Childhood Games

Today’s one of those days where I left my house at 8:40 a.m. and didn’t get home until almost 10 p.m. I miss my house when I’m away from it, like I expect it to have grown while I’ve been away. What would be nice is for it to have cleaned itself while I’ve been gone. No such luck.

Now, my daughter and I are in…on my bed, I’ve got my laptop, the remote control, some Writer’s Digest magazines, and a bottle of water. She has her box of crayons and a Dragon Tales coloring book. We’re doing our “work” and sharing a small bowl of red seedless grapes.

When I was younger–around 9 or 10–I had a full-size bed. One of my favorite ways to spend my afternoon was to gather books, journals, coloring books, my tape recorded and a cassette tapes with songs like Mickey on it, and some kind of snack food…dorritos, a bologna and ketchup sandwich…grapes. I’d see how long I could stay on my bed without getting down for anything. I’d have a back story…like I was at sea or my bed was an island.

The psychology behind this game screams only child. Entertain myself by seeing how long I could stay put, alone on an island. Tonight’s much better with my daughter on my island with me. When I’m done doing my post, I’ve got some magazines I’ve been wanting to browse, but I’ll probably color instead, at least until the grapes are gone.

My Mojo Is Musty

Something’s going on with my planets. My Saturn is in the wrong house or my karma is blocked. It’s something.

I think it’s astrological because a dear, dear friend of mine whose birthday is just a day and a half away from mine–same month, same sign–woke up to find her car had been hit. She had parked it on her street because of home renovations she’s having done. She told me that last night, after a shit day, she got ready for bed and thought, “Fuck it, I’ll leave my car on the street just tonight.” So after her shit day, she woke up to find a big dent in her bumper.

My days have not been as grueling; but, I do feel as if every creative drop in my body has been sucked out leaving me dry as a…a…see I can’t even think of anything clever, original, and descriptive to define the word dry. No creativity whatsoever. I’m in a slump or funk or rut.

Maybe I’m eating too much ice cream and now my brain is so frozen that it doesn’t hurt, it just doesn’t work. Fortunately, my favorite astrologer is predicting that a novel energy source will soon become available for my personal use. Thank God and all of his planets. I’m ready for them to line up again.

Why I Love Gilmore Girls

My love of shows about teenage angst is well known among my friends. Back in the 90210 days, I planned all-female social events around episodes that I thought would make for a good gathering at my house. Drinks, chips, dips, and Dylan.

Dawson’s Creek didn’t have quite the grip on me as 90210, but I still stayed embarrassingly aware of Dawson, Pacey and Joey’s love triangle.

Gilmore Girls is a whole different kind of show for me. Yes, one of the lead characters is (was? the show lives only in reruns) a teenage girl who you follow from high school through college graduation. The other lead is her mother, whose story lines carry more of an adult nature than than your 90120-Dawson-One Tree Hill programming. But Gilmore Girls isn’t a show about teenagers; it’s a show about a mother-daughter relationship gone wonderfully well.

My first father and my mom were divorced right around the time I turned three. He died before I turned four. After my dad died, my mom and I moved to the Knobs, a small town where all of my father’s family lived. We moved into this picturesque cottage house with a small kitchen and arched doorways. It was small, but cozy and perfect for a twenty-something woman and her young daughter. The house was surrounded by trees and sat up on a hill that looked down on a creek. I see the house every day from the sliding glass doors in our kitchen. It’s only two houses down from my house now.

I remember rollerskating in the concrete basement of that house. A basement that flooded every time it rained more than a few drops. I remember hearing the news that John Lennon had been shot from the radio that stayed in the dining room; and I remember my mom crying the entire day. I remember having my five year birthday party with a house full of kids: cousins, my entire kindergarten class, kids from the street. In the pictures, the kids seem to go on forever, like a line to see Santa at Christmas.

We lived in that house until the year I turned eight, the same year my mom married my second dad. Not one part of me wishes things happened differently. Not one bit of me would trade any part of my life or my history for another life or history. Everything I am now is because of everything that happened to me then. And of all the people I love the most, three of them are my siblings who I can’t imagine a life without.

But what fun it is to imagine if mom and I were able to maintain a functional, sharing relationship past my twelfth birthday. What if we lived in a storybook home and I went to Yale and she ran a New England Inn. And we’d get the same references and watch the same movies over and over again together. We’d go shopping and eat nonstop and never gain any weight.

…and we’d never fight. Not like my mom and I used to fight. By the time I was entering and managing (poorly) through my early teen years, my mom was becoming a mom all over again with the birth of my siblings who are all much younger than me. My mom’s life didn’t turn out the way she thought it would. I don’t like writing a whole lot about her, it’s seems unfair–like I’m telling secrets I shouldn’t. But my mom suffered through severe bouts of depression and manic episodes, like many of us are prone to do.

She still struggles and I don’t know how to help her. I used to think I could, but it never worked. Now, I do my best to keep a relationship with her while keeping what I have of my own sanity. I love her. I will always be grateful that she moved us close to my father’s family after he died. I love a lot of the things she gave me: my love of reading, my siblings, my taste in music, my sense of humor.

I love the Gilmore Girls because I love the story that it offers up to its viewers: a mother-daughter relationship that is happy and full of joy with a mother who calls her daughter throughout the week and a daughter who wants to talk to her mother throughout the week. I love the Gilmore Girls not because I wish my life had been like their show, but because it offers me a glimpse of what I can create within my new mother daughter relationship where I play the mom.

Stop Already with the Weirdo King

Sunday night. I am tired and I can no longer lay on my stomach. And the last thing I saw on TV was a Burger King commercial with their freaky Burger King mascot.

I don’t want the 7 foot tall plastic creepy king lingering in my subconscious so close to dream time. I’m trying to get into Ax Man, my husband’s latest History Channel show. Not like get into it enough to watch it after tonight, just something to remove the freaky mascot. 98 percent of the TV shows that my husband watches are on Discovery and History Channel—and AFV. Our viewing patterns are as different as our choice in shoes.

How is this entertaining to anyone? It’s men cutting down trees. A good friend of mine is an arborist and owns his own tree service company. I bet he doesn’t even watch this. That’s probably not true. Actually, if anyone would find it interesting it should be someone who does this for a living.  But my husband doesn’t work anywhere near trees. Nor does he drive heavy-ass semi trucks across ice either, but he likes watching the people who do.

Back to the original issue—the creepy Burger King mascot. What’s up with all the sexual references? It just makes the weirdness more weird. And while it works since it has me talking about it, for me it’s another reason to not eat Burger King…not that I needed any more. So I guess Ax Man didn’t work. Time for me to take over the control.

Fey Is the New Funny…Thank You Tina

Three moms and I are dropping out of our usual Sunday routine to see Baby Mama, a mainstream comedy put out by a major studio, with TWO females leads–the only leads, and a topic that is narrowly focused on one of the most (the most?) feminine of experiences.

I hope it is raunchy as hell. I want it to be pee-in-my-pants funny (which isn’t pushing it much for me these days) and have jokes that make the men cringe with discomfort. I want it to have the feminist smarts of 9 to 5 blended with the hilarity of 40 Year Old Virgin.

It’s really simple economics. Women make the majority of consumer spending decisions. We spend more so we should have more things tailored to our wants…like movies with smart, funny, women who not only are on the screen, but behind it making casting, editing, and whatever else decisions.

I was one of the first in the theater to watch Superbad. Funny’s funny. But a huge chunk of funny is rarely covered because the funny stuff is written by men, acted by men, produced by men. There’s so much that’s being completely missed. I had all purpose cleaner poured directly in my eye while getting a manicure at a local nail salon. That’s funny. A funny female experience. Steve Carell getting his chest waxed was funny, but if you want a balls to the wall funny waxing scene, I’ve got a few friends who could give you some way-funny hair removal stories–and most are below the belt.

Christopher Hitchens once said women aren’t funny. He’s a journalist, author, and someone I used to like a whole lot more than I did after he said that. I still read his stuff and watch him on Bill Maher. I do have a sense of humor, so I didn’t go burn my bra as soon as he said it. Now, I just hold back a bit with him…kind of like he needs to try a bit harder to win me over . As if winning me over, an unfunny woman, keeps him up at night.

Funny is important in my world. I think in the big scope of this wild and crazy universe, funny’s important all around. I like that Tina Fey is ushering in a new kind of funny that’s all female. I know she’s not the first comedienne. Not the first writer (she was SNL’s first female head writer). Not the first female producer. Not the first actress. Not the first to have her own American Experss ad.

But she’s the first one that I can think of who is wrapping it all together in a pretty pink box with a big pink ribbon and bow.

What a Lovely Swimmer’s Cap Tan

My allergies are making me miserable. I can’t breath through my nose, my eyes are itchy, and I can’t stop sneezing.

Along with the sneezing thing, every time I do sneeze, I pee just a little bit because I have a baby sitting on top of my bladder.  Or maybe to the side?  Not sure of the actual fetus-bladder geographical relation.  Either way, repeated sneezing is working against me.

When I was little, my allergies were worse. One morning I woke up and my entire eye was swollen shut and the size of a plum.  There was a goopy slime coating my eyer where it would have opened if I could have opened it.

Sometime during my sixth or seventh year, I had my tonsils removed, my adenoids removed, and tubes put in my ears. I was the poster child for the ear, nose and throat pediatric association. The procedure was done at the beginning of the summer—right when swimming suits start getting used.

Because of the tubes in my ears, I had to wear a tight, plastic swimmers cap on my head to keep water out of my ears whenever I went swimming. I tan a dark shade of dark, like the color of potting soil dirt. The swimmers cap left a bright white untanned ring around my face from where the cap fit my head. Fortunately, I was too young to be totally disgraced by the ridiculous tan line. I mostly remember how much it hurt to squeeze the plastic cap on and off my head. It pulled my hair and felt a bit like a I had a giant rubberband looped around my brain.

Thinking back to that swimmers cap makes the sniffles and bladder control issues not so awful.

Top Ten Songs I Wish Were Mine

If you’ve never been in the car and heard me singing along to the radio, I sound a bit like a deaf cat screaming for air. But a lot more nasal-ly.

It’s bad. Listening to me sing is as painful as watching me bowl. Good friends and siblings laugh when they hear it. I don’t sing in front of strangers…no need to make things awkward.

But just like any tone deaf music lover, there are a few songs I can’t help but belt out when driving to and from work.

If I had a voice, these are the top ten songs I wish had my name in the Artist column of iTunes:

1. Sweet Emotion/Aerosmith (favorite line: get up and go must have got up and went…sometimes I write this while doodling during my Monday morning work meeting)
2. Monday Morning/Fleetwood Mac (speaking of Monday mornings)
3. You’re So Vain/Carly Simon (…and as I’m singing, I picture myself on a stage in a smoky club and Warren Beatty sitting at the bar. He’s in a white suit and panama jack hat with sunglasses and I’m wearing my most classic of classic 70s outfits. my favorite line ABOUT–not from–this song is my cousins: “But isn’t it about him?”)
4. Brass Monkey/Beastie Boys (how can you not sing along to: THAT FUNKY MONKEY)
5. Steady as She Goes/Raconteurs (this song as the best line ever: You’ve had too much to think, now you need a wife.)
6. Don’t You Want Somebody to Love/Jefferson Airplane (or were they Jefferson Starship with this song? Or just Starship…all I care about is Grace Slick and how effing cool she was/is)
7. Welcome to the Jungle/Guns and Roses (I love this song, but whenever I think of GnR, the first thing I think about is a certain t-shirt I wish I had bought many, many years ago. It had the GnR logo but instead of a skeleton head in the middle it was a nun with a big nose and around the emblem the words: Nuns with Big Noses. I will always regret not spending the $9.95 for that t-shirt at Souvenir City in Gulf Shores.)
8. Rings/Cymarron (okay, this is the only song I’ve had to google the artist on, but it’s LOVELY. so cheesy, so wonderful, so 70s, and so worth downloading as soon as you’re done reading this. Here’s just a quick sample line: Baby come on in, got James Taylor on the stereo.)
9. A Little Less Conversation/Elvis (ummmm, this song is so much fun to dance to in a mini-skirt dress and go go boots, swinging your hips Anne Margaret style. At least that’s how I imagine myself while singing it.)
10. Emotional Rescue/The Stones (this one, I actually come close to sounding like Mick. He does this animated high pitch thing with his voice that I can pull off…although, I probably sound more like Karen from Will & Grace when I sing it.)

There’s my list. Happy singing to all.

And I’ll Be Dancing at My Desk…oh oh oh

…(sang to the same beat as Billy Idol’s Dancing with Myself)

My day gig office is an old Catholic church that was renovated into office space. My office is one of the second story rooms that’s part of an addition on the side of the church.

There are six offices in this addition: three up, three down. They used to be the priest’s bedrooms. They’re spacious and come with their own bathrooms. Or at least, some of them do. My office shares a bathroom with the office next to me which happens to be the CEO’s office, so technically it’s not a “shared” bathroom. It’s all his and I have zero problem with that.

It’s definitely a cool space and one of the most creative work environments I’ve had to go to on a regular weekday 9 to 5 schedule (or 10:02 to 4:53). Of course, I’m sure there’s still some leftover catholic guilt and repression wafting through the church. A colleague gave me wind chimes for my office to feng shui away the negative vibes that may be lingering. For the most part, they’re working really well.

Another thing that works for me: rap music. Today, I had to go through a gazillion emails and log them (it was actually more like fourteen, but after ten who’s counting?). Anyway, I chose a little old school L.L. Cool J to organize emails to.

It is impossible to listen to Around the Way Girl without swaying your shoulders. It’s like trying not to pucker your lips when you suck on a lemon slice. It’s uncontrollable. I think at one point I was actually beating the top of my desk with my hands as if I was keeping the beat for James. And then I heard a clunck…like a bird hitting my second story window. I spun around to find a man on a ladder cleaning my windows.

I’ve worked in this office for over four years and not once has there ever been a live (or un-live) person on the other side of my window. Never. But today, without warning, there was a window cleaner watching me boogie down in all my nerdy office glory. It was like when you’re singing your heart out in your car and then realize that the car next to you is completely entertained with your American-Idol-at-the-steering-wheel performance.

I’m not sure if he saw me. I mean, the windows haven’t been cleaned in over four years, so maybe he missed my rocking out. Or there could have been a glare. Or maybe he saw every bit of my funkiness. It was LL for God sakes, like I’m supposed to sit still?!

How to Manifest Brad Pitt into Your Life…or Restaurant

One of my cousins claimed that I may just have “the shining” with all the manifestations going on around me.

She reminded me that we were just talking about Anne Northrup and her sister on Sunday, and then I see her and her bumper-stickered car the very next morning. And there was my I Love This Story post…and then, I remembered one of my favorite manifestations of all…BRAD effing PITT.

So a year ago, I was in New Orleans for work, just like Brad Pitt (if think about Brad as often as I do, you gotta check out www.PittWatch.com). He and Ange and the kids were living there while he filmed The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. The week or so before I left, the women in my office and I tracked every picture we could find of Brad and Ange walking around New Orleans or hanging out on their second story deck/patio. For sure, I was going to be able to spot where they lived while I was there.

My plan was to walk in the mornings and evenings, zig-zagging through the French Quarter keeping an eye out for a well kept second story spread. I was fully prepared to run into to the happily un-married couple wearing sunglasses and Gap-like clothing, only more expensive. I imagined running into them at full-speed-walking mode. Maybe act a bit started, like their Peg Perego double-stroller nearly took me out. And then I’d notice the children and comment how beautiful they were, say something like, “I’ve got a three year old at home who falls asleep everytime I put her in a stroller.”

And then I’d be all, “Wait a second, I’m sorry, I totally didn’t realize who you guys were.” Smooth, right? Then I’d be polite and try to let them be, “Well, it’s pleasure meeting you, I’m a huge fan.” But before I could leave them to their peace, Angie would ask what my daughter’s name was and I’d have to tell the story about how she’s named after a motorcycle and then Brad would laugh and say something about how Angie loves motorcycles and then they’d ask if I’d like to get coffee with them since they were heading that way and we’d still be exchanging emails today. But, it didn’t exactly go down like that.

Instead…

It was the last night of my stay in New Orleans and there was a really nice restaurant behind my hotel on Tchoupitoulas Street. The wait for a table was going to be awhile and since I was a party of one, it seemed more appropriate to take a table by the bar, which also happened to be by the hostess stand and entrance. I ordered a beet salad, something I never would have ordered normally, but the waiter claimed it wasn’t going to be what I expected and that I’d love it (he was wrong, it was exactly what I expected). While picking at my beet salad, this guy came in to the restaurant and asked for the owner. Can you imagine what a director’s assistant might look like? Baseball cap, khaki shorts, clipboard–that’s what this guy looked like.

They had a brief conversation and then the guy left. The restaurant owner turned to tell the hostesses something. It appeared that he had just told her she won $1M. Within seconds, there was a buzz throughout the bar staff and dining room servers who kept coming in to talk to the hostess. Something was happening and it was big. Big enough to make up for my beet salad.

Finally, the hostess came over to ask if she could get me anything and I asked her what the big scoop was.

“They’re filming a scene for Brad Pitt’s new movie right outside on the street here and they may have to come in the restaurant for it,” she told me.

“Brad may have to come in here?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but I get the feeling he may.”

Holy shit! I was going to see Brad Pitt up close and at the hostess stand…maybe. Or what if they didn’t come in the restaurant and just did all the filming from the outside. I had finished my beet salad and was trying to decide on getting a full course, dessert, or just going outside. I really did want a dessert, this was one of those places that you knew had yummy, yummy desserts. Then the owner made an announcement to the dining room that in 45 minutes, they were going to have to close the front entrance for about an hour. Anyone wanting to leave the restaurant was going to have to leave from a different entrance.

I was a mess, should I go out and see if I could find him outside or stay put and see if he actually came in. I ordered a dessert as chocolate always helps me with such major decisions. In the end, I decided to take my chances on the outside of the restaurant.

By the time I made it outdoors, a crowd had started gathering to watch the filming. I joined them to see all that went in to setting up a shot…a shot that would eventually be all of five minutes of filming. And then, there he was. So handsome, so utterly cool, so Brad Pitt…and taller than I expected. I watched as he spoke to the director, did a chest bump with one of the assistant-like people who was running around with a bullhorn, telling people where to go.

And then, I watched them set up the beginning of the scene…inside the restaurant. Take, after take, after take, Brad Pitt started the scene by walking out of the restaurant to the street curb to flag a pretend cab. My table in that very restaurant had been less than five feet from that entrance door. I would have been able to see how his shoes were laced if I’d have stayed put (not that I would have been looking at his feet, but you get the idea).

And so, I manifested Brad Pitt right to my dining table, but was too anxious to stay put. There was a real lesson in that night for me. When in doubt, stay put. Don’t move, don’t make any sudden decisions. Stay where you are and you will get what you want.

I Wonder Whose Car That Is…

While waiting for my caramel macchiato nonfat grande in the drive-thru this morning, I noticed a Lexus SUV with two bumper stickers on each side of the bumper. One was a Anne Northrup sticker, the other a Mitch McConnell sticker—both Kentucky Republican politicians.

My first thought: hmmm, you don’t see many of those around here anymore. No judgment, just an observation. Most of the people I see driving around the Highlands and Crescent Hill area of Louisville are sporting democrat bumper stickers.

And then guess who I see pointing her keys at the Lexus to unlock the driver side door: Anne Northrup. It was her car. Well, I thought, that makes sense.

I wondered what she was drinking. Probably a straight-up coffee, black. No fluffy caramel Ralph Macchio drink for her. She was a member of the US House of Representatives for ten years–1997 though 2007. No matter how I feel about her politics, there’s something to be said for a female who has achieved a political position of such stature. I’m a democrat, but I respect her career achievements.

Her sister is Mary T. Meagher, the Olympic swimmer. What a family, huh? State reps, Olympic athletes. Something tells me they don’t sit around watching Rock of Love Marathons on Sunday afternoons.