buckle your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy night

Some New Year's Eves arrive bright and shiny, full of champagne bubbles and lighthearted hopes for the future. Not so this New Year's. Some years, the resolutions are to lose weight, spend more quality time with the kids (cats), and spend a little more time pampering ourselves. Not this year.

This New Year's Eve has a darker feel. The deaths of James Brown, Gerald Ford, and Saddam Hussein in such quick succession hold a lesson for all of us as we stand on the precipice between the demise of 2006 and the birth pains of 2007. The lesson is that whether we are a bastion of entertainment, a bastion of leadership, or a bastard straight from the pits of hell, we all meet the same sticky end, one way or the other. Some bodies are dressed in electric blue suits and displayed in a shiny coffin, some are flown hither and yon draped in the American flag and saluted with canons, and some are protected not out of love, but out of fear. But no matter what the treatment of the corpse, dead is still dead. It matters not, really.

So I have thought about the coming year, and what I see for myself in it. My resolutions include, but are not limited to, the following, in no particular order:

1. Work harder
2. Whine less
3. Carpe Diem
4. Make things happen
5. Refuse to accept mediocrity
6. Keep my eyes open
7. Plant trees
8. Get a job that I love
9. Find tenants for both apartments

Things I am looking forward to this coming year include the release of the new Harry Potter film, "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix". Even more than that, I anticpate breathlessly the release of J.K. Rowling's final book in the Harry Potter series, "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows". Even though I think that's the silliest title I've ever heard, I'm still craving the rest of the story. I fear that she may kill off Harry, perhaps giving him some afterlife adventures behind the veil, but that just goes along with the dark feel that 2007 has already draped around its shoulders like a cloak. I figure if she really means to stop writing Harry Potter books after this one, the only way she can give that decision finality is to do away with Harry once and for all, otherwise the rest of her life will be plagued by requests to write another. We shall see...

One of my mother's holiday presents to me included a set of DVDs that she had made from old family home movies. Most of them were from 1987-88. Watching these was like opening a window into my past, reliving days, some of which I can't remember at all. I also saw my family dynamics magnified to great proportions in those small moments.

No matter who was holding the camera, my mother or my father, the other one was always standing off to the side offering direction. My father's favorite was, "Put it on Wide Angle!"

***

Mom: "Focus on the seagull! Right there next to you, the seagull!"
(seagull is plainly visible on the screen)

Dad: "I got it."
(camera pans to the Northport Harbor, empty of boats in the cold December wind)

Mom: "Did you get the seagull?"

Dad: "I GOT IT!!!"

Mom: (petulantly) "Well, focus on it again, and I'll get out and make it fly away."

(Dad gets out of the car, and the sound of the "door ajar" bell sounds, on and on as he walks away, lost in the act of capturing the scenery)

Mom: (angry) "Could you shut the door?"

( off camera *SLAM!*)

***

When my dad held the camera, it was inevitably while he was driving the car. He drove all over our neighborhood, holding the video camera on the dashboard, narrating and singing made-up songs and barking out laughter along the way. He was completely alone in the vehicle, doing his own stand-up routine and shaking the camera to illustrate when he snickered at his own jokes. I shudder to think what horrors could have happened while he was multitasking, racing down the hills and cackling at his joke that the brakes had failed.

When my mom held the camera, the film was always silent. She refused to do a running commentary. She walked from room to room in my aunt's house in North Carolina, scanning the lace bedspreads, the antique furniture, and doing dramatic close-ups of every single framed photo or print on the walls. On one hand, it irritated me and made me impatient. I wanted to shout at the screen. On the other hand, my aunt's old house is now occupied by other people, and those beautifully appointed rooms are no more - so I suppose my mom knew something that we did not. Tempus fugit.

On the rare occasions that my sister and I got to operate the camera, things were different yet. My sister inherited my father's gift of gab, and zany sense of humor, and gave a running commentary of everything she filmed. My father, however, didn't like being out of the spotlight, and interrupted her every few seconds to tell her what to focus on, even though he hated it when my mom did that to him. My sister attempted to keep her banter going, but at one point her patience broke and she let loose some of that acerbic wit at my dad.

When I got to use the camera, I was smart enough to get away from everyone. I took the camera up into the woods in the mountains of NC where my grandmother and uncle live, and I filmed the melting of huge icicles on a boulder. I shot closeups of snow covered roots, then panned back and up to show the creek below, rushing alongside the mountain road that connected all the houses up in the valley. I didn't narrate, because it was not that kind of film. Later in life, I did a running commentary on video while walking through the streets of Nashville, making a holiday video to send to all my family, to show off my new home. But in this 1987 film, I was silent, and let the rushing creek water and the mountain wildlife make the soundtrack on their own.

Watching these home movies was as painful as it was funny. I laughed, I cried. My Nana was in one of them, and my Great Aunt Alice, both of whom have moved beyond the veil. It was so good to see them again. Seeing my family all together again, knowing that it was not very long before we would be divided by divorce papers, brought back so many feelings that I'd forgotten I had. Seeing my mother on film, looking so young, realizing that she was only slightly older in these movies than I am right now, gave me the strange feeling of looking into a funhouse mirror.

Seeing myself with my permed and hot-rollered hair, my jeans with the integrated lace patches on the thighs, my white high-top sneakers, my high-school jacket, my slim and muscular legs, made me see what I used to be. Seeing myself at graduation from the police academy, goofing around with some of my fellow female graduates, dropping to the floor and doing pushups, laughing and saying farewell to the guys next to whom I'd run, fought, sweated, and studied for six months, I craved that feeling again.

Strangest of all was seeing the man that I would someday marry, handsome in his dark blue uniform, striding across the stage and snapping a smart salute (a real salute, so much nicer than the salutes of those of us who were never in the military) before receiving his diploma and shaking the hand of the county executive before marching smartly offstage. It boggles my mind, now that I love him and know how wonderful he is, that I could have known him then and let him get away from me for eight long years. I look at him now, and I think of the eight years of making love, the eight years of enjoying each other's laughter, the (children?) things we missed out on... and I know you can't go back in time, and I know things might not have worked out at all the way they are now if we would have gotten together back then, but I can't help giving myself a huge mental kick for brushing off my mom's advice. She told me he was the one, way back then. I didn't listen.

I think there are things in life that you have to come to on your own.

Cattle thieving, or just taking stock?

I don't know if it's because I just turned forty, or because the year 2006 is almost in its grave, but I have definitely been having some inward-turning thoughts lately. Not the kind of thoughts where I wonder if I should really get a pedicure, or the kind of thoughts where I promise to do better next year.

No, the thoughts I've been having lately are the kind that make my heart thump uncomfortably in my chest and draw my breath short. They're the kind that would be nightmares, except that I have them while I'm awake.

Made the mistake of going to bed really early two nights ago, because I felt like I was coming down with something, and my stress levels have been pegged the past few months. It was a bad thing to do, because I woke up before the alarm went off the next morning. The bedroom windows were pitch black - a bad sign. Got up to take a weasel, and by the time I got back in bed, my brain was on the rollercoaster to hell.

What if we never, ever get any tenants in our front house? Will we just live here forever, paying for the utilities in that empty house? Will we spend the rest of our lives working every second of every day to pay the mortgage? Did we make the wrong decision five years ago, buying this place? Should we just have given up and rented another apartment? What if I never find a job that I really like? What if Bear never gets a good job with medical coverage? When will we ever be able to take a real vacation together? What if we just get old and poor and lose the house and the cats die and we end up wandering the streets in our winter coats in July, with our belongings tied up in plastic Waldbaums shopping bags?

See how the thoughts go, from rational worries about finances (or whatever), straight down the slippery slope into the swamp of fear? Yeah, that's what I get for going to bed early. The next night, I made sure I stayed up until midnight, so even though it meant I got only six hours, at least I slept until the alarm rang.

Bear and I are two of the odd ones. We never "fit in", except with each other. We don't really have any friends, aside from a couple of single guys that come over to cook out and drink beer once in a while. We have no social life, either together or separately. 9 times out of 10, when we invite someone over to our house, they seem to have a good time, but they never return the invite. I don't have girlfriends. He doesn't have guy friends. We pretty much spend our time alone, together. Same thing goes for work - neither one of us can stand to kiss someone's ass for money, so we've both gone from job to job to job, endlessly looking for the one place where our talents will be appreciated and our work compensated fairly. Apparently both of us watched WAY too many movies in the 1980's.

As a matter of fact, it just may be the 1980's that ruined me for the real world. Or maybe it was just the movies in general. Vivian was a broke hooker in "Pretty Woman" - but it all worked out for her, in the end. Bridget Jones fucked up every single social and work situation she was ever in, but it was all okay by the time the final credits rolled. Molly "Pretty in Pink" Ringwald made her own clothing and was the oddball in school, but it all worked out for her, too. Kevin Bacon got away with dancing like a gay gymnast and wearing really stupid clothes in "Footloose", but he got the girl at last.

But here in the real world, being the oddball actually doesn't work out all that well. I feel as though I've been walking upstream in shoulder-deep water for a very long time, and the tide is rising. Back when it was around my ankles, it was fun to splash and kick and make a scene. By the time the water reached my hips, walking was more difficult but I still had hopes that I'd flag down a passing speedboat on my travels, and learn to water ski. Now, the water is lapping around my nostrils.

I'm not getting any younger, and I'm asking bigger questions. Did I do something wrong? Make a bad decision? Is there something inherently wrong with me that makes me the square peg every single time? Am I a freak of nature? Why is self confidence considered arrogance when I possess it, but considered a great asset when other people do? Why am I unable to move with the crowd, kiss the boss's ass, remain in one place or at one job for longer than a year? Did I miss my calling? Should I have run away with the circus when I was 12?

With every turn of the wheel, the options become fewer. I am no longer the girl with the whole world before me. I am turning into the woman whose life is passing her by. And I can't figure out how I got here. To be truthful, maybe I can follow the breadcrumb trail back into my past, but I can't see how I could have done things any other way, and remained true to who I am.

I just wonder why "who I am" doesn't seem to be good enough any more.

Special Holiday Moments

"How the Grinch Stole Christmas" (1966)

You nauseate me, Mr. Grinch.
With a nauseaus super-naus.
You're a crooked jerky jockey
And you drive a crooked horse.
Mr. Grinch.

You're a three decker saurkraut and toadstool
sandwich
With arsenic sauce.

"It's a Wonderful Life" (1946)

Paste it, Daddy!

"Prancer" (1989)

You tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest man that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. No Santa Claus! Thank GOD! He lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Christmas in Killarney - or even Long Island

In amongst the running hither and yon, last minute shopping, the endless cycle of working and more working, Bear found time to bring a little holiday spirit even to the Buddha...

We also carpe'd the diem (or nightem, actually) and took our yearly Christmas Light Ride. Bear bought a couple of boxes of candy canes, I printed out the "Prettiest Lights on the Block Award" cards on the computer, and we tied them to the candy canes with pieces of ribbon.

Then we donned our Santa hats and headed out to cruise the local neighborhoods, listening to holiday music on the radio and singing along, and looking at the fantastic, funny, quirky, overdone, tacky, lovely, and just plain weird holiday lighting and decorations. When we saw one that really made us stop and take notice, Bear would pull over and I'd hop out, candy cane in hand, and hang it on the door knob or the gatepost for the homeowners to (hopefully) find, so they'd know we appreciate their artistry and show of holiday spirit.


We always include a stop for a bite to eat in some low-key joint, like a fast food place or a diner. This time it was a diner. We'd just ordered our bacon and swiss cheeseburger deluxes, and in walked a homeless man with a white beard, a red flannel shirt, and a backpack. He went to the restrooms, and when he came out, the owner of the diner came over to speak with him. For a moment, I was afraid he'd ask the man to leave, since he was probably not intending to stay and pay for a meal, but was using the restrooms to wash up. Instead, the owner asked the man to sit down at the counter, and they brought him something hot to eat. The waitresses seemed to know the man, and they came by to say hello and chat with him for a moment. It was a good feeling, seeing that there is still some peace on earth and goodwill toward men.


As we were heading homeward, something ran along the side of the road and stopped beside a large tree. Bear said, "Hey, did you see that fox?" I peered over next to the tree and saw a long tail. I said, "That's not a fox, it's a cat." Before I took another breath, Bear swung the steering wheel and turned into the driveway nearest the tree. There, in the headlights, trotting away from us, was a beautiful red fox. He stopped and turned to look at us, and we looked at him, and then we each went our separate ways. It was another good feeling, to know that humans haven't completely stamped out all the wildlife on the island with our cars, our strip malls, our overpopulation and our overpavement.

When we pulled into our own driveway at last, our eyes dazzled by the endless light displays, our Santa hats slightly askew, we smiled and kissed and congratulated ourselves on another successful Christmas Light Ride. As we walked to the house, we looked up at the stars - and saw an enormous, glowing white shooting star arc down out of the sky. I could have sworn it splashed down in the ocean just a few blocks from our house - it was that large, that bright, and looked that close.

It was a perfect ending to a perfect evening.

Happy holidays, bloggers - may you all have a blessed Yuletide!

Take a breather

On her way to the microwave (yes, the microwave that recently poured forth noxious fumes as a result of burning a hole in a moldy sponge), a coworker asked if I'd like some popcorn. I said no, thanks for asking though.

I thought I was safe.

The microwave at our office, like everything and everyone else here, is dysfunctional. The rotating plate doesn't work, so the inserted item just sits there like a lump, getting lasered at whatever spot the waves converge, leaving that spot burnt and the rest of it cold.

So the popcorn burned. Which stunk up the whole office. Especially my room, since she brought the bag back in with her, opened it, and proceeded to eat the nasty, burned, latent mold-spore infected popcorn.

Then she decided the room didn't smell quite right. Before I could stop her, she whipped a bottle of some kind of disgusting old lady perfume out of her purse and sprayed it several times into the air.

My sinuses swelled up and slammed shut so fast I think the crackheads down on the sidewalk heard it happen. They probably just thought someone else fell in the dumpster. Then came the raging headache.

When I come to work wearing a gas mask tomorrow, of course I'll be labeled the weirdo, right?

Marcheline Maxes Out

Well, it was bound to happen. Working all the time, tired all the time, then I get an exploding front tire on my truck while driving home from work in the pitch dark, which cost $50 to fix, and when I get home there's a big package waiting for me. It's from my mom - mistletoe and holly and pine and magnolia and nandina boughs from the trees around her house, to decorate mine. I call her and talk to her on the phone while I open it, and then there's the CD she sent me for my birthday - a recording of the Mozart choir cantata she sang in which I wasn't able to attend. Inside is a memoriam to my uncle, who died a few months ago. Then I tell her to open the gifts I sent to her and my sister (the homemade vinegar in antique bottles), and my sister's bottle was smashed to smithereens.

Yes, folks, I went upstairs and had myself a good cry.

And no, folks, I didn't look nearly this good doing it.

By the sound of it...

I sit by a window that overlooks a very busy street in a very crappy part of Long Island. Sometimes I can hardly hear people on the phone because of the sirens, people on the street screaming and cursing, brakes squealing, and impatient motorists blowing their horns at the delivery trucks, who park half on the sidewalk and half in traffic.

Most of the noise pollution gives me a literal headache. Most of it annoys the bejeebers out of me. But there is one thing that does not.

The sound of motorcycles revving - be they Harleys or Rice Rockets. I love the sound of bikes revving. It lets me know that, somewhere within earshot of my private hell, someone is free, and loving it.

My husband is so romantic

He went to Borders last week to try and get me the January 2007 issue of Vogue because Angie is on the cover, and he knew I was dying to get my hands on it. They still had the tired old December issue on the shelf. As if I want to look at Nicole Kidman.



I dragged him back to Borders on Sunday, with the excuse that hey, they get magazines delivered all the time, and I bet they got the new Vogue in while we weren't looking! Well, they hadn't.


On the way back to the house, he asked if I wanted to swing by the local airport to see if their news stand had the magazine. I said nah, that would just be a big pain in the ass. He said no, it would be really easy. He'd just pull over at the curb, I could run inside to the news stand, and he would drive around the traffic circle until he saw me come out again. He even pointed out that the last time I was hot to get a big Angie cover issue magazine, we'd found it right there at the airport.


So I said yeah, let's do it. He pulled up to the curb, I hopped out, and scurried inside to the news stand. Not only did they have the Vogue issue I sought, but also a double People issue with Angie and Brad on the cover! SCORE.


See, romance is not when a guy gives you some expensive gift for which he secretly expects sexual favors in return. True romance is when a guy goes out of his way to help you get something that he doesn't benefit from in any way, when helping you get it means he is going to have an even larger pile of magazines to trip over on the way to his computer desk, and the only reason he helps you get it is because he knows you want it so much.

The Big Four Oh

Well. Here it is. The age that women bemoan and wail about and hide and cover up and ignore and run away from and dread.

40.

At three o'clock this afternoon, I turned forty. To tell the truth, it wasn't all that bad. As a matter of fact, I didn't really notice it at all, because the Redcoats decided to ride across my abdomen today and the cramps took away my ability to focus on my age.


Looking back, there's nothing about my life that I regret. I've tried almost everything I've ever wanted to try, succeeded at some things, and just had a plain old good time even with the things that didn't work out as planned.

I've traveled all over Scotland by myself, I've been the only girl to pass a fire department physical test that kills some big tough men every year, I've been a police officer, and a flight attendant, and I've become the wife of the best man in the world. I've done CPR on an actual human, I've moved to a city where I neither had a job nor any friends, and made it on my own.

I've also gone against my family when they tried to hold me back (out of genuine concern, of course) and been the black sheep whenever it was necessary to make my point or keep my individuality. I've gotten tattoos that mean something to me. I've gotten up on stages under spotlights in clubs in front of strangers and played the guitar and sung songs that I wrote, not knowing if anyone would like them.

I've been in plays. I've been a dancer in music videos. I've been an extra in movies. I've met famous people. I've made friends with street vendors in New York City. I've learned to play the piano, the banjo, the Irish tin whistle, the bodhran, the guitar, the bagpipe chanter, and the celtic lap harp (some better than others). I taught myself to crochet. I have learned to speak and write Spanish. I was challenged to a horseback race by a Native American horse farmer in the Arizona desert. Trick was, I had to use a new horse that they hadn't tried out yet. I accepted - and won.

But just because I'm forty, I don't think it's time to stop trying new things and chasing dreams. I'm not giving up, laying down and taking it quietly, or fading away into old age. There are things yet left to do.

I want to write a book. Fly in a fighter jet. Travel with my husband on a real, honest-to-goodness vacation. Get a job that I love. Go hot air ballooning. Drive the Pacific Coast Highway in a red convertible. Things like that.

The next 40 years?

BRING IT ON!

So, ah...

On the way to work this morning, I was listening to the BBC World News. Not because I'm up on politics or even current events. Partly because I love listening to people with british accents, and partly because I finished my Harry Potter audio book and forgot to bring the next one with me.

They were doing a report on China, and I heard two things during this broadcast that caused my eyebrows to do a one-and-a-half full gainer backwards over the top of my head.


1. The tallest man in the world (7', 8.95"), Mongolian herdsman Bao Xishun, was called in to save some dolphins' lives. Veterinarians were unable to reach some plastic that they had swallowed, so this dude put his hand down their throats and pulled the junk out of their stomachs.

Just sit back and let that one roll around in your head for a moment or two.

2. Rolls Royce has stated in a recent report that China represents their biggest customer base.


Okay... so they like the brand... but when they order one, what do they call it?

***

How I know I'm losing my mind

I just checked my blog, and there was a Google ad on the sidebar titled "Padded Underpants for Men and Women". I racked my brain, trying to think of what the hell I could have blogged about that prompted this particular ad... but when I opened my blog again, the ad was gone.

I googled the words "padded underpants" and came up with an assortment of pictures of varying degrees of horrificality, this one in particular... "padded nylon panties for men" - with pictures of John Travolta on them!

There are too many questions. The greatest one being WHY?!?!?

I may never recover.

Marcheline's nod to popular culture:

Because this little fucker is so cute I just want to eat it, floppy ears and all.

See, this is what I mean

So my boss has been harping on me lately to "be part of the team". Join in, be supportive, participate, rah rah rah, aren't we great, etc. Apparently I've been pointing out that the emperor has no clothes on, and that's just not acceptable. My non-participation in helping to blow smoke up everyone's ass is making said smoke too easy to see through. My bad.

I came in this morning to find out that she and the two office managers had a pow-wow last week to write a new set of policies and procedures for my department. Including assigning me some nasty extra work that no one else wanted to do. My manager didn't go to bat for me in the slightest, and the reason the other manager was in on the meeting is beyond me, since she has nothing whatsoever to do with my department. I'm sure she was just there to make sure her side of the office didn't get any extra work.

So they had their little party without bothering to solicit my input, they wrote up the new deal, and my manager dropped it on my desk today - a fait accompli.

Boy, I really feel like a member of the team now.

On the label label label...

This is the front of the card I made up to go on the bottles of homemade red wine vinegar that everyone is getting from us for Yule this year.

And this is the inside:


I found some pretty, thin, wine-colored ribbon and tied one to each bottle. I get so into this shit, I wish I could do stuff like this for a living instead of pimping my soul to the devil to get by. Thing is, doing stuff like this takes a lot of time and some initial investment, neither of which one has when one is scrambling to make the bills each month.

The inside and outside of the card are the same color, but because I had to scan the inside of the card, it looks like it's a different color. But it's not. Just in case you were wondering.

Ah, well, at least I get to indulge at Yuletide and give my creativity a little room to run.

In which Marcheline wimps out

Today was my day to work a double shift at the restaurant. I got there at 11AM, and set up everything for the lunch service. The other waitress wasn't scheduled to come in until half an hour later, and when she got there the manager told us she needed all the big bar stools taken to the basement because of the big party tonight. I was a sweaty mess before I'd even served one table - those bar stools are heavy, and the stairs are long!

When tables finally started coming in, I got saddled with a drug rep and a bunch of doctors, all of whom were on different time schedules and all of whom needed special attention - from "I'm a vegetarian" to "can I have my order to go" (an order which was placed, oh, four minutes ago?). This table threw off my vibe considerably, but I was able to recover and move on.

Lunch was pretty decent, made just a little over fifty bucks. Then dinner started. Or didn't. The owner of our eatery decided to have a "grand opening bash" oh, four point six months AFTER we were already OPEN (wtf???) and had a live jazz band in the bar, and free cocktails and hors d'ouevres. Which means that there were a lot of happily drunk people dressed up and crammed into the bar area, occasionally spilling out into the dining room and blocking our tables, and almost no one eating dinner. The mayor was there. There were senators and town board members and bunches of other people I couldn't name or recognize. The music was good, but so loud that telling the specials to the few patrons who braved today's cold snap was more like screaming at a football game.

After I'd served one table, I developed a thumping headache. I think it was the music. Or the fact that in a mere eight days, I will be forty years old. In any case, the band had decided to glom one of the three tables in my section for themselves, and I just felt the air go out of me. I stood and watched all the partygoers mingling and tossing back their shiny, coiffed hair, and their shiny, coiffed drinks, and it struck me that I should be out there, enjoying the party, instead of being one of the peons who had to work on a Friday night.

I've always said that my age had nothing to do with anything - I never put any restrictions on myself because I was "too old" (or, for that matter, "too young") for anything. I just did what I wanted to do. But today I felt my grip slipping a little. Lately I feel completely inappropriate in almost every situation.

For example, when the band first started playing, everyone at the restaurant was digging it. When their first number came to an end, I clapped, to show appreciation. It was a conservative clap, not a raucous "woot woot" kind of clap. But. No one else clapped. Nobody. Not even one other person. Even the band members swivelled their heads around as if they couldn't believe anyone actually clapped anymore - how 1980's! I tried to become invisible, and hoped that no one had actually seen me clapping. There's a rule - if no one can actually pin the embarrassing activity on you with proof, then it wasn't you.

I suppose my mood wasn't helped any by the fact that I carted my cell phone around in my apron pocket all day with high hopes, and the damn game show people never called me. Not that I really expected to be called, but if I'm not even cool enough to be on a game show hosted by former space dork William Shitner, then I must be pretty lame, indeed.

Then there was the fact that the busgirl (who looks exactly like the Wicked Witch of the West) had a nagging cough and insisted on following me all over the place, telling me in great detail about every final exam she has coming up at school, and how many papers she has to write, and how her mother is ruining her life, and her boyfriend's parents are taking back his bedroom, which used to be the garage, because they want a garage again, but there aren't any bedrooms left in the house, and what is he going to do now?

It was all I could do not to offer to give her the ruby slippers if she'd just leave me the fuck alone and stop coughing in my air space.

In an uncharacteristic wimpy-ass move, I finally gave up. After one table of two - who were very lovely people and great tippers, by the way - I asked to be "cut" (let go). Without talking to anyone, I slipped out the side door. As I walked down the sidewalk past the lamp posts with their cheerful holiday wreaths alight, I saw groups of other happy people, dressed up to go out for their Friday night partying, and I shivered, pulled my coat a little tighter over my waitressing uniform, and got into my truck.

This is not what I was going to say

I was looking for an image to top tonight's post, and came across this page. It's a logical proof that college is a complete waste of time. Which you may already know, if you've been to college. In any case, it's pretty hysterical, so I thought I'd share it with all of you before I get down to brass tacks.

You can't make this shit up (OR) I'll take what's behind curtain #3!!!

You know how drinking coffee is just an excuse to get more cream and sugar into your body? Well, salad is just an excuse to ingest more asian garlic sesame-oil salad dressing. Which is why I'm sitting here in front of my computer, nursing a glass of red wine and dunking chunks of sourdough bread into my glass measuring cup, which is where I always mix my homemade salad dressings. Not a leaf of lettuce in sight.

Now that confessional time is over, I am free to move on to what I did today, and why there's a picture of Elizabeth Shue, taken at her 80's highlighted shaggy-maned best, at the top of this post. I just know you're breathless with anticipation.

Cruising craigslist.com every day as I always do, looking for meaningful, gainful employment, I happened to come across a casting call for a game show called "Show Me the Money". Honestly, I've never heard of this show. The only thing that came to mind was Cuba Gooding, Jr. in his boxers shouting "Show me the money!!" in his kitchen in that movie he did with Tom Scientology Freak Cruise. And that made me smile. So I kept on reading the ad.

Basically, it said that if you had any brains at all, you'd send an email to the television show's producer, whose name was something like Chet Smiley or somefuck, and he'd email you a "VIP Pass" and an application, which would move you directly to the head of the line when you showed up for the casting call at a bar in Wantagh that was literally minutes from where I work, in Nassau county.

So I sent the email, and wondered if I was going to receive the "VIP pass" in my email in time for the casting call, which was tonight. Lo and behold, there it was. And the application form. Which was TEN. PAGES. LONG.

When I say ten pages, I'm not talking about ten fethtive, frivolous pages asking you what kind of ice cream you like and whether you think O.J. really did it. I'm talking about ten pages of time consuming, soul searching, gut wrenching questions!

Naturally, I filled this application out during work today, which took a lot of the pressure off. But I'm telling you, people, this was no ordinary application! I had to divulge secrets! I had to DRAW A SELF PORTRAIT!!! (What I did was draw a very large nose and just the top of a pair of smiling lips, and below that I wrote "Damn, how do you focus this thing, anyway?")

I HAD TO WRITE A FUCKING POEM!

(Note: I had actually posted the poem, but later realized it contained my NAME, so I deleted it and now you'll all have to go to your graves wondering what the hell that poem said, unless you tuned in during the half an hour that I mindlessly left the poem up on this post... if any of you read it, keep yer traps shut unless they're open to laugh. I, for one, should learn not to blog while drinking.)

As I waited on line to get in, I called Bear on my cell phone to let him know I'd arrived at the bar and was waiting outside. There was a chick behind me, also on her cell phone, telling someone she was there, and waiting outside. Once we'd both hung up, I figured I'd talk to her, since it was getting cold and dark, and I felt like half a geek standing there by myself, and the creepy guy in front of me was wearing a hooded sweatshirt that had an emblem on the back of two silhouetted strippers with huge boobs (nipples erect) that said, "Skin Trade 98", so he wasn't on my top100 list of potential waiting-in-line companionship.

So the girl behind me in line ended up being really funny, excellently snarky, and pretty damn cool. Her name is Amy, and she lives in New York City. The Big Apple. And here I was, thinking how tough and cool it was that I came out there by myself, and she freakin' took the TRAIN (and a taxi) all by herself, just to come to this audition! Now that's balls, folks.

Part of the fun of waiting on line was seeing what other people thought was "television audition wear". There were the typical jeans and high heeled boots and long bleached hair chicks, the metrosexual guys who wore velvet smoking jackets and ten tons of hair gel, and then there were regular people in sweatshirts and sneakers who looked like they just showed up to see what was going on.

One lady had her "Grateful Greyhounds" jacket on, and halfway through the wait, her friend showed up with the actual grateful greyhound, who was sporting his very own winter coat and scarf, which I was glad for, since those dogs look so pitiful and skinny to me even though I know it's how they're "supposed" to look.

There was one heavy set black chick with bleached ringlets that I just KNOW is going to make it on the show, since a) she was really pretty and had a good personality, and b) she was one of maybe three black folks that showed up to audition and c) they asked us our ethnicity right on the quiz form, which means there must be a quota. She kinda looked like Mary J. Blige before she joined Weight Watchers. Or after she quit.

Just when we were wondering if we'd be standing out on the sidewalk freezing our asses off forever, they finally called for the folks with VIP passes, and we got let inside. First thing they did was hand us a "quiz".... a couple hundred freakin' questions, and we were supposed to answer them as best we could. Well, I knew that Emily and Charlotte's last name was Bronte, but I sure as fuck forgot that the chick who starred with Tom Scientology Freak Cruise in the movie "Cocktail" was Elizabeth Shue!

DAMN!!! How COULD I forget THAT? Do you know what I wrote as an answer? "Not Ally Sheedy".... because the only friggin' name that would come to mind was Ally Sheedy, and I knew that wasn't right! The reason this is even more relevant (can you take it?) is that Amy, my audition buddy, LOOKS LIKE ELIZABETH SHUE! (With shorter hair.) If I would have just turned my head and looked at her, I'm sure I would have remembered the name.

And then. Then there were questions about presidents. And football. And geography. And more presidents. None of which I knew. All of which I made up freaky answers for. I did answer quite a few of the questions correctly, although I'm damned if I can remember those questions now. The ones that keep coming to mind are the ones I know I bollocksed up royally. Like the one about the Egyptian president who got assassinated in nineteen-eighty-something. I think I wrote "AKA AMAKKALAKA". Really. It sounded Egyptian, sort of.

During this whole quiz-taking process, there was really loud music playing on the bar sound system, and other contestants who had already been escorted to the magic world behind the folding screens were screaming and yelling and whooping, and I got the feeling they were trying their best to make it impossible to think in there. They did a pretty good job.

Everything was pretty much okay, though - until this guy that looked like Keith Urban and David Spade's love-child on crack showed up and sat next to me at the table. He was coughing and hacking phlegmily during the entire time he was filling out his quiz. I told Amy later that we'll certainly come down with diptheria thanks to Mr. Sicky. She said he should have taken his cough medicine before coming to the audition. I said I'd have settled for his taking a shower.

Once the quiz portion of the evening was over, we were called "backstage" in groups of five or so, to have a personal interview with a real live television game show interviewer! And if you think these people weren't sick of all our gung-ho guff, you're kidding yourself. But we all answered the questions as energetically as we could (Amy had the balls to introduce the subject of anal leakage into the conversation, which had me howling, and some of the other contestants looking extremely nervous).

It was my bad luck to have another contestant with my first name in my group. This NEVER happens! But there it was, and she was a total normal-nerd. Her answer to the profession question was, "stay at home mom". I understand this is a noble, difficult, and low-paying profession, granted, but the answer these television people are looking for is "stunt car driver". I was trying to distance myself as much as possible from her, so they would remember that I was the crazy, daredevil, do anything and come out on top chick.

I think my favorite moment must have been when the interviewer asked for something about us that wouldn't be obvious to the audience, and the hard-bitten, saggy-faced chain smoker with the bleached blond hair and the tight jeans cawed, "MY AGE. I'm FIFTY-TWO." We all oohed and ahhed and looked appropriately shocked, but not for the reason she thought. We had all assumed she was somewhere in her upper sixties, I think. I caught Amy's eye across the circle and we silently dared each other to keep a straight face. I think I broke eye contact first, because I was just so very close to snorting. It just wouldn't have been nice. Especially since this woman obviously hangs her existence on how young she thinks she looks.

Well, after the ordeal was over, Amy asked if I'd like to grab a post-interview beer, and I said yes. I offered to drive her back to the train station to save her the cab fare, and she bought my beer in return. We sat down next to this funny silver-haired Irish guy, who asked if we'd had to tap dance or sing for the audition. Amy started to give him a straight answer, but I yelled across, "No - we had to show our butts!"

The guy's face froze up, and he looked horrified. Then Amy and I both cracked up, and he realized he'd been "had". The highlight of our ensuing conversation with this guy was when he told us he'd had so many teeth pulled out that when he eats peanuts, they get stuck in the holes. Ah, the enchanting pick-up lines of ancient Ireland. They just don't go over so well in 2006, more's the pity.

We quaffed a Bass Ale each, chatted with the human snack-pack a while, and then headed out for the train station.

The guys at the interview said that we'd be hearing from them within 24 hours if we made it.

My cell phone is charged and ready (as if).

Tempus fugit

Today at work I dropped my red felt-tipped pen as I was making corrections on some paperwork. It occurred to me how little time it took to bend over and pick up the pen. Then I started thinking... what about all the other little mistakes I've made throughout my life that sucked up just a few seconds? What about every time I've left the house and forgotten something I meant to bring out to the car with me? Every time I've dropped the wooden spoon in the kitchen? Every time I've gone up/down the stairs without the item I went down/up to get in the first place? How many hours, or days, or weeks of my life have been spent picking up, going back, fixing? I wonder.

It's that time already!

Not only do I love days off, I love days off with Bear. And one of the best parts about a day off with Bear is the morning - sitting and sharing quiet time over cups of steaming coffee, wearing our comfy sweats and bathrobes, discussing what we're going to do with our treasure of a day together.

And today is YULE TREE DAY! The weather is cold but blessedly sunny, and after we finish our coffee and blogging, we're going to go downstairs and start clearing out a space for this year's yule tree. This will involve some major creativity on both our parts, as our cottage is so chock-full of eccentricities that finding a place to move my rather large full piano keyboard to will be nearly impossible (and also finding a place for it where I can still use it to play holiday songs on!). But I know we'll figure something out...

Then we'll vacuum and clean the livingroom as much as possible, moving small tables and things out of the path between the door and the spot where the tree will stand (carrying a large pine tree through a cottage can be a dangerous enterprise for folks who suffer from a major case of knicknack-itis).

Then we will head out, be-coated and be-scarfed (be-scarved?) to our favorite Yule tree nursery, which we've already been to once recently (see post on Murtaugh), and we'll start the long process of "let's see this one", "wait, I still like the one we saw on the other side of the lot", and "can you just turn that one around a little more?", until we find the perfect tree.

At some point during this process we'll most likely stop somewhere and grab a bite. Yesterday it was a new BBQ take-out place called "Red Smoke" which KICKED ASS! They had a couple of little tables by their counter, and we perched there and inhaled a couple of "sloppy joe" BBQ sandwiches, which was a delicious combination of pulled pork, pulled brisket, and pulled chicken in a red sauce. We also shared a basket of chili cheese fries that would knock you down. YUMMY! They make a creamed spinach side dish that will make you whoop and holler, too.

Depending on how long all this takes us, we very well may venture up in the attic and bring down all the ornaments and begin the exciting process of decorating! Of course, we'll have to name the tree, as well... so far we've had a Jamie, a "Fir"gus, a Claire, an Ian, an Alastair, a Nairn, and a Hamish. All, as you may note, good Scottish names. Murtaugh, our new addition to the Thistlebright gardens, is also a Scottish name, so we're keeping with the tradition. Wonder what this year's will be?

I love days like this, where the possibilities just stretch out in front of you and warm your heart as the coffee warms your innards. And I love sharing them with Bear, who makes every day a holiday. I'm really starting to feel the holiday spirit now...

At last.... an answer!!!

For those of you who read my blog regularly, or even recently, you'll know I've been wondering why the song "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" follows me around incessantly.

Well, I found out! The following is an excerpt from an email I just received from my friend Margie in South Africa... you know, the one who told me about the "baby in the moon":


"I also must tell you that "somewhere over the rainbow" is one of my signature tunes that I break into with great soul and gusto, and sometimes with great sappiness for no reason or for every subconscious reason. It's my "wailing song", the song that my spirit is singing all the time..."


So now I know why that song has followed me for so long - it's sort of a cosmic email from my buddy Margs! Now, when I hear it again, I will smile and think of her - which is a lot better than scratching my head and saying, "What's with this song AGAIN!?!?!".

Here's to you, Margs - and may the song come true... for both of us!

Stupid but true - (sideways but funny)

This is what happens when I forget to take my stuff to the laundromat and have to be at work, in a clean uniform, in one hour....