Eleven thirty a.m. Derby Day I awake feeling fantastic! (Probably because I am still a little drunk.) Kip yells to the back bedroom, "Oh my God! What time did we go to sleep?"
"Uh....7 ish?"
"No way!"
We both start laughing. Kip raises the blinds and reveals the crappiest Derby day ever! It is raining, it's cold, and it's dark! I wanted to cry.
We decided that a good breakfast and some primping and we would feel different about it. Boy was that a mistake! Kip made breakfast for me and the man Kip will only refer to as "International Male Model Brad". One of the neighbor boys. We had some omlettes with Gruyere cheese, and a lot of rich ingredients, and that did me in. I immediately felt like absolute ass! Hangover in full swing!
I look outside again, and my stomach sinks. First of all, there is no way I am wearing my gorgeous hat and dress in the weather similar to the movie "Cast Away"! Secondly, there is also no way I'm not going! I spent $80.00 on the tickets and we are going to the Derby!
Kip and I both slowly begin getting ready. Then the parks lead toothless meth head on a golf cart, comes by to inform us that the race has been postponed an hour. I lay down till the last possible minute, and see the boys all lining up outside in their seer sucker blue and white suits. They looked adorable. They had cigars hanging out of their mouths, and manners to match. I came out of the motor home in one of my proudest impromptu outfits ever. I won't bore you with the details, but I looked fab...and felt sick.
We all were miserable! We arrive at the Churchill Downs grounds, and begin walking in the rain. And walking. And walking. The downs is full of very loud drunk people. I mean DRUNK! We get cattle prodded into the infield, where as far as I could tell was similar to Mardi Gras on hillbilly heroin at a Garth Brooks benefit for High School kids. It was loud! It was wet! It was muddy! It was the country version of the 1999 Woodstock. It was so not my scene!
Kip helped me search for a bottle of water, that we never found. He wanted something to eat. Couldn't find that either, what we could find is bourbon and beer, and drunk minors. Apparently they don't card anyone Derby weekend. If they were out of the house and could grow arm pit hair, they were drunk. Kip and I look at each other and keep asking one another, "What do you wanna do? I don't know, what do you want to do?"
Finally, I threw in the towel and was the first to say Uncle. I kept looking around and couldn't see the track. Apparently, everyone but me knew that you can't see the track from the infield. Why go see a race you can't see?
So Kip and I walked out. There was also a line to leave! That's how crappy the weather was! We get out of the grounds at the Downs and catch a ride to in our words, "any bar with a TV."
The bar was also loud...loud with good ole country music, loud! It was at the bar that I learned the words and audience participation words to a song called "Why do you Drink"...(audience) "Get Drunk!", "Why do you blow smoke?" (audience) "Get hah!" (That's 'get high' to those of you still speaking English.)
I watched a middle age woman dance a jig bare foot on the bar floor to "Good Old Rocky Top". I couldn't help but think how much she would come to regret that decision the next day. Everyone clapped and hooped and hollered. Finally at 6:30 the race began! 90 seconds and an upset.
I begged Kip to let us go back to the motor home and take a nap. He obliged. After a nap I felt a whole lot better! I told Kip that we came here to look fabulous and sit on white couches and sip cocktails, and that is what we are going to do! Our vodka friend promised us free drinks and fanciness, and we are going to get it! And we did...sort of.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Derby Debunck Part 1
A friend of mine is a regional party planner for a major vodka company in the mid west. he told me one Friday evening in April that he was planning an event for the Kentucky Derby. My gayer half Kip was all aghast, as was I, at the idea of sipping mint juleps and betting in the most fabulous attire in Louisville, on the studs. Hoping to become one of those people on the news that win big and forget the little people.
We (and by "we" I mean Kip and his fancy phone.) begin to research what is was going to cost us to go to the Derby, and it turns out...Hotels are stupid pricey! Like $1500 a night stupid. I gave up on the idea, and my gay came through! He suggested that we take his fathers motor home. Perfect!
So many many phone calls later between a gal and her gay over which seer sucker, which hat, what shoes, and then we had to talk about my outfit, and we are off to the Derby.
It was a time of many firsts. My first trip without my husband that didn't include my parents. My first trip with my friend Kip. And my first time in a swanky motor home. (Just to fill you in, this thing was the Cadillac of motor homes! It was 47 feet long. Full kitchen, full bath! Even has ceramic floors! ((Funny how technology has gotten ceramic tile to work in a motor home, and the tile in my bathroom is cracked everywhere!)) This thing is so nice you can take a number 2 while driving!
I slept most the way there on the white leather sofa. We arrive in Louisville KY just in time for the sun to come out. As we enter the motor home park, my friend Kip and I exchange a look that I will never forget. His look was "sweet", and mine was "I hope I'm not raped."
I've never been to a Nascar event, but if I had been, I think it would look like this! It was a proverbial sausage fest! As we pulled in tens upon tens of men without shirts held there beer cozys in admiration to the motor home! They were fascinated at the the size, at the celebrity of the whole thing. Tent after tent and RV after RV, I think I saw 3 woman and probably close to 400 men.
We get into our parking space, and Kip true to his Susie Homemaker form, starts getting out citronella candles, rugs, awnings, and patio lights for the outside of the motor home. I was told to stand there and look pretty. After all was setup, Kip made me a fabulous steak dinner. We got acquainted with the neighbors and got in the shower to begin the parade of derby fashion.
One of the coolest things about Louisville on derby weekend is that as far as I can tell the entire city shuts down for 72 hours, except for the bars. They stay open from Friday to Sunday, and absolutely everyone is a taxi cab. Apparently it is not against the law to give anyone a ride to anywhere, as long as you don't charge a fare. You can however ask for a donation or a "tip". Everywhere you go people ask you if you need a ride.
So we get in our shuttle and are driven downtown to a hotel where we were going to a party. Us and our very drunk neighbor and cab mate from Knoxville jammed out to some hair metal from the 80's, hopes were high, and so was our driver.
Arriving at the hotel we find our friend, and begin on a journey I like to call red carpet denial. We walked from club to club with our friend trying to get into these celebrity clubs and getting very cranky! It seems our vodka friend wasn't as well connected as one may have been lead to believe. I, being under the impression that I would be laying about on white leather couches and fanned by jockeys somewhere, wore four inch Betsy Johnson heels. Block after block we walk and finally get into the Michael Jordan party.
The venue was gorgeous! Must have had 120ft ceilings, and it did have a complimentary bar...of vodka. (I don't drink vodka.. It makes me nuts.) The crowd was very well dressed and the DJ was awful. The food was crappy, and I saw no celebs, unless you count the hookers that entourage for T.O. celebs. Honestly, I had never heard of a T.O. until this night. And still couldn't tell you what he looks like or who the hell he is.
Kip and I spent this part of the night letting our eyes roll in unison, and looking for the door so we could smoke and make fun of everyone. We then went to the playboy party, where there were actually girls dressed like bunnies and tanned like Cheetos. We stood outside with the creme de le creme of worse than B celebs...... rich people. Freaking really rich people. They ooze money and look down at us all the while pretending to like us and buy us drinks. It's an odd feeling and one I'm sure they do on purpose. It's sort of like they are letting you know not to get to comfortable in their world cause you'll be cast away soon. I think I saw a woman reach for Purell in her purse after shaking my hand. I wanted to tell her that friendliness isn't contagious so she need not worry. Needless to say, the party sucked. I once again found a door where I could smell cigarette smoke and told the boys they could find me there.
I found a wirey and very uneven bar stool on the cobblestone in what was pretty much the alley behind the bar with umbrellas and speakers, and sat down for the remainder of the night. Not because I wanted to, but because my feet at this point have swollen to twice their size and no longer have feeling in them. I met a couple of nice people, and asked Kip if he was ready to go several times. I finally discover that he was waiting for last call which never came. I was after five am when we left and I was pooped!
We arrive back at the trailer park...(cough)...motor home village, to find our neighbor dudes still awake, very drunk, and sitting in lawn chairs on the roof of their motor home. Kip, never one to miss and opportunity, invites them into our motor home, where they seemed to camp out in until we left the state. One of these boys was named Brad, and he was from Knoxville TN. He said it best when he said, "Honey we're Southern, if you want us to leave, your gonna have to make it real clear." He was very charming and informed us that he once made his living modeling in Milan. Yes folks....a male model. And funniest part, not the only one I met that weekend!
We drank and laughed till six thirty. Kip made them all food, and they loved it! It was like he was taking care of the dirty boys. Telling them what to wear to the derby, and making sure they ate something etc. I am not a country girl, I hate camping, but I had more fun drinking beer with the boys then cocktails with the important. And I had the Derby day hangover to prove it!
We (and by "we" I mean Kip and his fancy phone.) begin to research what is was going to cost us to go to the Derby, and it turns out...Hotels are stupid pricey! Like $1500 a night stupid. I gave up on the idea, and my gay came through! He suggested that we take his fathers motor home. Perfect!
So many many phone calls later between a gal and her gay over which seer sucker, which hat, what shoes, and then we had to talk about my outfit, and we are off to the Derby.
It was a time of many firsts. My first trip without my husband that didn't include my parents. My first trip with my friend Kip. And my first time in a swanky motor home. (Just to fill you in, this thing was the Cadillac of motor homes! It was 47 feet long. Full kitchen, full bath! Even has ceramic floors! ((Funny how technology has gotten ceramic tile to work in a motor home, and the tile in my bathroom is cracked everywhere!)) This thing is so nice you can take a number 2 while driving!
I slept most the way there on the white leather sofa. We arrive in Louisville KY just in time for the sun to come out. As we enter the motor home park, my friend Kip and I exchange a look that I will never forget. His look was "sweet", and mine was "I hope I'm not raped."
I've never been to a Nascar event, but if I had been, I think it would look like this! It was a proverbial sausage fest! As we pulled in tens upon tens of men without shirts held there beer cozys in admiration to the motor home! They were fascinated at the the size, at the celebrity of the whole thing. Tent after tent and RV after RV, I think I saw 3 woman and probably close to 400 men.
We get into our parking space, and Kip true to his Susie Homemaker form, starts getting out citronella candles, rugs, awnings, and patio lights for the outside of the motor home. I was told to stand there and look pretty. After all was setup, Kip made me a fabulous steak dinner. We got acquainted with the neighbors and got in the shower to begin the parade of derby fashion.
One of the coolest things about Louisville on derby weekend is that as far as I can tell the entire city shuts down for 72 hours, except for the bars. They stay open from Friday to Sunday, and absolutely everyone is a taxi cab. Apparently it is not against the law to give anyone a ride to anywhere, as long as you don't charge a fare. You can however ask for a donation or a "tip". Everywhere you go people ask you if you need a ride.
So we get in our shuttle and are driven downtown to a hotel where we were going to a party. Us and our very drunk neighbor and cab mate from Knoxville jammed out to some hair metal from the 80's, hopes were high, and so was our driver.
Arriving at the hotel we find our friend, and begin on a journey I like to call red carpet denial. We walked from club to club with our friend trying to get into these celebrity clubs and getting very cranky! It seems our vodka friend wasn't as well connected as one may have been lead to believe. I, being under the impression that I would be laying about on white leather couches and fanned by jockeys somewhere, wore four inch Betsy Johnson heels. Block after block we walk and finally get into the Michael Jordan party.
The venue was gorgeous! Must have had 120ft ceilings, and it did have a complimentary bar...of vodka. (I don't drink vodka.. It makes me nuts.) The crowd was very well dressed and the DJ was awful. The food was crappy, and I saw no celebs, unless you count the hookers that entourage for T.O. celebs. Honestly, I had never heard of a T.O. until this night. And still couldn't tell you what he looks like or who the hell he is.
Kip and I spent this part of the night letting our eyes roll in unison, and looking for the door so we could smoke and make fun of everyone. We then went to the playboy party, where there were actually girls dressed like bunnies and tanned like Cheetos. We stood outside with the creme de le creme of worse than B celebs...... rich people. Freaking really rich people. They ooze money and look down at us all the while pretending to like us and buy us drinks. It's an odd feeling and one I'm sure they do on purpose. It's sort of like they are letting you know not to get to comfortable in their world cause you'll be cast away soon. I think I saw a woman reach for Purell in her purse after shaking my hand. I wanted to tell her that friendliness isn't contagious so she need not worry. Needless to say, the party sucked. I once again found a door where I could smell cigarette smoke and told the boys they could find me there.
I found a wirey and very uneven bar stool on the cobblestone in what was pretty much the alley behind the bar with umbrellas and speakers, and sat down for the remainder of the night. Not because I wanted to, but because my feet at this point have swollen to twice their size and no longer have feeling in them. I met a couple of nice people, and asked Kip if he was ready to go several times. I finally discover that he was waiting for last call which never came. I was after five am when we left and I was pooped!
We arrive back at the trailer park...(cough)...motor home village, to find our neighbor dudes still awake, very drunk, and sitting in lawn chairs on the roof of their motor home. Kip, never one to miss and opportunity, invites them into our motor home, where they seemed to camp out in until we left the state. One of these boys was named Brad, and he was from Knoxville TN. He said it best when he said, "Honey we're Southern, if you want us to leave, your gonna have to make it real clear." He was very charming and informed us that he once made his living modeling in Milan. Yes folks....a male model. And funniest part, not the only one I met that weekend!
We drank and laughed till six thirty. Kip made them all food, and they loved it! It was like he was taking care of the dirty boys. Telling them what to wear to the derby, and making sure they ate something etc. I am not a country girl, I hate camping, but I had more fun drinking beer with the boys then cocktails with the important. And I had the Derby day hangover to prove it!
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Piles Upon Piles
My husband and I recently found ourselves alone! The friend has found a new place and is getting back on her feet. All good news. Including....naked time! Naked time is back just in time for spring!
Having our house back to ourselves has given me the much needed head space to start really living and getting stuff done! I cleaned out the studio, am paying off some credit cards, and most importantly have found time and motivation to get my husband to help me tackle the basement!
Let me first explain that I really like to throw stuff away, and my husband keeps everything! I for one think that this is true of all relationships. At least the ones that are built to last, there is always a dominate in the pair. My husband is the dominate, and thank God because left to my own devises I have a tendency to live very chaotically. There is always one spender, and one saver. There is also one pack rat, and the one that is aggravated at the idea of clutter.
My husband has made huge strides since we moved in together and has gotten rid of literally thousands of things. And as a testament to him, is really ready to get rid of much much more. I am so proud, and so ready to throw shit away!
A little background for my readers, when we moved into our now apartment it took an entire day of moving just to move the crap in the basement. Not including anything that was in our actual apartment. His basement at the old apartment had 1250 square feet of stuff that he condensed down to 800 sq feet. A good 300 square feet of stuff was left behind, and the rest thrown away. This was a huge accomplishment!
However, tonight really got the best of me for awhile. We went down together in high hopes of really putting a dent in the clutter. Two hours in I felt completely overwhelmed. I was really hoping to find a bunch of my boxes from when I was single and throw stuff away. I found 4 boxes of the 100 down there. I threw it all away. Then a lot of the time I spent down there was handing my husband boxes and saying, "You should look through this,... and throw it away!"
He did very good and condensed five boxes down to one. A big deal! But there is a huge section of stuff dedicated to the "studio". My husband used to own a recording studio. Still does, but it is really more like "Oz". A mythical place that exists only in theory. We have all the stuff, and no where or means to rent a place to put it in working condition. It is on the list of things to do in the future.
Onward bound we went. Dug through the boxes and hundreds of dollars worth of scooter parts and guitars in pieces. I....just kept throwing shit away. He had a slow walk down memory lane. This is the biggest problem with us cleaning together. I think I may have watched far too many television shows on hoarding, because I can go through a box in about three minutes. For him it takes closer to twenty, give or take how many times he says.."Honey! Look at this! Do you know what this is?"
I always answer, "Yes, its trash."
He furrows his brow at me, and keeps it. My hope is that a time in the future will come, when home projects are completed, and you can see the floor in my basement. High, high hopes.
Having our house back to ourselves has given me the much needed head space to start really living and getting stuff done! I cleaned out the studio, am paying off some credit cards, and most importantly have found time and motivation to get my husband to help me tackle the basement!
Let me first explain that I really like to throw stuff away, and my husband keeps everything! I for one think that this is true of all relationships. At least the ones that are built to last, there is always a dominate in the pair. My husband is the dominate, and thank God because left to my own devises I have a tendency to live very chaotically. There is always one spender, and one saver. There is also one pack rat, and the one that is aggravated at the idea of clutter.
My husband has made huge strides since we moved in together and has gotten rid of literally thousands of things. And as a testament to him, is really ready to get rid of much much more. I am so proud, and so ready to throw shit away!
A little background for my readers, when we moved into our now apartment it took an entire day of moving just to move the crap in the basement. Not including anything that was in our actual apartment. His basement at the old apartment had 1250 square feet of stuff that he condensed down to 800 sq feet. A good 300 square feet of stuff was left behind, and the rest thrown away. This was a huge accomplishment!
However, tonight really got the best of me for awhile. We went down together in high hopes of really putting a dent in the clutter. Two hours in I felt completely overwhelmed. I was really hoping to find a bunch of my boxes from when I was single and throw stuff away. I found 4 boxes of the 100 down there. I threw it all away. Then a lot of the time I spent down there was handing my husband boxes and saying, "You should look through this,... and throw it away!"
He did very good and condensed five boxes down to one. A big deal! But there is a huge section of stuff dedicated to the "studio". My husband used to own a recording studio. Still does, but it is really more like "Oz". A mythical place that exists only in theory. We have all the stuff, and no where or means to rent a place to put it in working condition. It is on the list of things to do in the future.
Onward bound we went. Dug through the boxes and hundreds of dollars worth of scooter parts and guitars in pieces. I....just kept throwing shit away. He had a slow walk down memory lane. This is the biggest problem with us cleaning together. I think I may have watched far too many television shows on hoarding, because I can go through a box in about three minutes. For him it takes closer to twenty, give or take how many times he says.."Honey! Look at this! Do you know what this is?"
I always answer, "Yes, its trash."
He furrows his brow at me, and keeps it. My hope is that a time in the future will come, when home projects are completed, and you can see the floor in my basement. High, high hopes.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Polygamy and Puzzles
After a usual Sunday evening with my husband spent watching the HBO original series "Big Love", we had a small conversation about whether or not we thought that it should be legal for old school Joesph Smith follower who practice the principal, to take multiple wives. We laughed and made many jokes about the crazy people who think this is a good idea. And he made a joke that he wanted to take a second wife. I responded that maybe he could work on making the wife he has happy and then we'll talk about it. It was a very funny and silly conversation that made it's way into my sub conscious and lead to the most hilarious dream I have ever had!
Fast asleep the scene in my head opens in my living room. My husband comes home from work and announces to me that he has taken a sister wife for me. I freak out and say that I am in no way going to practice this Neanderthal principal, and I find a little vomit in the back of my throat when I think about moving to Utah. He goes on to say that he really did this for me. Our family is spread to thin and I would have someone to help me around the house. He says that he knows I will love her, and we should just try it out for a week. In the door walks Chelsea Handler. We share a look as though in my my dream we are long time friends. And in that look we exchange ideas to torch er my husband for suggesting that we do this.
Still dreaming...A montage begins of Chelsea and I playing "Threes Company" like practical jokes on him. You know, bucket of water over the door, marbles on the floor, saran wrap on the toilet seat. Each time one of our clever tricks worked we would snicker and high five like sixth graders. My husband still determined to get us into the idea of all being married, Chelsea and I decided that our practical jokes would need to get worse and more creative. I said to Chels, (I call her Chels in my dream.)
" You know with the sales from your new book Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang, we could throw a little money at a joke! His birthday is next week."
Chels looks at me and says
"I have idea!"
A short time later there is a knock at the door. Chels tells me to answer the door and when I open it, standing a very expensive hand beaded evening gown and a Louis Vutton handbag is Vanna White. Vanna walks in and asks where is the benefit? I look at Chels and she says,
"Oh there is no benefit. I talked to your agent, and I bought you for the night."
"Chels, why did you buy Vanna for the night?"
"I don't know, I just thought maybe it would freak him out."
"Okay, but why? What is she suppose to do?"
"I don't know! What does he really hate?"
"Hip hop."
"Then that's what she'll do! Hey Vanna, I want you to stand at the top of the steps, and when he gets home, you play hip hop!"
Vanna chimes in and explains she doesn't know how to play hip hop. Asks if I have a stereo or something.
"Chels, the stereo is broken. What is she suppose to do?"
"Alright Vanna! Listen up! Your going to play hip hop! You have a handbag don't you?! Okay good! Then you move the zipper back and forth and make a beat! Then you just make some noise over it!"
My husband walks in and Vanna crouched down in her gown at the top of my stairs starts moving the zipper on her $500 handbag rigorously and trying to beat box. My husband looks very angry and Chles and I die laughing!
I woke up after that and told my husband about the dream. He laughed hysterically, and said,
"Well that settles that! No multiple wives!" I laughed as well. I can't decide what was the best part of the dream, the fact that Vanna White played hip hop on a purse, or that Chelsea Handler and I were friends.
Fast asleep the scene in my head opens in my living room. My husband comes home from work and announces to me that he has taken a sister wife for me. I freak out and say that I am in no way going to practice this Neanderthal principal, and I find a little vomit in the back of my throat when I think about moving to Utah. He goes on to say that he really did this for me. Our family is spread to thin and I would have someone to help me around the house. He says that he knows I will love her, and we should just try it out for a week. In the door walks Chelsea Handler. We share a look as though in my my dream we are long time friends. And in that look we exchange ideas to torch er my husband for suggesting that we do this.
Still dreaming...A montage begins of Chelsea and I playing "Threes Company" like practical jokes on him. You know, bucket of water over the door, marbles on the floor, saran wrap on the toilet seat. Each time one of our clever tricks worked we would snicker and high five like sixth graders. My husband still determined to get us into the idea of all being married, Chelsea and I decided that our practical jokes would need to get worse and more creative. I said to Chels, (I call her Chels in my dream.)
" You know with the sales from your new book Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang, we could throw a little money at a joke! His birthday is next week."
Chels looks at me and says
"I have idea!"
A short time later there is a knock at the door. Chels tells me to answer the door and when I open it, standing a very expensive hand beaded evening gown and a Louis Vutton handbag is Vanna White. Vanna walks in and asks where is the benefit? I look at Chels and she says,
"Oh there is no benefit. I talked to your agent, and I bought you for the night."
"Chels, why did you buy Vanna for the night?"
"I don't know, I just thought maybe it would freak him out."
"Okay, but why? What is she suppose to do?"
"I don't know! What does he really hate?"
"Hip hop."
"Then that's what she'll do! Hey Vanna, I want you to stand at the top of the steps, and when he gets home, you play hip hop!"
Vanna chimes in and explains she doesn't know how to play hip hop. Asks if I have a stereo or something.
"Chels, the stereo is broken. What is she suppose to do?"
"Alright Vanna! Listen up! Your going to play hip hop! You have a handbag don't you?! Okay good! Then you move the zipper back and forth and make a beat! Then you just make some noise over it!"
My husband walks in and Vanna crouched down in her gown at the top of my stairs starts moving the zipper on her $500 handbag rigorously and trying to beat box. My husband looks very angry and Chles and I die laughing!
I woke up after that and told my husband about the dream. He laughed hysterically, and said,
"Well that settles that! No multiple wives!" I laughed as well. I can't decide what was the best part of the dream, the fact that Vanna White played hip hop on a purse, or that Chelsea Handler and I were friends.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
The Reunion Show!
Last night I had the opportunity to attend a reunion show of my favorite swing band from ten years ago. I was super excited about hearing the music, dancing, and most of all seeing all my old swing buddies. I had no idea what I was in for!
I read the facebook invite and it read that the reunion show was in Ofallon, Il. Bad because it's a thirty minute drive. Worse, because it's a thirty minute drive to a town next to my hometown! I finally arrive at the conference center and am amazed at the idea that I almost made it through an entire album on the ipod! As I walk in, I see a sea of high school kids in black wandering around. I ask the man at the desk where the Swing band show is, and he looks very puzzled.
"This is the O'fallon High School Jazz Band fundraiser concert."
I must have had a look on my face that represented someone facing a sentencing, because we both just stared at each other. I wandered around the hotel looking for a sign of another concert going on, alas there was none. I grabbed the mobile phone and called a friend and asked her to look at facebook and confirm the address. I explained that I was at some kind of high school concert. She crackberrys the website and laughs out the words,
"Your at the right place."
I then see warming up in a room my best friend, and trumpet player of the band. She ran out to greet me.
"Hey! Am I at the right place?"
She laughed and explained that this was a fundraiser and the high school jazz band was opening for them. It also was an auction with a collection of many autographed items. Including a guitar signed by Taylor Swift, that eventually made a home with a 13 year old boy, who's future is most certainly to be a server in Chelsea. I walked in and immediately found my old buddies. They stood out as bad as I did. Among the sea of Dockers, sequined blazers, and white zinfandel's was our table. Two toned shoes, low cut dresses, and whiskey.
The jazz band wasn't all that bad, and they better not be. Seeing as how their parents had all spent tremendous amounts of money on their instruments. It had it everything you'd expect. Timing issues, nervous solos, bad bassist, and flashbacks. I was sitting next to my old friend Tiffany who's jokes kept my shoulders rocking up and down all night. She is like a red headed George Carlin.
The barry sax player was the best. A fat kid of course. Tiffany leans over to me and says something along the lines of sax practice and masturbation, and i spit my drink out a little. His parents of course were sitting at the table in front of us. They didn't hear what we were saying but we were very unwelcome.
Trying to fit in and not be gawked at like the townie whores we looked like, we got involved in the auction. Of course dropping out every time an item went over $25.00. Finally, the band started!
We hooped and hollered, sang along with every song. Remembered all the audience cues, and were even asked by the band to do some dancing. The rest of the audience glared, glared and, oh yeah, glared at us. The bartender was atrocious! Which I can understand, when all you do is open bud select and pour white zin, but she told me she had no scotch. When I told her she had Dewars, she said "Oh that's whiskey."
When the show ended my friends told me that in a weird coinsidence that the other swing band we used to go to was playing 5 miles away in my hometown. They asked me if I knew where it was, and unlike my sister who has the navigational skills of a GPS, I do not, and did not. Still they asked me to lead the caravan. I of course, drove them to my high school, because that is the only way I could remember to get to Belleville from Ofallon. It was a disaster.
We finally arrived at the right place, and i was attacked by a gentleman (and I use that term loosely) named Roger. Roger was easily 74 years young, and had the breath of a hunter 3 days in the tree stand. He was quite the little dancer, and advancer. We danced many...many songs. My friends and I had a great time, but were getting too sauced to continue our east side adventure and still drive home. It was time to call it a night. I awoke this morning with a fever blister, and can't help thinking that Roger had something to do with it.
The show was a blast, and I hope in another ten years they do another reunion show! Maybe this time they can have a polka group warm up for them, that's the only way they can top all the comedy material we indulged in.
ROCKER TED!
I read the facebook invite and it read that the reunion show was in Ofallon, Il. Bad because it's a thirty minute drive. Worse, because it's a thirty minute drive to a town next to my hometown! I finally arrive at the conference center and am amazed at the idea that I almost made it through an entire album on the ipod! As I walk in, I see a sea of high school kids in black wandering around. I ask the man at the desk where the Swing band show is, and he looks very puzzled.
"This is the O'fallon High School Jazz Band fundraiser concert."
I must have had a look on my face that represented someone facing a sentencing, because we both just stared at each other. I wandered around the hotel looking for a sign of another concert going on, alas there was none. I grabbed the mobile phone and called a friend and asked her to look at facebook and confirm the address. I explained that I was at some kind of high school concert. She crackberrys the website and laughs out the words,
"Your at the right place."
I then see warming up in a room my best friend, and trumpet player of the band. She ran out to greet me.
"Hey! Am I at the right place?"
She laughed and explained that this was a fundraiser and the high school jazz band was opening for them. It also was an auction with a collection of many autographed items. Including a guitar signed by Taylor Swift, that eventually made a home with a 13 year old boy, who's future is most certainly to be a server in Chelsea. I walked in and immediately found my old buddies. They stood out as bad as I did. Among the sea of Dockers, sequined blazers, and white zinfandel's was our table. Two toned shoes, low cut dresses, and whiskey.
The jazz band wasn't all that bad, and they better not be. Seeing as how their parents had all spent tremendous amounts of money on their instruments. It had it everything you'd expect. Timing issues, nervous solos, bad bassist, and flashbacks. I was sitting next to my old friend Tiffany who's jokes kept my shoulders rocking up and down all night. She is like a red headed George Carlin.
The barry sax player was the best. A fat kid of course. Tiffany leans over to me and says something along the lines of sax practice and masturbation, and i spit my drink out a little. His parents of course were sitting at the table in front of us. They didn't hear what we were saying but we were very unwelcome.
Trying to fit in and not be gawked at like the townie whores we looked like, we got involved in the auction. Of course dropping out every time an item went over $25.00. Finally, the band started!
We hooped and hollered, sang along with every song. Remembered all the audience cues, and were even asked by the band to do some dancing. The rest of the audience glared, glared and, oh yeah, glared at us. The bartender was atrocious! Which I can understand, when all you do is open bud select and pour white zin, but she told me she had no scotch. When I told her she had Dewars, she said "Oh that's whiskey."
When the show ended my friends told me that in a weird coinsidence that the other swing band we used to go to was playing 5 miles away in my hometown. They asked me if I knew where it was, and unlike my sister who has the navigational skills of a GPS, I do not, and did not. Still they asked me to lead the caravan. I of course, drove them to my high school, because that is the only way I could remember to get to Belleville from Ofallon. It was a disaster.
We finally arrived at the right place, and i was attacked by a gentleman (and I use that term loosely) named Roger. Roger was easily 74 years young, and had the breath of a hunter 3 days in the tree stand. He was quite the little dancer, and advancer. We danced many...many songs. My friends and I had a great time, but were getting too sauced to continue our east side adventure and still drive home. It was time to call it a night. I awoke this morning with a fever blister, and can't help thinking that Roger had something to do with it.
The show was a blast, and I hope in another ten years they do another reunion show! Maybe this time they can have a polka group warm up for them, that's the only way they can top all the comedy material we indulged in.
ROCKER TED!
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Jesus Healed My TV
One of the hurdles in my marriage and relationship with my husband has been the differences in faith. My husband claims to be an atheist and I am a christian. We for the most part have been able to keep this difference from forcing any wedges between us, but it is sometimes I can't help but giggle when God shows up.
Let me clarify that my husband is very supportive of my faith. He will even give me a little grief if I don't go to church. He encourages my prayer and bible time, and has even made jokes that if God does exsist that my family has a direct line. We are prayers. Prayer warriors. We like to get stuff done. If someone needs a job, a baby, a raise, a healing, we pray and God usually answers. It's not magic, it's just faith.
A couple weeks ago the unthinkable happened. The TV broke! I know that our culture as a whole has a serious addiction to technology, heck I saw a nun on Oprah with a blackberry. I was so upset. I had just paid the cable bill for one, and my favorite show was saved on the DVR. My husband and I did all we could but the thing just wouldn't turn on. Unplugged it and plugged it back in. We took a screwdriver to the switch, and nothing. We tried to fix it for 20 minutes. Deflated and defeated we gave up.
My husband went to the kitchen and started cooking dinner, I sat down at the laptop in the dining room and began to price televisions online. Then we had a discussion that if we are going to buy a new TV it should be the nice flat screen we were planning to buy with the tax return money. Those are very expensive, and we are still recovering from the wedding and have little of the proverbial pot to Tivo in. So I said a little prayer, well whined a little prayer out loud.
"Jesus, please fix the TV."
About three minutes later the TV came on! Yes all by it's self. My husband looked at me and I looked at him. I said "Thank you Jesus!" My husband laughed at me and said, "Jesus doesn't care about the TV." And I think he's right. Jesus doesn't care about my TV, but he'll take any opportunity to prove my husband wrong. Or at least mess with him a little.
Let me clarify that my husband is very supportive of my faith. He will even give me a little grief if I don't go to church. He encourages my prayer and bible time, and has even made jokes that if God does exsist that my family has a direct line. We are prayers. Prayer warriors. We like to get stuff done. If someone needs a job, a baby, a raise, a healing, we pray and God usually answers. It's not magic, it's just faith.
A couple weeks ago the unthinkable happened. The TV broke! I know that our culture as a whole has a serious addiction to technology, heck I saw a nun on Oprah with a blackberry. I was so upset. I had just paid the cable bill for one, and my favorite show was saved on the DVR. My husband and I did all we could but the thing just wouldn't turn on. Unplugged it and plugged it back in. We took a screwdriver to the switch, and nothing. We tried to fix it for 20 minutes. Deflated and defeated we gave up.
My husband went to the kitchen and started cooking dinner, I sat down at the laptop in the dining room and began to price televisions online. Then we had a discussion that if we are going to buy a new TV it should be the nice flat screen we were planning to buy with the tax return money. Those are very expensive, and we are still recovering from the wedding and have little of the proverbial pot to Tivo in. So I said a little prayer, well whined a little prayer out loud.
"Jesus, please fix the TV."
About three minutes later the TV came on! Yes all by it's self. My husband looked at me and I looked at him. I said "Thank you Jesus!" My husband laughed at me and said, "Jesus doesn't care about the TV." And I think he's right. Jesus doesn't care about my TV, but he'll take any opportunity to prove my husband wrong. Or at least mess with him a little.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
What's In a Name?
When I married my husband I had every intention of taking his name. Now, I will be the first to admit that I played around with the idea of hyphenating my name to his for a couple of reasons. First, I am the last of the girls in my family with this last name. And second, well, my last name rocks!
But after thinking about the idea of marriage really being a union between two people, two into one person, I wanted to acknowledge that. Besides if I was to hyphenate my last name would be seventeen letters, and well that's just stupid.
I'm not a person with whom a name is attached to my career. I'm not a partner at a major law firm, or an award winning actress. There is really no need to keep my name except for the idea that the girl who was on her own all through her twenties is now gone. This is okay. That girl wanted to get married.
So after the honeymoon ended and the holidays were over, I began the process to change my last name. First I was to go to City hall to acquire a "certified" marriage license. Apparently the one the state mailed me from the capitol city wasn't good enough. Or at least not going to help them make any money off me. You will see this trend continue through my story. I wait in line and stand at the counter and the same woman who issued the first license to us a week before is the one helping us. She of course didn't remember and couldn't care less. She did however give me a piece of advise and told me wherever I go to ask for this copy back or I'll have to come and pay another twenty dollars plus parking for each copy. Okay! She points me down the hall to the DMV where I can get my drivers license.
Down the hall I go, I pick another number and sit and wait. They call my number, and I jump up. Eager to get away from whatever that insane smell is coming from the woman in front of me! I go up to the counter and the woman is unpleasant at best. She tells me that all my waiting was for no reason that I could not be issued a drivers license with the new name until I change I name on my social security card. Okay, where the hell do I do that? She tells me of a place across town.
I arrive at the social security office and take another number. My husband and I quietly laugh at a person that we can't decide is a man or a woman, helps themselves to a desk telephone, and calls someone to ask for money for an apartment. This person is on the phone for ten minutes before a security guard catches them, and asks this person to "please not use our phones". The person says to the security guard, "Okay my bad, just a minute." Just a minute what? I was amused!
"99" Ooh goody that's me! I approach the counter and it seems that this woman has some sort of bird flu. She is coughing all over the place and wiping her nose as she takes my documents. I am charged another twenty dollars. Other than that, it is pretty quick and painless. I ask her if i can now go get my drivers license and she says yes.
Back into the car. We drive to the DMV and I pick.... you guessed it! Another number! I sit patiently and watch Judge Joe Brown and wait. Can I just say that everywhere I go the offices seem to have flat screen televisions! Well, I suppose if you charge everyone twenty dollars for every little frickin thing eventually the state has a little cash to throw around! When my number is called the woman at the counter tells me that I have to have a certified copy of my Birth Certificate from the county clerks office, they will not take the hospital copy, which of course is the one I have!
I call my Dad. Ask him if he has a copy of my original birth certificate, he says he does and he'll mail it to me and I should have it in a few days.
Finally I have all the necessary documents and go to change my name! The picture of me is awful. But I suppose everyone's is. Anyhow! Two weeks and $78.00 plus shipping later, I am Mrs. Newlywed! The lesson here is that no matter what anyone tells you, it does feel good to take his name. But it will cost you....at least your time. So make sure you really want it. I now longer judge the women out there that don't take their maiden name back after their marriage falls apart. After all, who has the time or the cash to do this more than once! And I'm sure it will take another series of twenty dollars and a certified copy of your vagina.
But after thinking about the idea of marriage really being a union between two people, two into one person, I wanted to acknowledge that. Besides if I was to hyphenate my last name would be seventeen letters, and well that's just stupid.
I'm not a person with whom a name is attached to my career. I'm not a partner at a major law firm, or an award winning actress. There is really no need to keep my name except for the idea that the girl who was on her own all through her twenties is now gone. This is okay. That girl wanted to get married.
So after the honeymoon ended and the holidays were over, I began the process to change my last name. First I was to go to City hall to acquire a "certified" marriage license. Apparently the one the state mailed me from the capitol city wasn't good enough. Or at least not going to help them make any money off me. You will see this trend continue through my story. I wait in line and stand at the counter and the same woman who issued the first license to us a week before is the one helping us. She of course didn't remember and couldn't care less. She did however give me a piece of advise and told me wherever I go to ask for this copy back or I'll have to come and pay another twenty dollars plus parking for each copy. Okay! She points me down the hall to the DMV where I can get my drivers license.
Down the hall I go, I pick another number and sit and wait. They call my number, and I jump up. Eager to get away from whatever that insane smell is coming from the woman in front of me! I go up to the counter and the woman is unpleasant at best. She tells me that all my waiting was for no reason that I could not be issued a drivers license with the new name until I change I name on my social security card. Okay, where the hell do I do that? She tells me of a place across town.
I arrive at the social security office and take another number. My husband and I quietly laugh at a person that we can't decide is a man or a woman, helps themselves to a desk telephone, and calls someone to ask for money for an apartment. This person is on the phone for ten minutes before a security guard catches them, and asks this person to "please not use our phones". The person says to the security guard, "Okay my bad, just a minute." Just a minute what? I was amused!
"99" Ooh goody that's me! I approach the counter and it seems that this woman has some sort of bird flu. She is coughing all over the place and wiping her nose as she takes my documents. I am charged another twenty dollars. Other than that, it is pretty quick and painless. I ask her if i can now go get my drivers license and she says yes.
Back into the car. We drive to the DMV and I pick.... you guessed it! Another number! I sit patiently and watch Judge Joe Brown and wait. Can I just say that everywhere I go the offices seem to have flat screen televisions! Well, I suppose if you charge everyone twenty dollars for every little frickin thing eventually the state has a little cash to throw around! When my number is called the woman at the counter tells me that I have to have a certified copy of my Birth Certificate from the county clerks office, they will not take the hospital copy, which of course is the one I have!
I call my Dad. Ask him if he has a copy of my original birth certificate, he says he does and he'll mail it to me and I should have it in a few days.
Finally I have all the necessary documents and go to change my name! The picture of me is awful. But I suppose everyone's is. Anyhow! Two weeks and $78.00 plus shipping later, I am Mrs. Newlywed! The lesson here is that no matter what anyone tells you, it does feel good to take his name. But it will cost you....at least your time. So make sure you really want it. I now longer judge the women out there that don't take their maiden name back after their marriage falls apart. After all, who has the time or the cash to do this more than once! And I'm sure it will take another series of twenty dollars and a certified copy of your vagina.
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