Alas! Poor Yorick! I Knew a Guy Who Knew Him
Thursday February 11th 2016, 12:24 pm
Filed under: General
My hairdresser was in a movie. She said it was an original indy version of a Jennifer Aniston flick called “Catch and Release.” I googled that and found it starred Jennifer Garner. So, I must have one of the details confused. We aren’t close friends, so a call out of nowhere for clarification on this matter seems kinda stalkerish. No worries, I will grill her about it after my hair grows out a bit more.
Anyway, she played a hairdresser. To me, that seems a bit too on the nose, and I asked her if she has concerns about being typecast. She said she does.
Brace yourselves, people!
She almost cut Susan Sarandon’s hair. She didn’t actually meet her or do her hair, but she could have, if her portfolio had been chosen by Susan Sarandon’s personal assistant, or maybe even by Sarandon herself. I didn’t try to do research on this point. Let’s just pretend, for now, that Susan herself rejected the portfolio and bask for a moment in that warm glow. Imagine she held the folder in her delicate hand and possibly muttered, “Nah” before tossing it aside. Dear god, to be a fly on that wall!
That seems mean-spirited, but I assure you I trust this woman more than I do my husband and have mad respect for her. Yet, I find our seemingly universal fascination with celebrity intriguing and sometimes laughable.
None of us are above it. I’m not. I saw Darryl Isaacs, a local personal injury lawyer, after he got out of a yoga class, and I stared way too long. He’s a big guy, and apparently had had his first yoga class in one of the more advanced rooms. I was in the bunny hot yoga class, and almost died. It wasn’t even my first class. Seriously, I felt bad for like two days after. So, part of me was fascinated that he was still able to stand, and the other part kept yelling at me, “HE WAS ON THE TV! HE IS ONE WITH THE MAGIC BOX! ALL HAIL THE MAGIC BOX!”
My dear Michael has had two run-ins with celebrity. He saw a former Miss America having lunch at “Hometown Buffet.” He also saw the owner of Papa John’s ordering lunch at Qdoba. Go figure. The guy is a huge asshole politically. But, you know, MAGIC BOX.
When Charlotte was in middle school, she met Dawne Gee of Wave 3. Dawne Gee must have been very friendly with her. Charlotte never recovered. We heard about their meeting every time she could work it into a conversation. In fact, it’s become a running joke in the family for whenever one of us won’t let something go.
I guess if I’m honest, which sounds like a phrase one uses when she is about to lie, ’cause why the disclaimer? Anyway, if I’m honest, I would like to be a little more focused on the people I really do know than all the people I don’t. Keep in mind that I said that. It’s a noble thought, and I want credit. We have made plans to go to a comic con where we could meet Walton Goggins. I want to sniff his armpits. I hope that doesn’t make you think less of me. I am the one who had that noble thought, remember?
Tuesday January 19th 2016, 2:10 pm
Filed under: General
The older a person gets, the more she loses touch with her natural body clock. Studies have been done on this. There is science behind it.
Now, if I were you, I wouldn’t check this site regularly for unbiased reporting on medical phenomenon. I am both a seasoned hypochondriac and as prone to embellishment as a cake decorator. But, I have some real life anecdotal evidence on this topic. And, last I checked, on the internet that is as good as any PhD.
I just woke up. At 2 a.m. I think I might be up for the day. This is early even for my insomnia. Usually, it’s 4 a.m. right on the nose. But two? How do I even pretend this is normal and get on with my day?
Coffee at this hour feels like defeat. Moreover, coffee is a dirty lie.
Coffee says, “Anything can happen. It’s a brand new day!”
It is not a brand new day. It is still yesterday.
You can get technical with me on this, dear reader, but the cave woman in me will ask you, “Where the fuck is the sun then, Neil DeGrasse Tyson?” No sun? Yesterday.
Michael will wake up maybe two more times to pee before he finally gets up for good at 8 a.m. On at least one of his bathroom trips, he will see me lying here awake and grunt, “Go to sleep.” If only he were a hypnotist…
I must explain this over and over to him. He will say, “Why can’t you just lie there and go back to sleep, sweetheart?”
Because “Why can’t you not wake up five times to piss?” would be a mean-spirited response to a sincere question, I tell him that I get up to pee sometimes, too, and on those occasions, I can fall right back to sleep.
But, other times I wake up, and I am just fucking wide awake. No other way to say it. When that happens to you, you either get up and do other shit, or you stay in bed, but sleep is no longer part of the equation.
It’s like startling the day rather than starting it. I jump awake with moonlight and stars outside my window as if I’m late for an important meeting with Dracula.
It’s also lonely to be up at this hour. If you call anyone at two in the morning, it better damn well be an emergency. You can’t call to say, “Hey, you watching that new series on PBS? It’s called ‘Mercy Street’, and I already love it. So catty. Meow…..Um, it’s Debbie. Sure, everything is fine. Just wanted to chat about television and maybe get your opinion on redecorating my bathroom.” You lose friends that way. People “forget” to give you their new cell number.
Maybe I should meet with Dracula after all. I’m up anyhow, and he’s got mad skills as a hypnotist.
What is the weather like in Transylvania right now? Or, he could fly here. In bat form.
Maybe he will be kind enough to tell me, “Go to sleep.”
50 First Date Rapes
Friday January 15th 2016, 3:40 pm
Filed under: General
Have you seen”The Cobbler”? Well, you don’t need to. It was so bad, it actually pissed my whole family right off. Michael, Charlotte and I all sat around afterward and had a unified bitchfest. The consensus being, “WTF was that even supposed to be?” I think he was trying to do something substantive, maybe? But, the best response to it is to quote another Adam Sandler movie:
“Mr. Madison, what you’ve just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul.” – from Billy Madison
So, needless to say, we’ve kinda soured on Sandler of late. Along with most of the the rest of America, we were not fans of “The Ridiculous Six.” Not because it wasn’t PC. Satire is satire. But, satire should be funny. That’s kind of how it works. The man has lost his way.
Oh, and then there was “Pixels”, a movie aimed directly at my people – those of us who grew up playing and loving arcade games. My review in five words: It sucked Donkey Kong balls.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved him in his “Happy Gilmore” phase. I am a twelve year old boy at heart. Ask anyone.
But, my fave Sandler film is “Fifty First Dates”. It has always seemed hopelessly romantic. The woman he loves wakes up every day not knowing who is, and he must win her heart over and over again.
The one true love of my life refers to it as “the date rape movie.”
He and I have discussed this movie, sometimes heatedly, on and off for ages. As you may have noticed from previous posts, when we get bored, we find something inconsequential and pick it apart. Usually over dinner.
This is how it all started. To the best of my recollection:
He asks me, “Are you watching the date rape movie again?”
I am actually watching the movie, so I pause it. Harumpf. “What are you even talking about? She falls in love with him every day. It is not rape.”
“He scams her into sex by studying her likes and dislikes.”
“We all scam each other into love and sex. That’s part of it. We all pretend we don’t fart or burp for the first six months of any relationship, and we are, without exception, full of hot air.”
“Why, from his perspective, would he even want a woman who cannot remember who he is? Isn’t that kinda twisted in and of itself? What can he get out of it besides sex?”
“He can love her for who she is.”
“But they can never grow together, and they can never have shared memories. And, she is never going to grow as a person. She is stunted at that same age. Again, why would he want a woman like that?”
“So, just because she has this very specific disability, she should be doomed to being alone? If he can overlook the fact that they can’t have little “in jokes” together, then it’s lucky he found her and you didn’t.”
I am irate… Leave Britney alone!!!
“Well, that means a lot to me. That we share memories and get the same references. The relationship is richer for it.”
He is such a suck up.
“Sure. I agree. I wouldn’t want to date someone even ten years younger than I am for that very same reason, but I don’t begrudge others that option. What if that same thing happened to me? Would you stop loving me?”
I think I have him here. But, as you’ll see, he’s wiley.
“Well, if he knew her before it happened and she had any kind of memory of him from before the accident, I would look at it differently. She wouldn’t be waking up with a complete stranger. She would have just lost some time with him. You’d know me. I’d just be grayer and more wrinkled. And, I’d still have all our years together.”
“But, that’s just bad timing. He loves her, and he is willing to do whatever it takes.”
I am a girl. Really, sometimes, I am such a girl.
“What about at the end of the movie? She has a kid with him. How was that pregnancy for her? A nightmare! At some point, she had to wake up nine months pregnant, not remembering that she’s pregnant. She can’t recall planning this child at all! She’d think it was an alien spawn until he explained it to her. How terrifying would that be???”
He makes such a good point here. But still, something about determining for her that she isn’t allowed to reproduce troubles me deeply.
“Once again, we are deciding for her that she can never have love and must also remain childless?”
“It’s just fucking creepy on his part. That he would even put her through that.”
And on that point, I must concede. The poor girl wakes up every day to Adam Sandler’s goofy face, and some kid she doesn’t know is spilling orange juice on her. That is unimaginable weirdness to deal with before you’ve even had coffee.
The way any of us get through the day has a lot to do with remembering the shitty circumstances that put us here. We acclimate to the crazy shit in our lives slowly over time…
Poor Drew Barrymore. E.T. was so much cuter.
Moneeey. It’s a Gas.
Wednesday January 13th 2016, 1:28 pm
Filed under: General
I married a man who injects reality into even the most whimsical of conversations. It is not lack of imagination on his part. In fact, it is an excess of imagination that circles back around until it meets some mundane detail and gets stuck there.
This is why we have had arguments about lottery money that we haven’t yet won and likely will never win. Well, I say “arguments”, but they are more like lively debates that usually end with me saying, “I hate you.” For my part, I am irritated with him, not angry really. But, I do kinda maybe hate him. A lot. That’s normal, right?
This a a conversation we had about winning ten million dollars. Not the huge payout that is on the books now. Just a paltry ten million. At the start, it resembles any other conversation people have when they are dreaming about having lots of money: we travel more, pay off debt, set up trust funds for family.
When we get all that done, I mention I would like a personal assistant. I am a millionaire’s wife. Thurston Howell the Third’s wife Lovie DOES NOT schedule her own hair appointments. Why should I? By the way, be warned. Money changes me into the worst person ever. Not Trump bad but pretty awful. Don’t get me wrong, I still desperately want the opportunity to see it happen to me in real time.
“We can’t afford a personal assistant,” he says.
“What? Why not?”
“She has to have health insurance. We would have to provide it.”
“No, she’s fine. Young and healthy. She ain’t diggin’ ditches – she’s making a few phone calls.” (Notice how theoretical rich Debbie has begun to see Walmart’s point? I haven’t shopped there in years, but I am softening on them.)
“Now, you’re not like that.”
“Well, can’t we pay her less and still give her insurance then?” (Here, I could easily be a member of Walmart’s legal team, discussing options.)
Once again, he shoots me down. “No, ’cause you have to offer a competitive wage. We want a good one, right?”
Now I begin grasping at straws, “I don’t know. I can’t even have a dream? I do not want to ever walk into Kroger again after I am rich. Can we just win more money?”
“We didn’t. We won the ten million.” He is such an asshole.
“Well, then I do not care about this hypothetical woman. I’m pretty sure she’s stealing my shit.”
“No, she’s not. You misplaced those earrings. You’ll find them.”
“Are you fucking her?” (I’m certain he is. Why is he so worried about her health? We hardly know this bitch?)
“No.” (He totally is.)
It shames me deeply to say it, but by the end, I’m usually hiring an undocumented worker and threatening her with deportation. It is not pretty. In my defense, she shouldn’t be stealing from me and screwing my husband behind my back. Why she gotta be like that, yo?
Today, I am still the same person you all know and love. I want the best for everybody in healthcare and immigration. I am supporting Bernie Sanders. But, somewhere deep down in the furthest region of my soul…I am still not a republican, are you kidding me? But, dammit, I just want someone to do my grocery shopping! Is that so wrong???!!!
Sunday December 04th 2011, 8:19 am
Filed under: General
An old snapshot shows my grandfather standing over an Easter egg. He has gently placed his foot on it. It is there for me to “find”. I had been running around wildly – never stopping to really look.
This is what I remember most about Papaw. He was a compass in my life and a constant. He was the north star.
He started working when he was ten years old, delivering coal. A little later he began “hoboing”. The details on that are fuzzy, but I always used to think about Papaw when I heard, “King of the Road”. It used to fascinate me, imagining him as a rogue of sorts. But, the more I hear about it, the more I think he used trains as a way to eke out a living, not as a way to have a carefree existence.
He never had that.
So few of us do, for that matter. But, if we’re lucky, the day to day struggles to keep afloat are met with a hug at the door when we get home.
He did have those.
He and my grandmother showed me what love is. It isn’t about saying, “I love you.” Love is an action word. Day in and day out, putting people you love first.
Papaw rarely said he loved us, but if you were a member of that family and you didn’t just know it, you weren’t paying attention.
My grandmother would literally have given us the shirt off her back. If we complimented something she owned, she would offer it to us. They gave us their hearts and souls to a degree that was concerning to me.
How does a person find happiness in such selflessness? I didn’t exactly view it with contempt, yet I didn’t really get it. I wasn’t a mother at that point. Of course, the piece of my life that was for me got smaller when my daughter was born, and then I got it, and I got how it was okay.
No life spent with that much love in it is a wasted life.
As hectic as their lives were at times, they somehow managed to give us a sense of stability. The safety was an illusion. They ran a family business that was always on the verge of going under. Yet, Papaw quietly did what needed to be done and Mamaw did the same, only more loudly. You would smile at that if you knew them. He was a man of few words, and she was a woman of many.
Anyway, it turned out fine. They were perfect together, and they made it all work.
Now, with his passing, they are together again. I imagine she fussed at him for making her wait so long.
I hope somehow that he is singing. He loved to sing to us grandkids. I swear I can even remember him singing to me when I was an infant. He sang, “You are my Sunshine” in a deep soothing voice. The best cure for colic there ever was.
When we were older, he sang, “I want a girl just like the girl that married dear old dad. She’s the only girl – yes, the onliest girl – that daddy ever had…” It still makes me smile.
I’m tempted to say, I feel lost now that he’s gone. I do, of course. But, the words seem trite. I can’t bring his life onto the page the way I want to.
I guess, I just want to thank him for teaching me to sing.
Friday December 14th 2007, 10:36 pm
Filed under: General
The girl screeched out, “Oh Charlotte!” ran over to my daughter and squeezed her in a way that’s usually reserved for returning hostages or POWs. No more than two seconds later, no less than two other girls see my daughter and react to her in much the same way the first girl did.
Charlotte had just gotten finished performing with her chorus, and these friends of hers felt the urge to attack her while we were wending our way out of the gym. It got me slightly tickled. As we were walking through the parking lot, I said, “So, how long had it been since you’d seen those people?”
“Two of them I had seen a couple hours ago, but Bree I hadn’t seen since before school started this morning.”
Oh, well, of course that explains their reactions. I’m surprised Bree was able to hold back the tears of joy…
OTN: Socks for my sister. Been knitting furiously on socks for Mom and Sis with no time to breath or blog. On second Sis sock. Hopefully, will be able to post pics before she gets her grubby paws on them. I’m using Cherry Tree Hill Supersock yarn. Liking it pretty well. Mom’s are in the Misty Moor colorway and Sis’s are I believe in the River Run colorway.
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