after I do my perfume rolling. I don’t get that. It’s when I smell the best!

If R.Kelly is trapped in the closet, could we just pretend we don’t hear him & leave him there?

Joann’s (the mothership for crafters everywhere) is sending out emails to their loyal cult members, beckoning to us with the new hot advertising phrase: “You pay what we pay”, because now you can get the 15% employee discount sale on-line.

Because hey, if it works for the auto manufacturers, it might as well work for everybody else! Never mind I can take a 40% off coupon into the Joann store & save more without paying for shipping. And they take competitor’s coupons. Hmm. Wonder if the Volvo dealership takes Joann’s coupons? I’ll take the Cross-Country XC70, oh, and yes, here’s my coupon…..

Now, if only Crate & Barrel would have one of those “employee pricing” sales…..or Williams-Sonoma….. or Thai Place…… mmmmmm. A girl can dream.

Me & The Dawgg, at the commitment ceremony a couple months back. Let’s play the Suave ad game: One of us has had 6 gin & tonics, one of us hasn’t! WELL, if YOU can’t tell, why should we?

She is “The Dawgg” because of our equal amusement at The Original Kings of Comedy & Cedric’s bit about people asking you to call them things, like “Delicious”. I don’t know if I can pinpoint it exactly, but Lizzie Lou & I also were into All Things Hip Hop at the time, and so it just stuck. Plus, The Dawgg likes to ride in the car, what dawggs don’t?! But her real name is Shelley. ShelleyDAWWWWWGG, as I like to say on the phone.

She’s one my best girlfriends, we’re cut from the same cloth, the crossweave being 50% feisty bitch and 50% righteous indignation and boy howdy can we get mad, you should see the 4″ nails just fly out of our mouths. The Dawgg can also give a good hairy eyeball, which I sorta remember her doing to the guy at our table who was chemically analyzing the potatoes, when he asked, “Do these have cardamom in them?” I’d had so much gin, I just gave him gaping slackjawed amazement, combined with the “Are You Stupid?” eyebrow raise. And then I went back to eating all of the chocolate favors in front of me. Because there are times when one just CANNOT be bothered. Cardamom, shmardamom!

HAPPY FRIDAY!

I still love my job:
because Kristin & I can shout at each other about nonsensical things, like if Alan Rickman is sexy and if so, in what movies, and Kristin says, “You know, that MOVIE” and I say, “OH yes, the MOVIE, yes, yes,” and the people around us just laugh, and even chime in.

But nobody says “HANS GRUUUUBAH” quite like me. All those years of German. Paying FOR THEMSELVES TENFOLD, people.

Oh yes, you read that right!

Kristin has the charge of recapping the private luncheon & intimate accoustical concert with Bryan Adams. I will just say that he was really good, the lights were dim, there were candles and it was kind of startling to be in a mini-version of MTV Unplugged, if only for 30 minutes. Disconcerting to be among women who were crying, though. But good for them, I’m sure it was a dream come true.

The music ended, and then Bryan (we’re close now, I’m going with the first-name only) sat at a table & signed things. Because we were at a “reserved” table, we were given a CD. Good thing! I was only half-joking when I said I’d have him sign my boob. Then, someone else gave me their CD, so we thought we’d get it signed & bring it back for Cap’n Jim, our boss, the best boss EVER. So we’re standing there at the table, and there’s little Bryan (he is a very small man) and I am behind a SuperFan. She is about to pass out from the excitement. She set her camera down, and I offered to take a picture of her & Bryan, cool dude that he is, told her to come behind the table for a side-by-side head shot. She would’ve had an orgasm but that would’ve taken too much time.

Anyway, then it was my turn & I gave him the first CD & said, “To Jim”. He’s writing away, and then one of the host/handler people is falling all over herself asking if he’d rather have a silver sharpie, they got him one, and (because I apparently feel like I should touch all of the celebrities I meet, I put my hand on Martha Stewart’s shoulder last year) I grab his little bicep (lightly, he’s little, remember) and say, “Are you high-maintenance, Bryan?” And he (very sincerely) says, “NO! No, not at all, now who should I do the second one too?” And I say, “To Jennifer!” And now I start babbling and feeling like I am a Speedy Wit but it’s all in very slow-motion. “I don’t answer to Jim anymore. Not since the operation.” Bryan’s head shoots back up with a puzzled look. “You know. The operation from Jim to Jennifer. Well, No. I mean, I really DIDN’T. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” And I hear peals of Kristin laughter behind me and TO HIS CREDIT, Bryan Adams looks at me (and my bosoms) and says, “Well, it was VERY successful.” (and for the record, he did not BELIEVE ME, but I would also wager he thought I was flippin’ INSANE.) As we staggered away, I said to Kristin, “Did I really just tell Bryan Adams that I’d had a sex-change operation? OH MY GOD!”

Mmmmhmm. CLASSY. That’s me!

Yesterday morning, Kristin and I were chatting, and she mentioned she’d watched the movie “Benny & Joon” again…which led to a conversation about how hot Mr. Depp is, and of course, let’s not forget how hot Mr. Aidan Quinn is, either.

One of the songs on the soundtrack of that movie is an all-time favorite of mine, and can usually reduce me to tears in about 4 seconds flat. “Have A Little Faith In Me”, by John Hiatt. He’s got to be the one singing it, mind you. Mandy Moore doesn’t turn on my sprinklers.

That same morning, I sat through a presentation of the local NBC station’s new fall programming; one of the new shows is called “Three Wishes”, it’s their answer to “Extreme Makeover”, and it’s intended to make you weep, sob, and feel like a pathetic jerk for thinking you ever had any problems in your life. Well, OK, they call it “feel good”. I was doing a good job of maintaining a steely exterior – and then there was John Hiatt, singing about having a little faith, and it was one of those Pavlovian reaction, I felt tears in my eyes almost immediately! Good thing it was just a snippet.

I got to see John Hiatt perform in a radio studio, maybe 11 years ago or so. There was a station in Minneapolis (The Cities 97) that was my favorite – they played a wide variety & included some folky stuff here & there. People coming to town for concerts often promoted themselves in their studios, and usually did some acoustic work. My rep knew how much I loved all the artists they played, and invited me to watch John Hiatt – it was awesome, we shook hands (me grinning and my lower jaw unable to move or form any sounds that resembled words) & I think he signed my TAPE COVER, yes, how smooth did that look?

Later that day, I had another meeting, and the sales manager had worked in Minneapolis, and apparently knew everyone up there, so I sat through his rapid-fire “Did you know —–?” until I felt like Memory Lane was going to swallow me whole.

Today, I get to see Bryan Adams sing over lunch, as part of a radio station’s listener appreciation thing. I’m just glad his music doesn’t make me weep. But his song, “We’re in Heaven” WAS the theme to my junior prom, you know, the one where I was in charge of all the decorations, including some lovely airy “cloud fiber”….

It’s weird to have these random moments, experiences, memories, just all swirl in the same day. It’s not deja vu, maybe it’s just a reminder that things in this ad biz never really change. I guess it’s part of the bonus of getting older, experiences repeat themselves. So I leave you with a portion of the lyrics that have been running through my head for a day now. Try not to cry.

When the road gets dark
And you can no longer see
Just let my love throw a spark
And have a little faith in me

And when the tears you cry
Are all you can believe
Just give these loving arms a try
And have a little faith in me
And

Chorus:
Have a little faith in me
Have a little faith in me
Have a little faith in me
Have a little faith in me

When your secret heart
Cannot speak so easily
Come here darlin’
From a whisper start
To have a little faith in me

And when your back’s against the wall
Just turn around and you will see
I will catch, I will catch your fall baby
Just have a little faith in me

Stealing a line from last week’s Six Feet Under (numb arm, NARM NARM), I have a Sore Arm, SARM, SARM.

I shot my new shotgun for the first time ever this weekend, and I have a nice little bruise and a fair ‘mount of ache in the crook of my arm/shoulder. It was extremely hot, I was not a very good shot, but I did finally show that milk jug I could hit it. I had a big long post written up about why I now have a shotgun & all that, but it went on really long & while the whole incident that sparked my decision to get a shotgun was really dramatic at the time, in the re-telling (especially in written form) seems really soap opera-ey, melodramatic & over the top. The Cliff’s Note version: Someone was ringing the doorbell at 2:30 a.m. a few weeks ago, JWo was gone, the dogs went ballistic, I would not go to the door, but despite that, and the dogs, the person kept ringing the doorbell & did not leave until 15 minutes later, and the police did not get there in a timely manner AT ALL, and by the time they drove by, the doorbell-ringer was long gone. And whoever they were – knew my name & said it, repeatedly. But nobody ever called the next day to fess up. Didn’t recognize the voice, didn’t recognize the vehicle. So. Coulda been someone we know? Coulda been someone going through the trash. I wasn’t taking any chances by answering the door. Suffice it to say, I was Absolutely Scared Out Of My Gourd, and the most scared I’ve been, ever.

So, now I have a shotgun I know how to use, and more significantly, I’m just that serious about the decision – because it wasn’t an easy decision for me. I’m a liberal, I believe in some degree of gun control, I disagree with my husband over these things. I hope I never, EVER have to use it anywhere but on the firing range. Those fifteen minutes were the longest minutes of my life, it took far too long for a police response, and the 911 operator wasn’t much better. If you think I’m wrong, you’re entitled to that opinion – but this comes down to one of those time when you can walk a mile in someone else’s shoes – and still not know exactly how it feels. And the next morning after basically no sleep, I told myself: I will never feel that way again.

As for Six Feet Under, don’t even talk to me about this week’s episode, because I’ve already had the emotional upheaval and next week’s episode is going to rip my heart out and throw it off the deck. (Good thing Polly is such a good retriever, she’ll bring it right back to me – but then she’ll want me to throw it again.) Alan Ball is a brilliant man, and I should have absolutely predicted this path the show is taking, student of American Beauty that I am. Sigh.

Sore Arm, Sore Heart.