It’s funny how the prediction of doom brings people together.
Scott and I sat at a table at Doyle’s for about 5 minutes before the conversation started. The people next to us had looked at a house on the water that they liked enough to buy, but were afraid would not be there after the weekend. Scott’s boat was afloat and tethered to a floating dock, but if the floating dock floated away or the torrents of water exceeded the life of the batteries backing up the bilge pumps, we’d be saying goodbye to weekends on the water. The waitress was a little nervous about what might be happening at home while she served food and drink to people who would rather watch the game than watch the water rise at home.
Soon after dinner plates had been cleared and a last round of cocktails had been ordered, Scott’s daughters appeared at the window of the restaurant having been evacuated from the barrier island where they were working for the summer. Presumably, no one would be on the island to go for a spin on the Bumper Cars. Scott’s sister had boarded the house and fled as well, taking with her the elderly tenant from the first floor apartment and all the memorabilia her car could hold. The girls were looking for a grocery shopping list and volunteering to shop for us. In the spirit of the night, we all headed out together for Apocalypse Shopping.
Acme was reminiscent of the Tickle-Me-Elmo frenzy from a few years ago. Panic. Chaos. Madness. Rock-Paper-Scissors to get the last cart. Debate over who needs the last gallon of bottled of water more. Bribes offered for the last dozen eggs. Insults slung after being beaten to the punch in the bread aisle.
I am not sure about you, but I could survive for weeks, literally weeks, on what is in my house on a given day, with or without the benefit of refrigeration or the ability to cook. Weeks. I am not suggesting we’d all be happy with the menu, but we’d sustain life without difficulty. Even the cat.
But that got me thinking. With all the running around I’d done this week, I’d blown off grocery shopping myself. I had no milk for coffee. No bread for sandwiches. No frozen pizza the kids could make for themselves. And thus would have to join the cast of thousands on Friday evening after having retrieved the kids from Lars’ house.
Yippee. Another trip to the bowels of Hell itself.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Rain Rain Go Away
And as if an earthquake were not quite enough, a hurricane was headed our way. Hurricane Irene. That bitch.
Always the optimist, I ignored all the hype for days, even as heavy rain began to make its way up the coast to Scott's neck of the woods. Gamely hopped in my car after work to trek over hill and dale, blueberry farm and lakeside community, in torrential, teeming rain to Scott's town where we were supposed to go out for dinner.
In a complete funk and what I would describe as a pisspot mood, I pulled into Scott's driveway hours later to find him standing on his front step, waiting for me to arrive and holding a gigantic umbrella. He ran out to my car and greeted me as I opened the door.
"I would choose starvation over going out to dinner," I said as I grabbed my overnight bag and let him escort me to the door of the house. I dumped my bags on the bench in his room that I've claimed for my own and promptly curled up on the bed in my work clothes, assuming a grousing posture.
Scott began to explain. "Dear, I have not been grocery shopping. The girls have been at my sister's so I have maybe a Cup O' Noodles and a pack of crackers."
"I don't care."
He curled up with me and let me brood in silence. Occassionally he'd look over at me scowling and look away quickly before I'd hiss.
After a few minutes, and starting to sound patronizing, but just a little, probably out of hunger, he said, "I can go to Mike's Subs and get us some sandwiches. Maybe something warm. Or a salad. You like their Chicken Caesar. No onions, like you like."
"I know I like their salads." No help from me. In a funkola like no other was I. It is not everyday you nearly hydroplane into a lake.
A few minutes later I abruptly get up and begin to peel off my work clothes. Scott thinks I am getting into my pajamas, which, I won't lie, seemed like the most appealing option I had before me.
He jumps up ready to leap into action. "Should I call Mike's? What would you like?"
"No, I'm putting on something comfortable. We have to go out."
"No really, I can go out! Stay put! What can I order for you?"
"Scott, unless Mike's Subs has a bottle of wine they can sell to you, we need to go out."
"Oh. Is that what you want? Ok, then I guess we'll go to Doyle's."
Yes we will. For wine, food, football and Irene. Crappy dinner company that she is.
Always the optimist, I ignored all the hype for days, even as heavy rain began to make its way up the coast to Scott's neck of the woods. Gamely hopped in my car after work to trek over hill and dale, blueberry farm and lakeside community, in torrential, teeming rain to Scott's town where we were supposed to go out for dinner.
In a complete funk and what I would describe as a pisspot mood, I pulled into Scott's driveway hours later to find him standing on his front step, waiting for me to arrive and holding a gigantic umbrella. He ran out to my car and greeted me as I opened the door.
"I would choose starvation over going out to dinner," I said as I grabbed my overnight bag and let him escort me to the door of the house. I dumped my bags on the bench in his room that I've claimed for my own and promptly curled up on the bed in my work clothes, assuming a grousing posture.
Scott began to explain. "Dear, I have not been grocery shopping. The girls have been at my sister's so I have maybe a Cup O' Noodles and a pack of crackers."
"I don't care."
He curled up with me and let me brood in silence. Occassionally he'd look over at me scowling and look away quickly before I'd hiss.
After a few minutes, and starting to sound patronizing, but just a little, probably out of hunger, he said, "I can go to Mike's Subs and get us some sandwiches. Maybe something warm. Or a salad. You like their Chicken Caesar. No onions, like you like."
"I know I like their salads." No help from me. In a funkola like no other was I. It is not everyday you nearly hydroplane into a lake.
A few minutes later I abruptly get up and begin to peel off my work clothes. Scott thinks I am getting into my pajamas, which, I won't lie, seemed like the most appealing option I had before me.
He jumps up ready to leap into action. "Should I call Mike's? What would you like?"
"No, I'm putting on something comfortable. We have to go out."
"No really, I can go out! Stay put! What can I order for you?"
"Scott, unless Mike's Subs has a bottle of wine they can sell to you, we need to go out."
"Oh. Is that what you want? Ok, then I guess we'll go to Doyle's."
Yes we will. For wine, food, football and Irene. Crappy dinner company that she is.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
The Sky is Falling
I have vertigo. Have I mentioned that?
It was actually a Monday morning following a Girls Weekend that I discovered I had it. Couldn't seem to stay upright. Fell down while drying my hair. Fell down while trying to sit on the toilet. Fell down shaving my legs. It was like my head gained 600 pounds. I just could not keep it off the ground.
And since at the time I was married to Lars, and he was away on an educational rotation in another state, I did what every grown up does. I called my mother.
My mother lived inconveniently an hour away at the time, so she called my Dad, who was living a mile away. He came into my house, threw a sheet over me like a lunatic and called the ambulance. And the games began.
And since then I've learned that I can no longer rollerblade, that I can't walk around in the dark, and that if I can't see the ground that I'm walking on (because maybe I've looked up at the clock on the tower on City Hall) I will not only walk crooked, I may actually not stay entirely erect. It's an ugly little affliction. But one I control by keeping my eyes open and my hand on the railing if I have to look at the person I'm descending the stairs with. No one needs to be accused of being drunk at work.
So imagine my confusion when I was standing in a colleague's office last week and felt the Earth move. I chalked it off to vertigo and thought I'd better refill that allergy prescription until she said, "Liza, is the building moving?" And then I noticed that it was not just my wacky little inner ear follies, it was actually environmental. Her shades were swaying. Because the building was moving.
And being a life-long East-Coaster, the last thing I thought it could be was an earthquake. Honestly, I work in such a low budget, slum-lord style, paint-and-carpet-are-only-lipstick-on-the-pig building in the nation's crime capital with the largest privately held collection of derelict buildings, I assumed that the building was about to collapse.
And nearly came unglued.
When all the inhabitants of the department came out into open office space with looks of confusion, my boss ushered us into the hallway. And from there we could see that the building was truly trembling. And it wasn't improving. It was getting worse. We could see that we were in and out of alignment with the parking garage. The attached parking garage.
Into the fire stairs we went. Me in my kitten heel flowered sandals and impossibly straight skirt, running down 5 flights of stairs, pit stains forming on the cool blouse Charlotte just gave me. I began to say Hail Mary's loud enough for the whole lot of us to hear. Surely Mary would hear.
Once outside I ran from the building hoping to dodge whatever debris would surely be falling by then, but not looking up because taking my eyes off the ground would make me fall down... damn vertigo.
I boldly stopped traffic to let all the building occupants cross the street. Feeling safe somehow next to a dilapidated brick house that probably would crash to the ground from the force of our building collapsing. A no win situation.
And once there, a colleague got a text from her husband. It was not that our building was finally just crumbing, but a 5.8 earthquake in Virginia that would be felt from Georgia to Canada. It was just getting rolling when it rumbled through my little corner of commercial office space.
I was at once relieved to learn that my building was not slum enough to actually be falling down(though I wanted a word with the fire department when they cleared the building to be entered occupied again.)
But what I realized next was my deepest fear that day. It was not that I feared being bonked on the head by a flying chunk of cinder block. Or that the world had gone mad. Or that we were the object of an attack of some kind.
It was that suddenly and all too soon, I would die. And that I was not prepared. I have living to do, and love to give, and things to accomplish and lessons I need to teach my children.
And the worst part of that was, if I were to die, my innocent children would be left to be raised solely by Lars. The nut. The ogre. The bully. The Very Bad Person. That they would feel so lost without me. That they would dispare. They would have No Way Out.
And when we were allowed back in our building and had climbed the stairs to resume our work and finish the day, I quietly closed my door and cried. Just a little. For reasons I still can't completely explain.
It was actually a Monday morning following a Girls Weekend that I discovered I had it. Couldn't seem to stay upright. Fell down while drying my hair. Fell down while trying to sit on the toilet. Fell down shaving my legs. It was like my head gained 600 pounds. I just could not keep it off the ground.
And since at the time I was married to Lars, and he was away on an educational rotation in another state, I did what every grown up does. I called my mother.
My mother lived inconveniently an hour away at the time, so she called my Dad, who was living a mile away. He came into my house, threw a sheet over me like a lunatic and called the ambulance. And the games began.
And since then I've learned that I can no longer rollerblade, that I can't walk around in the dark, and that if I can't see the ground that I'm walking on (because maybe I've looked up at the clock on the tower on City Hall) I will not only walk crooked, I may actually not stay entirely erect. It's an ugly little affliction. But one I control by keeping my eyes open and my hand on the railing if I have to look at the person I'm descending the stairs with. No one needs to be accused of being drunk at work.
So imagine my confusion when I was standing in a colleague's office last week and felt the Earth move. I chalked it off to vertigo and thought I'd better refill that allergy prescription until she said, "Liza, is the building moving?" And then I noticed that it was not just my wacky little inner ear follies, it was actually environmental. Her shades were swaying. Because the building was moving.
And being a life-long East-Coaster, the last thing I thought it could be was an earthquake. Honestly, I work in such a low budget, slum-lord style, paint-and-carpet-are-only-lipstick-on-the-pig building in the nation's crime capital with the largest privately held collection of derelict buildings, I assumed that the building was about to collapse.
And nearly came unglued.
When all the inhabitants of the department came out into open office space with looks of confusion, my boss ushered us into the hallway. And from there we could see that the building was truly trembling. And it wasn't improving. It was getting worse. We could see that we were in and out of alignment with the parking garage. The attached parking garage.
Into the fire stairs we went. Me in my kitten heel flowered sandals and impossibly straight skirt, running down 5 flights of stairs, pit stains forming on the cool blouse Charlotte just gave me. I began to say Hail Mary's loud enough for the whole lot of us to hear. Surely Mary would hear.
Once outside I ran from the building hoping to dodge whatever debris would surely be falling by then, but not looking up because taking my eyes off the ground would make me fall down... damn vertigo.
I boldly stopped traffic to let all the building occupants cross the street. Feeling safe somehow next to a dilapidated brick house that probably would crash to the ground from the force of our building collapsing. A no win situation.
And once there, a colleague got a text from her husband. It was not that our building was finally just crumbing, but a 5.8 earthquake in Virginia that would be felt from Georgia to Canada. It was just getting rolling when it rumbled through my little corner of commercial office space.
I was at once relieved to learn that my building was not slum enough to actually be falling down(though I wanted a word with the fire department when they cleared the building to be entered occupied again.)
But what I realized next was my deepest fear that day. It was not that I feared being bonked on the head by a flying chunk of cinder block. Or that the world had gone mad. Or that we were the object of an attack of some kind.
It was that suddenly and all too soon, I would die. And that I was not prepared. I have living to do, and love to give, and things to accomplish and lessons I need to teach my children.
And the worst part of that was, if I were to die, my innocent children would be left to be raised solely by Lars. The nut. The ogre. The bully. The Very Bad Person. That they would feel so lost without me. That they would dispare. They would have No Way Out.
And when we were allowed back in our building and had climbed the stairs to resume our work and finish the day, I quietly closed my door and cried. Just a little. For reasons I still can't completely explain.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Labor of Love
I pause from my own follies to reflect for a moment on Labor Day. Which was yesterday, in case in the rush to get your kids out the door to the bus and into the classroom not looking like they were raised by wolves, you've forgotten.
Yesterday, I joined Scott on the boat for the first time since the storm (which we'll get to...) We were lucky to have not had it sink and luckier to have it in one piece after floating with the floating dock to unfamiliar places before settling right back where we always expect to find it.
I knew Scott would be busy hosing it down and cleaning it to make it sparkle, and we were taking Charlie (the neurotic King Charles Cavalier) and I would need to find something to do to entertain myself. I took the laptop.
And as I sat in the morning sun, firing up the Internet to answer e-mails and muse about the week that was, I saw in the smooth dark screen, my own reflection, most prominently, my hands. And I was struck by their appearance. Not their age, not their grooming, but their similarity to my father's hands.
I think I may have paused watching them, in their natural position of work, for a full 3 minutes, which if you are me, may as well be an eternity.
My dad's hands were massive. Mine are tiny. So it is not that. But the shape that I saw today was most distinctively his. My hands have matured to their own character. And they have grown to resemble his. The shape of my nails. Their length. The depth of the beds. Their strength. I am not sure how to describe the familiarity of them. It was the same sense of wonder I felt the first time I observed Pat cock his head in the mirror at the same particular pitch that my dad cocked his own, to part his hair. Almost ghostly.
And then I heard the song.
One of Scott's projects this day on the boat was to fix the stereo. Make it operable from the wheel rather than having to leave it unattended to go change the station rather than endure a Miley Cyrus ditty unnecessarily. He got it fired up and blaring and within minutes, I heard "I need a sign..." the familiar beginning of the tune by Train that always compels me to be alert, pay attention. Dad is talking. Listen hard.
Apropos that it is Labor Day. The day originally intended to celebrate the indefatigable spirit of labor unions, but has since come to be a day of rest and barbeque's, and symbolizes the official end of summer, will always remind me of Dad.
He would have begun the day manicuring the lawn, washing both cars, and listening to a baseball game on the radio. He would be tirelessly tinkering with something. Extending a hose. Unclogging a sprinkler. Repairing a porch screen. Fixing a window so it would not rattle any longer. His hands would be black. Scraped. Raw. I recall a day when he got overly anxious to remove clumps of wet grass from the blades of his Lawnboy and sliced his fingers deeply. With the lawn only half done, he placed duct tape on the wounds, hoped for the best and kept mowing. His labor of love. I will always remember him working.
I was a bit of a hoarder as a kid. Rock collections. Coin collections. Foreign stamps. Bits of beach glass. Shells, arrowheads, all manner of crap, stowed in shoe boxes for all posterity. I had removed an article from a Reader's Digest called "My Father's Hands" and had saved it for years, never having shared it with anyone. At this point, I can recall an illustration in the article, but not a single relevant other thing, except that it made me cry. And when I would occasionally go through a purge and think about discarding it, I would read it one last time, and it would make me cry, and through tear-filled eyes I would find a spot for it among the things I'd keep.
And so maybe the image of my own hands and the song by Train were just to make sure I remember. Like I would ever forget. And so, for Dad, I offer a song from Dan Fogelberg, who, reminding me of the article with this song, also makes me cry, just a little:
"An only child alone and wild
A cabinet maker's son
His hands were meant for different work
And his heart was known to none
He left his home and went his lone
And solitary way
And he gave to me
A gift I know I never can repay
A quiet man of music
Denied a simpler fate
He tried to be a soldier once
But his music wouldn't wait
He earned his love through discipline
A thundering, velvet hand
His gentle means of sculpting souls
Took me years to understand
The leader of the band is tired
And his eyes are growing old
But his blood runs through my instrument
And his song is in my soul
My life has been a poor attempt
To imitate the man
I'm just a living legacy
To the leader of the band.
My brothers' lives were different
For they heard a different call
One went to Chicago
And the other to St. Paul
And I'm in Colorado
When I'm not in some hotel
Living out this life I've chose
And come to know so well
I thank you for the music
And your stories of the road
I thank you for the freedom
When it came my time to go
I thank you for the kindness
And the times when you got tough
And, papa, I don't think
I said, 'I love you' near enough"
- The Leader of the Band (http://www.elyrics.net/)
Thank you, Dad, for your tireless work. You were a fine ship to steer by with your work ethic, and did an enviable job at keeping a lot of plates in the air at home. You did the work of two parents, and never let me forget how very much you loved us. Today I was reminded of your powerful, gentle hands, and am thankful to have had them to hold as a little girl.
Yesterday, I joined Scott on the boat for the first time since the storm (which we'll get to...) We were lucky to have not had it sink and luckier to have it in one piece after floating with the floating dock to unfamiliar places before settling right back where we always expect to find it.
I knew Scott would be busy hosing it down and cleaning it to make it sparkle, and we were taking Charlie (the neurotic King Charles Cavalier) and I would need to find something to do to entertain myself. I took the laptop.
And as I sat in the morning sun, firing up the Internet to answer e-mails and muse about the week that was, I saw in the smooth dark screen, my own reflection, most prominently, my hands. And I was struck by their appearance. Not their age, not their grooming, but their similarity to my father's hands.
I think I may have paused watching them, in their natural position of work, for a full 3 minutes, which if you are me, may as well be an eternity.
My dad's hands were massive. Mine are tiny. So it is not that. But the shape that I saw today was most distinctively his. My hands have matured to their own character. And they have grown to resemble his. The shape of my nails. Their length. The depth of the beds. Their strength. I am not sure how to describe the familiarity of them. It was the same sense of wonder I felt the first time I observed Pat cock his head in the mirror at the same particular pitch that my dad cocked his own, to part his hair. Almost ghostly.
And then I heard the song.
One of Scott's projects this day on the boat was to fix the stereo. Make it operable from the wheel rather than having to leave it unattended to go change the station rather than endure a Miley Cyrus ditty unnecessarily. He got it fired up and blaring and within minutes, I heard "I need a sign..." the familiar beginning of the tune by Train that always compels me to be alert, pay attention. Dad is talking. Listen hard.
Apropos that it is Labor Day. The day originally intended to celebrate the indefatigable spirit of labor unions, but has since come to be a day of rest and barbeque's, and symbolizes the official end of summer, will always remind me of Dad.
He would have begun the day manicuring the lawn, washing both cars, and listening to a baseball game on the radio. He would be tirelessly tinkering with something. Extending a hose. Unclogging a sprinkler. Repairing a porch screen. Fixing a window so it would not rattle any longer. His hands would be black. Scraped. Raw. I recall a day when he got overly anxious to remove clumps of wet grass from the blades of his Lawnboy and sliced his fingers deeply. With the lawn only half done, he placed duct tape on the wounds, hoped for the best and kept mowing. His labor of love. I will always remember him working.
I was a bit of a hoarder as a kid. Rock collections. Coin collections. Foreign stamps. Bits of beach glass. Shells, arrowheads, all manner of crap, stowed in shoe boxes for all posterity. I had removed an article from a Reader's Digest called "My Father's Hands" and had saved it for years, never having shared it with anyone. At this point, I can recall an illustration in the article, but not a single relevant other thing, except that it made me cry. And when I would occasionally go through a purge and think about discarding it, I would read it one last time, and it would make me cry, and through tear-filled eyes I would find a spot for it among the things I'd keep.
And so maybe the image of my own hands and the song by Train were just to make sure I remember. Like I would ever forget. And so, for Dad, I offer a song from Dan Fogelberg, who, reminding me of the article with this song, also makes me cry, just a little:
"An only child alone and wild
A cabinet maker's son
His hands were meant for different work
And his heart was known to none
He left his home and went his lone
And solitary way
And he gave to me
A gift I know I never can repay
A quiet man of music
Denied a simpler fate
He tried to be a soldier once
But his music wouldn't wait
He earned his love through discipline
A thundering, velvet hand
His gentle means of sculpting souls
Took me years to understand
The leader of the band is tired
And his eyes are growing old
But his blood runs through my instrument
And his song is in my soul
My life has been a poor attempt
To imitate the man
I'm just a living legacy
To the leader of the band.
My brothers' lives were different
For they heard a different call
One went to Chicago
And the other to St. Paul
And I'm in Colorado
When I'm not in some hotel
Living out this life I've chose
And come to know so well
I thank you for the music
And your stories of the road
I thank you for the freedom
When it came my time to go
I thank you for the kindness
And the times when you got tough
And, papa, I don't think
I said, 'I love you' near enough"
- The Leader of the Band (http://www.elyrics.net/)
Thank you, Dad, for your tireless work. You were a fine ship to steer by with your work ethic, and did an enviable job at keeping a lot of plates in the air at home. You did the work of two parents, and never let me forget how very much you loved us. Today I was reminded of your powerful, gentle hands, and am thankful to have had them to hold as a little girl.
Monday, September 5, 2011
In Celebration of Girlfriends
One of the things I love about Girls Weekend is the ritualistic fun. And the fact that a really great Friday makes the weekend seem endless.
We routinely go to the hotel restaurant for the breakfast buffet. We order gallons of coffee and have to get terse with the waitress when she brings us demure little cups that she will happily return and refill 4 dozen times, but we'd rather have a pot. Just bring the pot. Don't make me go into the kitchen and take one.
We will wait for hours for a made to order omelet, eat half and go for French Toast and sausage. We'll get some fruit and ignore it. What we need is fat and carbs. Not pulp and vitamins.
We rehash the escapades of the evening before. Fill in gaps for each other. Piece together each person's story so we know what was happening when each of us was engrossed in our own drama. Or bar fight. Or crime spree.
And then Kate, who is a "maybe" for breakfast, and I head out onto the beach to walk to the next town over for shopping and talking and a trip to a convenience store for a life saving hoagie and vats of unsweetened ice tea. And then return to the pool for sun, napping and Girl Talk.
The Girl Talk is the best part. We get the true, unabridged, full strength, shameless scoop on each of our lives. Our kids, our sorrows, our careers, our parents, our worries, our diets, etc etc etc.
Topics this year included:
We routinely go to the hotel restaurant for the breakfast buffet. We order gallons of coffee and have to get terse with the waitress when she brings us demure little cups that she will happily return and refill 4 dozen times, but we'd rather have a pot. Just bring the pot. Don't make me go into the kitchen and take one.
We will wait for hours for a made to order omelet, eat half and go for French Toast and sausage. We'll get some fruit and ignore it. What we need is fat and carbs. Not pulp and vitamins.
We rehash the escapades of the evening before. Fill in gaps for each other. Piece together each person's story so we know what was happening when each of us was engrossed in our own drama. Or bar fight. Or crime spree.
And then Kate, who is a "maybe" for breakfast, and I head out onto the beach to walk to the next town over for shopping and talking and a trip to a convenience store for a life saving hoagie and vats of unsweetened ice tea. And then return to the pool for sun, napping and Girl Talk.
The Girl Talk is the best part. We get the true, unabridged, full strength, shameless scoop on each of our lives. Our kids, our sorrows, our careers, our parents, our worries, our diets, etc etc etc.
Topics this year included:
- My ex-husband's pending marriage and what a laugh riot that could be to watch unfold
- Joy's job, new since last summer, and the high drama behind the scenes
- Kate's frustration with having to attend sexual harassment training when it was some other moron who sent a picture of his testicle to a married co-worker. Well, not a picture of his testicle. A scan of his testicle. With a growth on it. I am not sure that makes it any less horrifying. Or less hilarious.
- The final wrap up with the Life and Times of J. Good riddance. No further discussion needed.
- Penny's plans to override her sadness over the breakup with her beau with multiple flings with delicious men of all ages but only certain incomes. Girl's gotta eat.
- Jill's thoughts on past loves - particularly those that she still bumps into, since that can't be discussed anywhere but here.
- My over-the-top happiness with Scott and the pinch-me-I-can't-believe-I-have-it-all giddiness that goes with it.
- All of our hopes and fears and worries and other developments in our kids lives. They have grown up under our noses. Where did the time go? We don't feel any older. How can they be?
- And of course the out-loud reading of the Cosmo sex quiz. And a little color commentary on what our own experiences can add to the article.
- There are no friends like girlfriends. We are so lucky to have even one. Blessed to have this many.
- Your girlfriends never judge you. But will ask you to look at yourself if they think you are making a mistake, and let you figure it out. But if you are happy with your choices, so are they. And if they turn out to be bad choices, help you weather the storm.
- Your girlfriends will never tell you that you look fat, but will not let you walk out the door in an outfit that does make you look fat. Even if they have to accidentally set it on fire with a cigarette.
- Girlfriends root for you. They want you to look and feel great and will lend you anything they have to that end. It makes for good karma when you step out together. And the laughs will surely follow.
- Girlfriends are amused by the ways that we are different from each other. Who needs 5 clones when you can have 5 wonderfully unique ladies at your side?
- Girlfriends will allow you to momentarily question your faith in yourself, but will never question their faith in you.
And this is why Girls Weekends should be national holidays. If we can set aside a day to honor the flag, and remember the war dead, and celebrate independence, we can set aside a few days to revel in the love that we can only get from Girlfriends.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Band On The Run
The band is hard to describe. I am not encouraged by their appearance.
The bass player takes the stage and begins to tune his guitar. He is dressed like an Amish man. Could have easily just stepped out of a horse and buggy. Or the movie Witness. But then the electric instrument would be a code violation.
The lead singer looks like Uncle Fester. Had he been adopted by the Clampets.
The drummer is pure Deliverance.
I am expecting Dueling Banjos.
But what happens next is magic.
Safety Dance. Gaga. REM.
Dance party utopia.
Kate and I are on the floor jamming. Liberty and Bunny are on the prowl. Penny has been asked by some men (boys?) half her age to go to a bar where people half our age hang out. I can't find anyone else but assume a good time is underway.
Not long after, when the band has taken a break (a break from what?) I come to the realization that we have all had too much sun and too much fun:
- Jill is mad as hell that Liberty is hitting on a guy she thinks is cute. And Jill already has a guy she thinks is cute. So cute she married him.
- I am finding it hard to dance in my flip flops. Really.
- The guys that invited Penny to the youngsters bar are back at the oldsters bar but Penny is not. And we are not really sure we care.
- Kate has begun a life of crime.
I had been admiring the cool graphic on the band's T-shirts. Not that they were wearing them. They were dressed as Amish. But the bartenders were wearing them. And they were kinda cool. When you have had 27 drinks and 6 hours of sun and a Cheeto for dinner.
Kate, thinking she's slick, has maneuvered herself over to the display of T-shirts near the band's equipment and has oh-so-slyly checked the sizes. She's picked her target and is now waiting for opportunity to present itself. And when you are Kate, it always does.
The house music has come on and some great anthem is blaring. A thousand people take to the dancefloor.
Kate makes her move. She removes the T-shirt from its hanger and unobtrusively begins to stuff it down the back of my pants, the waist of which made even smaller by the fact that I've taken off my hoodie and tied it there because of one of my poorly timed hot flashes.
Like no one is going to notice that. I now appear to be wearing a diaper. As if the hot flash didn't scream "Senior citizen in the house!" in the first place.
Sure that we are going to be caught pilfering and forever be ejected from the bar we intend to grow old in, I suggest we leave. And out of nowhere, Jill and Joy appear to join us in the Great Escape.
And we do escape, sans Penny who is still MIA. We wave to her friends as we leave.
But when we pass the old section of the old person's bar, the section where the truly elderly sit and sip cocktails quietly while they pry open their pill cannisters and discuss AARP membership benefits, Kate has a second wind and drags me and my contraband T-shirt in for one last drink.
I am sure I am going to die momentarily, but Kate orders a glass of water at my request, and a beer for each of us because she is sure I am going to spring to life any minute now like the undead. She goes to pay the tab with her hotel key card and I am sure we are doomed. Only Kate can harass a server like Kate. The fun is just beginning. Again.
It is a classic Girls Weekend beginning. And it is only just the beginning.
The bass player takes the stage and begins to tune his guitar. He is dressed like an Amish man. Could have easily just stepped out of a horse and buggy. Or the movie Witness. But then the electric instrument would be a code violation.
The lead singer looks like Uncle Fester. Had he been adopted by the Clampets.
The drummer is pure Deliverance.
I am expecting Dueling Banjos.
But what happens next is magic.
Safety Dance. Gaga. REM.
Dance party utopia.
Kate and I are on the floor jamming. Liberty and Bunny are on the prowl. Penny has been asked by some men (boys?) half her age to go to a bar where people half our age hang out. I can't find anyone else but assume a good time is underway.
Not long after, when the band has taken a break (a break from what?) I come to the realization that we have all had too much sun and too much fun:
- Jill is mad as hell that Liberty is hitting on a guy she thinks is cute. And Jill already has a guy she thinks is cute. So cute she married him.
- I am finding it hard to dance in my flip flops. Really.
- The guys that invited Penny to the youngsters bar are back at the oldsters bar but Penny is not. And we are not really sure we care.
- Kate has begun a life of crime.
I had been admiring the cool graphic on the band's T-shirts. Not that they were wearing them. They were dressed as Amish. But the bartenders were wearing them. And they were kinda cool. When you have had 27 drinks and 6 hours of sun and a Cheeto for dinner.
Kate, thinking she's slick, has maneuvered herself over to the display of T-shirts near the band's equipment and has oh-so-slyly checked the sizes. She's picked her target and is now waiting for opportunity to present itself. And when you are Kate, it always does.
The house music has come on and some great anthem is blaring. A thousand people take to the dancefloor.
Kate makes her move. She removes the T-shirt from its hanger and unobtrusively begins to stuff it down the back of my pants, the waist of which made even smaller by the fact that I've taken off my hoodie and tied it there because of one of my poorly timed hot flashes.
Like no one is going to notice that. I now appear to be wearing a diaper. As if the hot flash didn't scream "Senior citizen in the house!" in the first place.
Sure that we are going to be caught pilfering and forever be ejected from the bar we intend to grow old in, I suggest we leave. And out of nowhere, Jill and Joy appear to join us in the Great Escape.
And we do escape, sans Penny who is still MIA. We wave to her friends as we leave.
But when we pass the old section of the old person's bar, the section where the truly elderly sit and sip cocktails quietly while they pry open their pill cannisters and discuss AARP membership benefits, Kate has a second wind and drags me and my contraband T-shirt in for one last drink.
I am sure I am going to die momentarily, but Kate orders a glass of water at my request, and a beer for each of us because she is sure I am going to spring to life any minute now like the undead. She goes to pay the tab with her hotel key card and I am sure we are doomed. Only Kate can harass a server like Kate. The fun is just beginning. Again.
It is a classic Girls Weekend beginning. And it is only just the beginning.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Safety Dance
She points to a woman at the bar. We'll call her Crazy Lady.
Although we could have just as easily called her:
Although we could have just as easily called her:
- Doesn't Get Out Much, or
- Needs Socialization Skills, or
- Dangerously Unbalanced, or
- Forgot To Take the Mood Stabilizers Today.
Even from the back in her odd little ensemble she looks like a kook. And this is going by No Shower Happy Hour standards, which start off pretty minimal.
"What happened?" I ask. Kate is not one to conflict with many people. She is the one who people gravitate toward. Give tickets and freebies to. Allow her to take outrageous liberties.
Kate gives a very animated, wild eyed re-enactment of Crazy Lady's interaction with her, which stemmed from Kate inadvertently encroaching on her bar space while attempting to get a fresh drink.
The nerve.
Evidently Crazy got very close to her face and acted overly friendly and inquisitive and stood a little too close. At first Kate played along, thinking her caretakers from the nervous hospital would be along any minute to throw a net over her head.
But then she got wise and realized the woman was making a point. Or trying to, however lamely.
"Am I in your spot?" Kate asked, demonstrating complete calm.
"Yeah!" the woman screeched, in a little too high pitched a voice, with a little more shaking and nodding than would be customary, and with her eyes spinning noticeably in her head.
Sensing that the woman was just released from the Booby Hatch, Kate said, again, as calmly and cooperatively as she would ask me, "Would you like me to get out of your way?"
And again, Crazy Like a March Hare waved her head around on her scrawny neck and came close enough to Kate's face to examine her tonsils. Again, a high pitched, two syllable, "Yeah!"
Clearly Crazy Lady had dropped anchor at the bar hours ago and felt that she owned several square feet of space for all eternity. Kate moved out of the widening path of lunacy that surrounded the woman.
"I'll get you a drink," I say, knowing that Crazy is no match for me. I have Crazy three meals a day. Lars, work, you name it, I get a full daily dose of Crazy 7 days a week.
I hand Kate my drink to reduce the chance of getting it thrown on me, and make my way through the crowd to the bar.
I come along side Crazy and squeeze sideways in with my money hand extended. A nice gentleman to my front side acknowledges me and makes room. Even waves the bar tender over pointing to me as though I should be next. He's been here before, I guess. I turn to face the bar with the room he's made for me.
So where Crazy had to my back, she is now right next to me, and not happy to be sharing her real estate. At all.
Next thing I know, she is behind me. Right behind me. You might say, "on me."
Dancing wildly and waving her arms and giving me a full body slam against the bar, acting like it is an inadvertent consequence of her dancing. She'll show me!
Having ordered already and not needing to maintain eye contact with the bar tender, I turn around to place my back against the bar. Crazy Lady is now doing her Crazy Encroachment Dance on the front of me. All up and down my fabulous person!
Somehow, without making a face of total disgust, but instead, maintaining a posture of complete calm, I bring my hand up between us, clutch her blouse and the front of her bra, a la Jerselicious but without the 2 inch nails, and resisting the urge to push her, just relocate her forcibly to arm's distance. And hold her there momentarily. And tell her, "You need to stand here. And get a grip while you're at it."
She begins to wildly flail and somehow manages to stay upright while someone I assumed was her husband, but might have been her Constant Attendance Sitter from the Locked Unit, enveloped her in his arms and moved her away.
I turned to retrieve my drinks from the bar and pay. The guy next to me already has paid. "That was priceless," he says.
I turn with my drinks and am immediately confronted by the man who took Crazy Lady away.
Uh-oh. Never really been in a bar fight before. Where's the bouncer? I am not equipped for this.
Instead he leans in and says in my ear, "I'm sorry about that."
I know he's mortified. I say,"Thanks. It happens sometimes at Happy Hour."
I find Kate just as the band takes the stage. Crisis averted. Time to dance.
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