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.

OK, this is one of those rare occasions where I’ll allow the use of the nickname Jenny, but only by me. So don’t start thinkin’ it’s cool. The point is, I got a shotgun. A Remington youth Express, 20-gauge pump shotgun, and it wasn’t because I wanted to start hunting with JWo. In fact, I had a lot of angst over the decision, but given what had happened, and more to the point, how I felt at the time, I found the next morning a resolve in me that I would never, ever feel that way again.

A few weeks ago, at 2:30 in the morning, the doorbell rang. James was away on a fishing trip. The dogs went crazy, of course, and I was still asleep enough to just be confused. I went to the bathroom – and then the doorbell rang again. It was as though all the blood in my veins turned to ice. I put on a robe, and went to the original front door to look out & try to see who was at the other front door, and I could see a minivan parked in our driveway – a vehicle I did not recognize. The doorbell rang AGAIN. I went for the phone & called 911. They dispatched an officer, and in the meantime, I paced, out of sight of our main front door (which does not allow you to peek out unseen.) Then I heard a male voice saying my name. A voice I did not recognize. The dogs continued to go CRAZY, renewing their barking each time the doorbell rang. And while they sound ferocious, and Suzy looks intimidating, they’re still black labs – it takes one slim jim or a jerky treat and they’re your BFF. This doorbell-ringing-dogs-barking-name-calling-out thing went on for nearly 15 minutes, and the police still were not there. All our doors were locked, as they always are. I was glad I’d double-checked, though. I was preparing myself to rush out the back, and the operator on the line was NOT particularly comforting or helpful. (Monotone: “Don’t do anything to put your life in danger.” was the reply to any questions about what I should do. That’s another blog in of itself.) In the end, I peeked out again & the van was gone. The operator sounded frustrated and disappointed (she had not wanted to stay on the line with me in the first place), and in my state of mind, made me question whether having the police come now was at all necessary. (“Well, do you still WANT the police officer?” I was like, lady, I’m having a fucking heart attack, I think perhaps YOU should be making this decision!) Since I was not IN a rational state of mind, I told her ok, cancel the officer, they’re gone now. In retrospect, that was stupid, and I would think the entire scenario would have warranted the officer visiting to make sure everything was ok. But that is why it’s called hindsight. In any event, I called James, his cell phone woke up his mom, who had him call back, and I had a mini-nervous breakdown, with dogs racing around me, trying to fix it, too. I told myself to breathe, breathe, breathe, because if I actually HAD a heart attack, it was obviously going to take forever for the response team to get there! I didn’t sleep most of the night, keeping a vigilant watch out the window, and finding that every time I’d try to lie down, the sheer vulnerability of being prone overwhelmed me so much I was compelled to get back up again. I can say, without hesitation, I have never. Ever. been so afraid in my entire life. Nobody called the next day, and we still don’t know who it was. But they knew my name, and that was the creepiest part of all.

And so, the next morning, I decided I needed to learn how to shoot one of the hunting guns we have here in the house. I talked to my closest friends about the conflict within me. I felt like it went in complete opposition to my pacifism. And yet, I never felt so convinced of the need to know, now. And that led to me getting my own shotgun, with the youth model providing a shorter stock & barrel, being easier for me to handle. Not that I’m eager to shoot anyone, stranger, robber, nothing of the sort. I just cannot ever feel so defenseless again – and the police response time probably underlined that feeling, given just how long it took. (The police car did drive by several minutes after we “cancelled” them, with a searchlight. Unfortunately, a minivan drove by in the other direction a few minutes later. Who knows if it was the same one.) I still would want my first option to be flight, and I was prepared to do so, despite my legs shaking like jelly.

The decision about getting a gun was one I made with the utmost of difficulty. I’ve always been around guns, because my father hunts. I was always cautioned mightily against touching them, and I steered clear. I still believe that guns are dangerous, that we have far too many in this country, I see no need for automatic weaponry of any kind, and I’m not particularly fond of handguns, except for target practice. Neither of us wanted a handgun in the house. I feel all of these things, and yet I spent some weekend time on Saturday in the blazing sun, shooting my new shotgun at a couple of milk jugs, feeling the recoil in my shoulder, smelling the black acrid smoke as it came out of the barrel, hearing the clink of the spent casing as it ejected with a pump. I wasn’t a great shot, and I hope the only time I ever have to fire it is on the shooting range. I will always have caution & respect for my gun. I take the responsibility of handling it very seriously. But while it sounds rather dramatic, like a swooning Scarlett O’Hara when I say it: I will never be that afraid again.

My dog, Miss Polly, has had to adjust to the recent marathon of Dog Whisperer viewing in the house, and the resulting behavior change in her human (me). After all, Cesar Millan trains people, too. So I’ve been a bit firmer with her and less permissive, but she still tries to revert back to Happier Times and do what she wants. (I mean, it’s understandable – who doesn’t?)

She does have a “tell” (see, this lingo is the byproduct of having to watch weekends of poker tournaments) when she knows she shouldn’t be doing something. And it’s flat-out adorable, of course. She squints. Like if she almost shuts her eyes, nobody will notice she’s trying to climb up on top of you like a Shi Tzu. I finally realized why JWo thinks Renee Zellweger’s hot. (Except I don’t. Because squinting from a dog is hilarious and cute. Squinting from an adult woman says “I need sunglasses” or “I am a simpering idiot.” I digress. Again.)

So I give you another pic of my sweet squinty Polly, who will undoubtably try to get away with something this weekend, probably in the next 5 minutes….

Everyone has them: those people who, by their mere existence, send all your atoms and neurons and protons and neutrons and all that other stuff I didn’t study, into one discombobulated, frenetic grinding mass of IRRITATION. The human equivalent of fingers on the chalkboard, sand in the vaseline, rough skin and hangnails while knitting with silk. By gum, you just want to stand up, walk over & pick up a 2 x 4, and pound the living shit out of them until the atoms and neurons and protons and neutrons calm the hell down or you pass out, whichever comes first.

It has to be chemical, combined with a strong biological instinct or something. Somewhere, sometime, back in the primoridial ooze or another life, one of those funny-smelling people did something to my ancestor, and imprinted a deep-seated revulsion right on one of my inherited DNA strands. Literally, the P. of her UNDERPANTS is evoking that same revulsion in me, and instead of getting the 2 x 4, instead of lashing out, I am calmly doing nothing. But my atoms and neurons and protons and neutrons are still churning, frothing, shouting, KILL! KILL! SMASH HER UNDERPANTS JUST KILL AND END THE STIMULI.

And don’t get me started on the gnomes. They have to try to herd and wrestle all the churning molecules, and then THEY get pissy, and it’s all I can do to not write scathing emails. So instead? I blog.

Conversation from a couple weeks ago:

Kristin: “Lindsay just wrote me and said that Thai Place was closed.”

Me: (inhaling all available oxygen in my office) “WHAT??????”

Kristin: “She said they tried to go today & they were closed down.”

Me: (gasping like a fish in the bottom of a boat, arms flailing) “WHA? NO! WHA? That can’t be right. I did takeout last night. I have all these gift certificates! What am I supposed to do with – NO!”

Kristin: “I don’t know! That’s what she said!”

Me: “I’m calling them.” (fingers stabbing keypad on phone: 753-THAI. Don’t even laugh that I have it memorized. It’s easier than my own phone number.)

Fast Busy Signal.
Then, that supposedly calm, soothing voice: We’re sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected. Please check the number and try again.

I LUNGE at the display on my phone. I have dialed the number. 7.5.3. T. H. A. I.

Me: “OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD! The number is disconnected! That can’t be right!” I stare, dumfounded at the phone. “I’m calling them again.”

(beep beep beep, 753-THAI) This time, normal ringing. Then, like a musical symphony of string instruments and a piccolo, I hear, “Hello, Thai Place.”

Relief floods my body. I decide not to pass along the rumor to this fellow, since he doesn’t have a sweeping command of the English language, anyway. Instead I revert to the tried & true standby: “Hi! How late are you open?”

Him: “We are open right now.”

Me, now unable to stop playing this charade: “No, how late are you open tonight?”

Him: “We are open right now through dinner.”

Me, now completely jammed into a corner and unwilling to be rude, yet, for no apparent reason now feel compelled to establish their closing time before I will hang up: “No, how LATE, WHEN do you CLOSE tonight?”

Him, in heavy accent, mind you: “Ten Forty.”

Me: “Ten Forty?????? Uh, OK. Thank you!”

I then inform Kristin not only are they open, they are open until 10:40. Which is an odd time to close, in my non-restaurateur mind, and then as I’m saying all this outloud, in some kind of post-traumatic stress chatter, like a spider monkey, I realize it was the accent and they probably close at 10:30, and I say all that out loud as well. I hear the I.T. guy on the other side of the wall chuckling at me. I do not care. My pants could have fallen off, and I wouldn’t have noticed.

The point was, they were OPEN. The opposite of CLOSED. Hallelujah, thank you Buddah! White doves flew about my head in a symbolic flutter of peace restored. And my heartbeat could return to its normal resting state. Because grilled mint beef salad is the most amazing dish, ever. I could eat it every day, sometimes twice. 10:40 in the a.m, 10:40 at night. Thai Delight. Breathe in, breathe out. Cancel the Code Blue.

Two nights ago, we finally got a slicing break in the thick, oppressive, smothering heat that has sat over the midwest like a fat man in an outhouse. The break came in the form of a black cloudline with torrential rain, and while it was welcome, it was also the night we had Plans. Plans that included outdoor seating at Starlight to see Singing in the Rain. Oh, don’t worry, the symbolism was not lost upon us. But wonderfully, the rain stopped by the time the show started (around 8:30 p.m.) and it was cool, entertaining, and we had great seats, thanks to my mother-in-law, MommaLinda. The whole family went – James’ brother, our nieces, MommaLinda. But we had another sort of show before we got to the park.

Right after work, we met MommaLinda at the Melting Pot, to enjoy their happy hour – half price cheese & chocolate fondue, along with half-price foo-foo drinks. Godiva martini with a chocolate-dipped rim. MMMmmmmm. And the restaurant is below street level, so it’s dark and cave-like and dimly lit and just a cozy little spot. Quiet, too. But that is what we call foreshadowing. It was not to be quiet that night. For, a couple sat behind me at the last open table, and the woman? The woman? She was the human equivalent of a record needle being dragged laboriously across the biggest record in the universe. SCREEEEEEEEECH.

First of all, every word she said was at the decibel level we could categorize as “Just Below Shouting”. So ignoring her really wasn’t an option. Second of all, she had one of those unattractive whiskey-n-cigarettes voices, and we knew it was cigarettes because (I’m not kidding) she smoked non-stop. Third, she spent the entire time we were there, and presumable the rest of her evening, berating her date. BE.RATING. And you could barely hear him, he was murmuring for the first half hour, really a Bill Milquetoast.

“Bill, you are so grouchy.” (oh, and in the interest of time, and both our sanity levels, I will not type each one out over & over again? But everything was said, OVER AND OVER again. A minimum of 20x.)

“Bill, that is gross. Who puts chocolate on the outside of the martini glass. That is gross.” (Later consults bartender to discover, indeed, the chocolate is there intentionally.)
“I guess I was wrong, but I thought it was gross. I wiped all that chocolate off with my napkin. It was gross.”

“Bill, you are so grouchy.” “Bill, I thought we’d have a good time, don’t you like the rain? But you are so grouchy.” “I will never have sex with you, Bill.”

(insert the sound of tires screeching to a stop)

OK, I almost fell out of my seat & I HAD to see this train wreck, since I was already being forced to listen to it. I had already tried once to turn around and look at this woman, alarming James, because he was certain that just my looking at the BetteDavisWannaBe would have her trying to fight me. So, I got resourceful: I used a mirror to put on some lipstick, and in perfect spy-fashion, maneuvered the mirror so I could see the woman who was half-entertainment/half-annoyance. Good golly, she was maybe in her 40’s? I had the voice pegged at a 57. But I digress. Let’s tune back in, right when she tells Bill that not only is he going to spend the night with one combative bitch, he ain’t gettin’ any, either.

“I’m never going to have sex again Bill. Ever.” [Bill: Murmur, murmur]

Insert 100 more “You are so Grouchies” here. Then she’s comin’ around the track, comin’ around again, but there’s a new point of irritation, a new target on Bill’s bald head she’s going to peck and peck and peck at until he’s covered in his own blood and blinded by it.

“Bill, you only react. You don’t ever experience things, you just REACT, Bill.” “I am out there, living. LIVING, Bill. You just sit back and REACT. I call you to come to dinner. You like the rain, don’t you? But you’re grouchy. You just REACT. You just sit there, you just SIT there.”

And then – then – the most bizarre, plum line of the night, was bellowed:

“BILL, YOU ARE NOT STANLEY KUBRICK. I AM STANLEY KUBRICK. YOU ARE NOT STANLEY KUBRICK.” over and over for ten minutes. I was in tears, laughing. Our waiter came over (Kevin, awesome guy, excellent service & wicked sense of humor to boot) & informed us quietly that HE was actually Stanley Kubrick. So of course, we tipped him accordingly, I mean, my god, Stanley Kubrick! Director of The Shining, and 2001: A Space Odyssey, and A Clockwork Orange! Right here in Kansas City!

Well, the “You just REACT”s and the “YOU ARE NOT STANLEY KUBRICK”s were flying all around my ears, and Bill was trying to defend himself, but never at a volume level I could quite understand. Except I did finally hear him say her name (Chris), so now James & I have reference names for when one of us might think the other’s getting out of hand, there’s a new tickmark on the measurement scale: Well, you think this is bad, I’m no CHRIS!

Or Stanley Kubrick, for that matter.

Well, I know this is like posting that really unflattering picture of your best friend, because you know they will forgive you and mostly because it’s so. damned. funny.

I used the zoom on Suzy a while back & damn if she doesn’t look like she’s been sitting at a bar for 4 hours, bemoaning her lot in life, crying in her beer over the fact she’s spayed, the fact she’s got to share time now with the OTHER dog, the fact that she now looks plus-sized next to that dog, when all she is is big-boned and she is just fine in her skin and who are these dog show judges defining the beauty myth?