The familiar sight of a multi-colored flag is flapping ever so slightly in the breeze generated mostly by Richmond traffic as I approach Decades, the divey neighborhood gay bar next door to My Main Gay’s apartment complex. He frequents the place for many reasons, but tonight, it is Wednesday, and that means: Karaoke.
Now as a rule, I avoid karaoke. As a professional musician, it is against my principles to sing bad music for free, but tonight Main’s little brother is in town and he wants to show him a nice relaxed time in The Gayborhood, and as usual, a good time for Main involves Yours Truly.
I am instantly struck by the cramped shoebox of a room that is the entire bar. Mirrored walls do little to open up the space and since it is still pretty early—nine-ish—there is not much of a crowd. The few patrons turn to size me up and I realize I have arrived before Main and to make matters worse I am quite possibly over dressed in my white linen skirt, layered tank tops and flip flops. Uh huh. I said overdressed.
Reserving judgment, I turn on my heels to wait for Main outside and eventually he, Little Bro, and another FriendBoy join me. We choose a spot at the bar just as a tall skinny man with a smallish head begins a painful rendition of something vaguely resembling country. The bartenders are bickering like siblings and I find out that there is a reason for this: they are. Charmingly Chipper Sis and Brooding Bearded Bro wearing a shirt that says “Vaginatarian” are painfully cute and I keep eavesdropping to hear if one of them will whine “I’m telling!” Their mother is the proud owner of this fine establishment and the whole operation is a family affair.
The friendly faces and warm introductions that come easily from the regulars quickly abate my snobbery and every brave soul that takes the mic seems to be genuinely enjoying him or herself, living in the moment, confidently doing in public what most of us self-conscious schlubbs only do in the sanctity of our own shower. I am inspired. But I still don’t really do karaoke…much. Suddenly, I hear my name called by the DJ and Main is smirking and looking falsely innocent. He has put my name along with his favorite Sarah Vaughn jazz tune, Whatever Lola Wants, on the lineup and I am now being paged to take my turn. My Scarlet O’Hara-esque eyebrow is struggling to free itself from my forehead as I attempt to maim him with eye-daggers while making my way to the microphone. He has a special request: I am to replace “Lola” with his name. It is something of an after hours tradition with us.
I shrug and surrender myself to the somewhat unwanted attention that comes with my karaoke performances. I bring all the sultry heat I have and mix that with a tiny bit of camp, and before I know it, there are cameras flashing and someone is recording me with their cell phone. All eyes are on me and the crowd is responding to each gesture and shoulder roll and the whole silly affair is rewarded with a bar full of applause and cheers when it is over. I bob a curtsy as humbly as I can and slink back to my barstool and beer, blushing fiercely and suddenly very thirsty.
I feel like it really isn’t fair to participate in karaoke nights since I sing for a living, and it is also a bit like asking your cousin’s new boyfriend with a PhD to look at this mole you have on your ass. I am not a skilled country or pop singer. That’s not my bag, baby, so unless the DJ has an extensive collection of Jazz standards in the keys I prefer, and/or a slew of obscure Broadway tunes, it is out of my box. Don’t get me wrong; it is fun beyond words to do a little Crystal Gayle or Madonna. I never get to do that stuff! But I always feel pressured to be perfect when I am singing outside the confines of a pro gig. Weird hang ups I suppose.
A return to Karaoke night the following week (how do I get myself in these situations?) proves to be even more absurdly fun and full of giggles. This week I was eerily sober all night and there were several gaggles of pretty-boy types out to have a good giggle. HA! Gaggles looking for giggles! I kill me! IT turns out that the lead geese all have decent voices and are pretty well versed in the cheesier Karaoke standards. On top of that, the bartender discovered that I am a pro musician and Main wanted me to share my Broadway chops with the crowd to mix it up a bit. Oy. So I find myself singing a little ditty from Oliver, the musical—more classical legit than belter Broadway, so its pretty high and requires a full voice. I have done this one other time in a similar bar, with a more redneckish clientele. You would think everyone would boo and hiss and throw bottles and coasters, but for some reason they eat it up.
I spent the rest of the night fielding questions about my occupation, humbly accepting compliments, and singing duets with a Lance Bass look-a-like (it was uncanny) including The Phantom of the Opera (his choice.) Yes, the one with the freakishly high note at the end. Well, it ain’t all that high for me, so it was kind of a gas to get to blow some minds with that one. It was like being a classical karaoke rock star; just what my expensive private school degree prepared me for. My lenders must be so proud. That must be why they are calling me everyday: to congratulate me on my personal success! But I digress…
The night was ceremoniously closed in true karaoke form with LB and me singing Summer Nights (again his choice.) It would have been better if he could have sung the harmony at the end, but hey, local gay bar karaoke night celebrities can’t be choosers. I think that’s what really keeps me grounded in reality.
All in all, a lovely couple of evenings, a great, relaxed neighborhood bar brimming with friendly folks, long necks are $3—which could be worse, and it is truly an authentic Montrose experience—at least, the low-key kind. If you are looking for something a bit more novel, well, that’s a different bar and another blog altogether.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
That's mighty neighborly of You...
(sorry this is so long...go get a snack and a flair gun and send one up if you get lost)
Well its official. I live in a complex full of Asshats. I have officially pissed off two neighbors by merely smiling and asking politely for a few common courtesy things, and one for smiling and apologizing profusely for something that really wasn't even an offense worthy an apology.
First, there was the lovely young lady who was walking her adorable schnauzer in the grass directly beside my front door. A beautiful black girl in her mid twenties, dressed for a trip to the gym perhaps but looking cute and sweet and chatting on her cell phone. In hindsight, I should have paid attention to the fact that she was wearing more make up than Mimi on the Drew Carey Show (and the same color eye shadow at that) and that the tone she was using in her conversation was a bit on the snide end of the spectrum. Now, from day one the grass in this area has been completely covered in shit. People all over the complex do not pick up after their animals, and this stretch of lawn right by my front door and along the fence by my patio is the worst. The hot sun bakes it into a lovely festering pile of stink about mid afternoon, and it makes sitting on the patio unbearable and the simple act of walking from my car to my front door a nostril burning experience in noxious fumes.
So I smile at her and say "excuse me" and she puts her caller on hold and gives me a "wtf do you want" look. I should have just smiled and said "I love your dog, can I pet her?" but no, I ignored the warning signs flashing beneath that bright blue hooker paint and plodded right along.
Me: (smiling sweetly, and looking appropriately embarrassed and trying to appear as though I felt bad for even asking:)
"I would really appreciate it if you would please pick up after your dog when she goes over here. I have to walk my 2 year old past all these piles of dog poop and it's kinda gross."
Her: (one painted eyebrow cocked a la Scarlett O'Whore-a) "She never goes over here, she always goes back over there" (points vaguely West)
Me: (sensing an epic conflict on the sunset-colored horizons of this plantation, I decide to concede)"OH! Ok, well, thanks. I'm just asking all dog walkers I see over here to pick up after their pets, so, that's cool if she never goes here, then no worries. Thanks again!" (I smile)
She gives me one of those fake grimace-like smiles that means "great, now get the bleep out of my face you bleepity bleep bleep bleeeeeeeeeeeep" and I walk on, sure I have only narrowly missed a Springer-esque moment.
First encounter with neighbors: me: zilch, bitchy stripper chick: one.
But never fear! The next opportunity I had to meet my fellow tenants was not far away! We have assigned parking here, sort of. Each apartment is assigned one covered parking spot. Our assigned spot has been occupied by a vehicle that has NEVER moved since the day we got here, and we don't really care that much because it is next to a wall which makes it literally impossible to exit our car when parked there. I would have to climb out through the passenger side to get out, assuming no car is parked in the adjacent spot, in which case I would be trapped until I lost enough weight to slide through a 4 inch opening. So we watched to see which spots are typically vacant and parked there. We got a few notes under our wipers stating that this or that spot were assigned and we have not parked in any of those since. But we found one that was apparently available and used it for several days in a row.
These spots are pretty narrow, and I am admittedly TERRIBLE at parking my car since it is one of those luxury sedans with an oddly short front end that slopes steeply down, so it is deceptive when it comes to judging how close one is to an object. But I take my time and do my best. One night I came home pretty late, and I was very tired and I parked a little crooked. Mind you I was INSIDE the lines by a good three or four inches, but yes, it was crooked, technically.
So I come out to my car the next day and find a balding middle aged fat man contemplating my car, mouth agape in codfish-style. I think to myself: "Uh oh! I'm in his spot! I will apologize and never park there again!"
Me: (smiling) I'm so sorry am I in your spot? I will move.
Him: (thick accent, maybe Armenian? Sounds a lot like the Soup Nazi on Seinfeld) This is you?
Me: Yes, I'm so sorry we don't exactly have...
Him: (interrupting) Look how you park.
Me: Oh! wow! I am crooked! I'm sorry (still smiling apologetically) I have trouble parking...
Him: (interrupting again) Which apartment you live?
Me: Um. wow. I don't really feel comfortable telling you..
Him: Because you no live here!
Me: I beg your pardon? I most certainly...
Him: NO! (yelling) You no have sticker! I call management and they tow you car!
Me: Well we just moved in and I haven't gotten around to...
Him: NO! YOU NO LIVE HERE! I CALL AND HAVE YOU TOWED!
Sadly, this continued to escalate with him yelling ever more ferociously and me too flabbergasted to respond appropriately for at least 3 solid minutes while I try to smile sweetly and pacify and explain. I finally realized he was just an abusive asshole and I was letting him ream me for no good reason and I let my inner Better-Than-You Bitch come out to play. She so rarely gets a good airing.
The conversation deteriorated pretty quickly from that point as you can imagine, and apparently he wants to have intimate relations with my mother. I couldn't resist telling him I was surprised he had had the pleasure of meeting my mother, and despite her being a lovely woman I didn't think she would be interested in HIM...I seem to recall perhaps a below the belt attack on my part in reference to his foreign status here as well, and maybe a comment on the state of his waist size...I dunno, I get a little crazy when people talk about having sex with my Momma and ask where I live in a menacing way.
Me: still nada, Friendly Neighbors: 2
Now, after that kind of welcoming committee duo, I suppose I should have seen the next few things coming. Hubby's car was broken into and his company laptop stolen. (Thanks a million 24 hour Front Gate Security Desk!) Then the same bright security officers managed to return a UPS package the day AFTER it was delivered, claiming it had been there more than 10 days. Normally not a big deal, except I had paid good money to overnight my head shot prints for a big audition that weekend and had no other options at that point.
At this point, I believe the score is Me: aught, Them: 4
Which brings me to today's visit to the pool. The Fairy Princess and I have been almost daily visitors to the pool since it got warm enough to shiver in. There is a posted sign at the big pool by the office that prohibits kids under 13 from being there without an adult. At the little pool by our unit, the sign only says "should not" but the message is clear, and to me, it is common sense. Kids should be supervised at a public pool. And more importantly, I don't want to be responsible for watching your child when I do not know you. If something happens to your kid, and I am the only adult around, that makes me liable for his safety. Excuuuuuuse me for not wanting to deal with THAT can of worms.
So a cute little kid comes into the pool area and I ask him how old he is. He is ten. I tell him I'm sorry but you need to have a parent or someone with you to be here. That's the rule. He leaves and 2 minutes later here comes Asshat Daddy.
Him: Is there a problem with my kid swimming at the pool?
Me: (smiling apologetically) No, not at all! I just told him he needs a parent here since he is under 13.
Him: blah blah blah
Me: Well, I'm really sorry but if he is here alone that makes ME the liable adult responsible for him and I'm not comfortable with that. It is illegal for a kid his age to be unsupervised at the pool.
Him: Who ARE you?
Me: (still optimistic, because I am an idiot) I'm Cortney. Nice to meet you.
Him: And how long have you lived here? Do you even live here?
Me: (at least he didn't ask me WHERE I live) We've been here about a month.
Him: Well we have lived here for 2 years and...blah blah blah (apparently he has been letting his kid swim alone since he was 8. And the father of the year award goes to...)
He mentioned something about his office window is right there, blahbity blah...and I just smiled and repeated that it is against the rules for his kid to be there without him, that I don't want to be the adult responsible for HIS kid if anything happens, and that I really am very s...
Him: (waving me silent) How long are you gonna be at the pool?
Me: (acquiescing) Not long. 30 minutes, maybe.
Him: Good.
He leaves, comes back in his undershirt with his kid and his smokes and tells me as he walks past "You sure are gonna have a lot of friends here."
Again, I am speechless by how rude and just plain mean people can be to perfect strangers. I mean, for all he knows, my young son was killed in a tragic swimming accident or something. Or MAYBE I'm just covering my ass and FOLLOWING THE DAMN RULES!?
This really got to me. I know I should just shake this kind of thing off, but the truth is I had envisioned making new friends and meeting new people at this new location. I hoped to have people that would stop by for a beer or offer to watch Gwen for an hour while I ran to the gym. Or even better, maybe a girlfriend who would like to go to the gym with me! I hear that some people actually make friends in new places. I, apparently inspire rancor and deserve to literally be shat upon.
At one point he says: "I have to run in to use the restroom don't call the cops on me."
So I stay just long enough to not create a scene with my toddler who is used to swimming at least an hour, then right before we leave I approach him and deliver the following acceptance speech that I didn't even have prepared:
"You are right. People have been so very warm and welcoming here. There was the lovely young lady who resented being asked to pick up after her dog when it shits beside my front door. Then there was the kind old man that cussed me out for parking crookedly, despite my repeated efforts to apologize. Our car has been broken into. An important overnight delivery was carelessly handled by the gate guards. And now you are rude and inconsiderate by disregarding the rules that are put there for YOUR child's safety and MY legal protection. I sure am glad I moved here!"
He then explained that he could see the pool from his office window and that he knew the people that lived near the pool and everyone lends a hand to watch out for the kids...yada yada yada...he was a former military rescue swimmer...blah blah blah...he studied law, so when people start throwing around the word "illegal" wank wank wank...and he apologized, eventually, after about 18 excuses as to why he was an asshole to me, none of which were along the lines of "wow, I really overreacted like an asshole."
I told him that if he could in fact see the pool from his window that I was fine with that, and it seemed reasonable, and I didn't feel like it was an imposition upon me in that case. I assured him I didn't mean to be a bitch, that I was just trying to follow the rules at a new place while I felt it all out. I said that all he really needed to have done, was to assure me his kid was an excellent swimmer, tell me he could see him from the window and that he didn't expect me to watch him. Maybe even smile and introduce himself and his son to me so that it didn't feel like some dead beat dad was sending his unwanted child to the pool to get him out of his hair. I told him that I was a former lifeguard and that in actuality he could trust that his kid was exceedingly safe with me around and I would be happy to be an adult presence if the circumstances were friendly.
I left the pool with his apology not only for himself but for all the other Asshats I had encountered, and I sort of felt better. Sort of. I guess I'm now 1 for 4. But am I completely MENTAL or living in some kind of alternate universe from the rest of the world? Do people just automatically respond to polite requests with rudeness and profanity if it is a request that happens to inconvenience them in their self absorbed little lives? Should I just put blinders on and ignore the dog shit I wipe from my two-year-old's white Dora the Explorer sandals? Should I stand quietly and let an angry old man accost me with foul language just to avoid pissing him off any further? Should I assume responsibility and basically provide free baby sitting to any child sent to the pool alone?
Whenever any altercation occurs in my life, i always try to learn from it by reviewing the conversation in my head and mentally editing my responses to alter the outcome. I almost always fall short in one way or another with a poorly chosen word or a meaner-than necessary tone. And these instances were no exception. I could have changed a few things I said in order to feel better about my role in the conflict. However, I can honestly say that the only way to have changed the outcomes of each of these instances for the better, would have been to not say anything at all. I should have ignored the dog owner and silently hoped she felt a sense of civil duty to clean up after her dog now that someone lives here. I should have repeated my apology to the fat man, gotten in my car and driven away. And apparently I should have just kept my mouth shut and watched the 10 year old while I was at the pool. That's what most people would have done. Why can't I just be like everyone else, and avoid the unpleasant issues of living in a community of other people by complaining about them to the management who will do exactly NOTHING and go on living my merry little conflict free life?
I need a drink.
Well its official. I live in a complex full of Asshats. I have officially pissed off two neighbors by merely smiling and asking politely for a few common courtesy things, and one for smiling and apologizing profusely for something that really wasn't even an offense worthy an apology.
First, there was the lovely young lady who was walking her adorable schnauzer in the grass directly beside my front door. A beautiful black girl in her mid twenties, dressed for a trip to the gym perhaps but looking cute and sweet and chatting on her cell phone. In hindsight, I should have paid attention to the fact that she was wearing more make up than Mimi on the Drew Carey Show (and the same color eye shadow at that) and that the tone she was using in her conversation was a bit on the snide end of the spectrum. Now, from day one the grass in this area has been completely covered in shit. People all over the complex do not pick up after their animals, and this stretch of lawn right by my front door and along the fence by my patio is the worst. The hot sun bakes it into a lovely festering pile of stink about mid afternoon, and it makes sitting on the patio unbearable and the simple act of walking from my car to my front door a nostril burning experience in noxious fumes.
So I smile at her and say "excuse me" and she puts her caller on hold and gives me a "wtf do you want" look. I should have just smiled and said "I love your dog, can I pet her?" but no, I ignored the warning signs flashing beneath that bright blue hooker paint and plodded right along.
Me: (smiling sweetly, and looking appropriately embarrassed and trying to appear as though I felt bad for even asking:)
"I would really appreciate it if you would please pick up after your dog when she goes over here. I have to walk my 2 year old past all these piles of dog poop and it's kinda gross."
Her: (one painted eyebrow cocked a la Scarlett O'Whore-a) "She never goes over here, she always goes back over there" (points vaguely West)
Me: (sensing an epic conflict on the sunset-colored horizons of this plantation, I decide to concede)"OH! Ok, well, thanks. I'm just asking all dog walkers I see over here to pick up after their pets, so, that's cool if she never goes here, then no worries. Thanks again!" (I smile)
She gives me one of those fake grimace-like smiles that means "great, now get the bleep out of my face you bleepity bleep bleep bleeeeeeeeeeeep" and I walk on, sure I have only narrowly missed a Springer-esque moment.
First encounter with neighbors: me: zilch, bitchy stripper chick: one.
But never fear! The next opportunity I had to meet my fellow tenants was not far away! We have assigned parking here, sort of. Each apartment is assigned one covered parking spot. Our assigned spot has been occupied by a vehicle that has NEVER moved since the day we got here, and we don't really care that much because it is next to a wall which makes it literally impossible to exit our car when parked there. I would have to climb out through the passenger side to get out, assuming no car is parked in the adjacent spot, in which case I would be trapped until I lost enough weight to slide through a 4 inch opening. So we watched to see which spots are typically vacant and parked there. We got a few notes under our wipers stating that this or that spot were assigned and we have not parked in any of those since. But we found one that was apparently available and used it for several days in a row.
These spots are pretty narrow, and I am admittedly TERRIBLE at parking my car since it is one of those luxury sedans with an oddly short front end that slopes steeply down, so it is deceptive when it comes to judging how close one is to an object. But I take my time and do my best. One night I came home pretty late, and I was very tired and I parked a little crooked. Mind you I was INSIDE the lines by a good three or four inches, but yes, it was crooked, technically.
So I come out to my car the next day and find a balding middle aged fat man contemplating my car, mouth agape in codfish-style. I think to myself: "Uh oh! I'm in his spot! I will apologize and never park there again!"
Me: (smiling) I'm so sorry am I in your spot? I will move.
Him: (thick accent, maybe Armenian? Sounds a lot like the Soup Nazi on Seinfeld) This is you?
Me: Yes, I'm so sorry we don't exactly have...
Him: (interrupting) Look how you park.
Me: Oh! wow! I am crooked! I'm sorry (still smiling apologetically) I have trouble parking...
Him: (interrupting again) Which apartment you live?
Me: Um. wow. I don't really feel comfortable telling you..
Him: Because you no live here!
Me: I beg your pardon? I most certainly...
Him: NO! (yelling) You no have sticker! I call management and they tow you car!
Me: Well we just moved in and I haven't gotten around to...
Him: NO! YOU NO LIVE HERE! I CALL AND HAVE YOU TOWED!
Sadly, this continued to escalate with him yelling ever more ferociously and me too flabbergasted to respond appropriately for at least 3 solid minutes while I try to smile sweetly and pacify and explain. I finally realized he was just an abusive asshole and I was letting him ream me for no good reason and I let my inner Better-Than-You Bitch come out to play. She so rarely gets a good airing.
The conversation deteriorated pretty quickly from that point as you can imagine, and apparently he wants to have intimate relations with my mother. I couldn't resist telling him I was surprised he had had the pleasure of meeting my mother, and despite her being a lovely woman I didn't think she would be interested in HIM...I seem to recall perhaps a below the belt attack on my part in reference to his foreign status here as well, and maybe a comment on the state of his waist size...I dunno, I get a little crazy when people talk about having sex with my Momma and ask where I live in a menacing way.
Me: still nada, Friendly Neighbors: 2
Now, after that kind of welcoming committee duo, I suppose I should have seen the next few things coming. Hubby's car was broken into and his company laptop stolen. (Thanks a million 24 hour Front Gate Security Desk!) Then the same bright security officers managed to return a UPS package the day AFTER it was delivered, claiming it had been there more than 10 days. Normally not a big deal, except I had paid good money to overnight my head shot prints for a big audition that weekend and had no other options at that point.
At this point, I believe the score is Me: aught, Them: 4
Which brings me to today's visit to the pool. The Fairy Princess and I have been almost daily visitors to the pool since it got warm enough to shiver in. There is a posted sign at the big pool by the office that prohibits kids under 13 from being there without an adult. At the little pool by our unit, the sign only says "should not" but the message is clear, and to me, it is common sense. Kids should be supervised at a public pool. And more importantly, I don't want to be responsible for watching your child when I do not know you. If something happens to your kid, and I am the only adult around, that makes me liable for his safety. Excuuuuuuse me for not wanting to deal with THAT can of worms.
So a cute little kid comes into the pool area and I ask him how old he is. He is ten. I tell him I'm sorry but you need to have a parent or someone with you to be here. That's the rule. He leaves and 2 minutes later here comes Asshat Daddy.
Him: Is there a problem with my kid swimming at the pool?
Me: (smiling apologetically) No, not at all! I just told him he needs a parent here since he is under 13.
Him: blah blah blah
Me: Well, I'm really sorry but if he is here alone that makes ME the liable adult responsible for him and I'm not comfortable with that. It is illegal for a kid his age to be unsupervised at the pool.
Him: Who ARE you?
Me: (still optimistic, because I am an idiot) I'm Cortney. Nice to meet you.
Him: And how long have you lived here? Do you even live here?
Me: (at least he didn't ask me WHERE I live) We've been here about a month.
Him: Well we have lived here for 2 years and...blah blah blah (apparently he has been letting his kid swim alone since he was 8. And the father of the year award goes to...)
He mentioned something about his office window is right there, blahbity blah...and I just smiled and repeated that it is against the rules for his kid to be there without him, that I don't want to be the adult responsible for HIS kid if anything happens, and that I really am very s...
Him: (waving me silent) How long are you gonna be at the pool?
Me: (acquiescing) Not long. 30 minutes, maybe.
Him: Good.
He leaves, comes back in his undershirt with his kid and his smokes and tells me as he walks past "You sure are gonna have a lot of friends here."
Again, I am speechless by how rude and just plain mean people can be to perfect strangers. I mean, for all he knows, my young son was killed in a tragic swimming accident or something. Or MAYBE I'm just covering my ass and FOLLOWING THE DAMN RULES!?
This really got to me. I know I should just shake this kind of thing off, but the truth is I had envisioned making new friends and meeting new people at this new location. I hoped to have people that would stop by for a beer or offer to watch Gwen for an hour while I ran to the gym. Or even better, maybe a girlfriend who would like to go to the gym with me! I hear that some people actually make friends in new places. I, apparently inspire rancor and deserve to literally be shat upon.
At one point he says: "I have to run in to use the restroom don't call the cops on me."
So I stay just long enough to not create a scene with my toddler who is used to swimming at least an hour, then right before we leave I approach him and deliver the following acceptance speech that I didn't even have prepared:
"You are right. People have been so very warm and welcoming here. There was the lovely young lady who resented being asked to pick up after her dog when it shits beside my front door. Then there was the kind old man that cussed me out for parking crookedly, despite my repeated efforts to apologize. Our car has been broken into. An important overnight delivery was carelessly handled by the gate guards. And now you are rude and inconsiderate by disregarding the rules that are put there for YOUR child's safety and MY legal protection. I sure am glad I moved here!"
He then explained that he could see the pool from his office window and that he knew the people that lived near the pool and everyone lends a hand to watch out for the kids...yada yada yada...he was a former military rescue swimmer...blah blah blah...he studied law, so when people start throwing around the word "illegal" wank wank wank...and he apologized, eventually, after about 18 excuses as to why he was an asshole to me, none of which were along the lines of "wow, I really overreacted like an asshole."
I told him that if he could in fact see the pool from his window that I was fine with that, and it seemed reasonable, and I didn't feel like it was an imposition upon me in that case. I assured him I didn't mean to be a bitch, that I was just trying to follow the rules at a new place while I felt it all out. I said that all he really needed to have done, was to assure me his kid was an excellent swimmer, tell me he could see him from the window and that he didn't expect me to watch him. Maybe even smile and introduce himself and his son to me so that it didn't feel like some dead beat dad was sending his unwanted child to the pool to get him out of his hair. I told him that I was a former lifeguard and that in actuality he could trust that his kid was exceedingly safe with me around and I would be happy to be an adult presence if the circumstances were friendly.
I left the pool with his apology not only for himself but for all the other Asshats I had encountered, and I sort of felt better. Sort of. I guess I'm now 1 for 4. But am I completely MENTAL or living in some kind of alternate universe from the rest of the world? Do people just automatically respond to polite requests with rudeness and profanity if it is a request that happens to inconvenience them in their self absorbed little lives? Should I just put blinders on and ignore the dog shit I wipe from my two-year-old's white Dora the Explorer sandals? Should I stand quietly and let an angry old man accost me with foul language just to avoid pissing him off any further? Should I assume responsibility and basically provide free baby sitting to any child sent to the pool alone?
Whenever any altercation occurs in my life, i always try to learn from it by reviewing the conversation in my head and mentally editing my responses to alter the outcome. I almost always fall short in one way or another with a poorly chosen word or a meaner-than necessary tone. And these instances were no exception. I could have changed a few things I said in order to feel better about my role in the conflict. However, I can honestly say that the only way to have changed the outcomes of each of these instances for the better, would have been to not say anything at all. I should have ignored the dog owner and silently hoped she felt a sense of civil duty to clean up after her dog now that someone lives here. I should have repeated my apology to the fat man, gotten in my car and driven away. And apparently I should have just kept my mouth shut and watched the 10 year old while I was at the pool. That's what most people would have done. Why can't I just be like everyone else, and avoid the unpleasant issues of living in a community of other people by complaining about them to the management who will do exactly NOTHING and go on living my merry little conflict free life?
I need a drink.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
real as life...head shots and retouching
Once again, I find myself in true awe of the lengths to which we all will go in order to appear beautiful. That said, I know I'm a pretty girl, basically. I have been blessed with many attributes of which I am proud and more importantly, many people in my life and family that have told me on a daily basis how beautiful I am. These same people would have thought me lovely and told me so even if I had looked like a female version of Quasimodo with eczema, but that is precisely WHY they are wonderful people. They loved me for my inner beauty first.
Now, all the heartwarming PC bull crap out of the way, I can get down to the shallow skin-deep issues that really matter.
As an artist/singer/actor type, you need a little something called a head shot. A photo of only your face/head (and perhaps shoulders) that accurately represents your current (operative word here) visage. It is traditionally in black and white, which I believe has more to do with old printing constraints than the whole "I am a blank canvas, paint me as you want me" BS they tell you in college audition classes, but whatever. Everyone looks better in black and white, and I am fine with that.
Now, anyone with half a brain can see while flipping through a playbill that many artists choose to keep their glamourfied-retouched-soft-focus-shots of 15 years ago as their professional image. I can't blame them for wishful thinking, but personally I find this repugnant. Your face and body is a big part of your product as a performer and the consumer (i.e. casting agents and directors) has a right to an accurate representation of what you ACTUALLY look like.
For example, THIS was my headshot from 2002-ish, taken by a friend (thanks ROB!) at a living room shoot.
This was taken with some homemade lighting and backdrops and a 35mm camera. I scanned the original 4x6 and used it to order 8x10s from Walgreens. It worked.
Now fast forward to 2007 and I felt it no longer looked the way I look, so I took my little point and shoot hand me down digital out on my porch and took a few hold-out-the-arm-and-click shots and THIS is what I came up with:
Despite the fact that my glasses are a teensy bit crooked (which drives me INSANE and I really don't want to talk about it), I felt that this was good enough to use after a little creative photoshopping on my part.
Now, before I show you what all I did, lets take a look at what photoshopping can REALLY do. Go to this retoucher's website and check out the before and afters. I will wait...
GlennFeronRetouching
OK. if you are like me, and fascinated by this stuff, then you may have noticed little infuriating things like the erasure of ab muscles (yes, MUSCLES) on women, to give them a flatter stomach, or the smoothing of veins in feet to give a more plastic look, or the highly common plumping and rounding of breasts in EVERY shot, including changing the neckline of a blouse to accommodate said faux boob job. This guy makes me out to be the amateur that I truly am, but hey, I just wanted to soften things a bit, not suggest that I am, in fact, Theater Barbie.
So, the first thing I did, was play with making a crazy colorwarp pic for my myspace page. This is completely irrelevant to this blog, but cool, so here it is:
Now, if I had liked the way this was going, I would have fixed the whites of my eyes so they didn't look purple and a few other things, but it started to bore me, so I moved on.
I went ahead and changed it to a black and white photo. Piece o' cake.
I also added the name, number and email down there. An essential part of any audition-related head shot. Now, in this smaller version on the web, you can't actually see the issues I had with this photo as well as you can when the entire GIMONGOUS file with a really high resolution is printed out in 8x10 format. Similar to one of those evil lighted magnifying mirrors old women use to spackle their faces, it reveals things that aren't even visible in real life. Typically, I destroy this sort of evidence that proves I am indeed human and flawed, but in the interest of protesting the unrealistic expectations our image industry has forced on us all, I will now swallow my pride and show you in ACTUAL VIEW what one small part of this photo looks like in 8x10 size.
Drumroll, please............
Ok, so maybe you STILL can't see the crap that irritates me, but I see every pore the size of a Crater Lake, and tiny blonde usually invisible hairs looking like a hormone problem. It was pretty obvious in the first prints I made. So, a few filters and a smudge tool or two later, I got this:
Again, I find in checking out the preview that you can't really tell what it is that was done, but my point is: GOOD! There should be an element of realism in head shots. I could have done soooooo much more to this photo to make it "better" but I figured I would probably look like this when I handed the audition panel the actual photo, and I for one did not want to endure the sniggers that would inevitably come with any plasticky over-retouched job I handed them. I mean, my lips are NOT glistening in the sun, My hair is a mess and probably will be in the audition. My glasses are crooked and to be honest, they are always crooked thanks to my habit of falling asleep in them.
In reviewing this post I find it is longer and more boring than I had expected, so I will just stop. My point is made with the link above. Perhaps I should have just posted that link and said WTF? I'm pretty sure that no matter what I say, no one will believe this is a real picture of me...right?
Now, all the heartwarming PC bull crap out of the way, I can get down to the shallow skin-deep issues that really matter.
As an artist/singer/actor type, you need a little something called a head shot. A photo of only your face/head (and perhaps shoulders) that accurately represents your current (operative word here) visage. It is traditionally in black and white, which I believe has more to do with old printing constraints than the whole "I am a blank canvas, paint me as you want me" BS they tell you in college audition classes, but whatever. Everyone looks better in black and white, and I am fine with that.
Now, anyone with half a brain can see while flipping through a playbill that many artists choose to keep their glamourfied-retouched-soft-focus-shots of 15 years ago as their professional image. I can't blame them for wishful thinking, but personally I find this repugnant. Your face and body is a big part of your product as a performer and the consumer (i.e. casting agents and directors) has a right to an accurate representation of what you ACTUALLY look like.
For example, THIS was my headshot from 2002-ish, taken by a friend (thanks ROB!) at a living room shoot.
This was taken with some homemade lighting and backdrops and a 35mm camera. I scanned the original 4x6 and used it to order 8x10s from Walgreens. It worked.
Now fast forward to 2007 and I felt it no longer looked the way I look, so I took my little point and shoot hand me down digital out on my porch and took a few hold-out-the-arm-and-click shots and THIS is what I came up with:
Despite the fact that my glasses are a teensy bit crooked (which drives me INSANE and I really don't want to talk about it), I felt that this was good enough to use after a little creative photoshopping on my part.
Now, before I show you what all I did, lets take a look at what photoshopping can REALLY do. Go to this retoucher's website and check out the before and afters. I will wait...
GlennFeronRetouching
OK. if you are like me, and fascinated by this stuff, then you may have noticed little infuriating things like the erasure of ab muscles (yes, MUSCLES) on women, to give them a flatter stomach, or the smoothing of veins in feet to give a more plastic look, or the highly common plumping and rounding of breasts in EVERY shot, including changing the neckline of a blouse to accommodate said faux boob job. This guy makes me out to be the amateur that I truly am, but hey, I just wanted to soften things a bit, not suggest that I am, in fact, Theater Barbie.
So, the first thing I did, was play with making a crazy colorwarp pic for my myspace page. This is completely irrelevant to this blog, but cool, so here it is:
Now, if I had liked the way this was going, I would have fixed the whites of my eyes so they didn't look purple and a few other things, but it started to bore me, so I moved on.
I went ahead and changed it to a black and white photo. Piece o' cake.
I also added the name, number and email down there. An essential part of any audition-related head shot. Now, in this smaller version on the web, you can't actually see the issues I had with this photo as well as you can when the entire GIMONGOUS file with a really high resolution is printed out in 8x10 format. Similar to one of those evil lighted magnifying mirrors old women use to spackle their faces, it reveals things that aren't even visible in real life. Typically, I destroy this sort of evidence that proves I am indeed human and flawed, but in the interest of protesting the unrealistic expectations our image industry has forced on us all, I will now swallow my pride and show you in ACTUAL VIEW what one small part of this photo looks like in 8x10 size.
Drumroll, please............
Ok, so maybe you STILL can't see the crap that irritates me, but I see every pore the size of a Crater Lake, and tiny blonde usually invisible hairs looking like a hormone problem. It was pretty obvious in the first prints I made. So, a few filters and a smudge tool or two later, I got this:
Again, I find in checking out the preview that you can't really tell what it is that was done, but my point is: GOOD! There should be an element of realism in head shots. I could have done soooooo much more to this photo to make it "better" but I figured I would probably look like this when I handed the audition panel the actual photo, and I for one did not want to endure the sniggers that would inevitably come with any plasticky over-retouched job I handed them. I mean, my lips are NOT glistening in the sun, My hair is a mess and probably will be in the audition. My glasses are crooked and to be honest, they are always crooked thanks to my habit of falling asleep in them.
In reviewing this post I find it is longer and more boring than I had expected, so I will just stop. My point is made with the link above. Perhaps I should have just posted that link and said WTF? I'm pretty sure that no matter what I say, no one will believe this is a real picture of me...right?
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Stereotyped (thanks a LOT Diesel)
It blows my mind how, in today's (supposed) climate of open minded acceptance and tolerance, not to mention the massive amounts of information available at the literal click of a button, that there are still intelligent people out there with preconceived stereotypes about a group of people as harmless and unobtrusive as Vegans.
**links to other bloggers due to comments posted on a recent mattresspolice.com blog that referenced the fact that one of my all time favorite bloggers "hates vegans." Consider me stung to the core.
A few things I would like to make perfectly clear about Vegans:
1. We are not all fanatical PETA members judging you for buying a purebred German Shepherd rather than adopting a mutt from your local pound. And although the whole baby seal thing is kinda sad and sick, it is not on the top of my concern list. The rapid expansion of The Collective American Ass IS, however of major concern to me, as it is to everyone who hates ugly people.
EXHIBIT A
2. We do not ALL expect the non-vegans around us to accommodate our dietary choices through special restaurant trips, special dish preparation or anything else that would annoy you. If you like us as a HUMAN enough that you would like us to join you for lunch, it would be easier on us to choose a place at which we can eat more than iceberg and lemon wedges. However, I frequently go sit and suck lemons with my friends just to enjoy their company, and eat when I get home. No big deal. Relationships are about compromise.
3. We do not all eat weird shit, like PEAT MOSS AND TREE BARK, DIESEL! Granted there are a few things that are lesser known to Americans that are real life-savers for Vegans, like seitan, a basic asian dish made from wheat gluten flour that is so meat-like (you can use it just like meat in anything, from BBQ to lasagna and everything in between) I always serve it to omnivores when they come over to try to help them feel like they are eating something they consider "normal." (Yes I am that sweet) But as a rule, you can think of what I eat as being a plate full of side dishes. The SAME side dishes you eat. Including french fries and pasta. I eat Italian and Mexican and Chinese, I eat sandwiches and burritos and chili and burgers. Sure, they are made of some sort of veggie matter rather than ground up unidentifiable animal parts (any guess as to how many eyeballs the average pack of hamburger contains?) I eat cake and pie and cookies and ice cream, the only difference is that they don't contain hormone-laden bovine mammary secretions or the single-celled reproductive secretions of birds. But they are every bit as deliciously sweet and unhealthy as the omni version!
EXHIBIT B
EXHIBIT C
And lets be honest, isn't it equally obnoxious when someone refuses to eat carbs of ANY KIND and want to pick the restaurants based on how good the grilled chicken salad is?
4. The shift to a Vegan lifestyle is not something we can all do the day we decide to to Veg. Personally, my husband and I were given a car as a gift when his mother got a new one. Our car has leather seats. Not only is this a pain in my ass literally since we live in Houston and do not have a garage, but it is also a choice I would not make, and in direct opposition to my dietary and lifestyle choices. HOWEVER, we are starving musicians who can't afford to run out and make our entire collection of possessions reflect our preferences. We take what we can and are grateful that we don't have to ride the non-existent public transportation system here. Don't be so quick to judge, any lifestyle change is a process. You don't expect new parents to have every little thing they require for child rearing (thus Baby Showers were invented), but after a few years when tyke-number-two comes along, they usually have it all and don't have to "make do" with the ancient hand me down crap someone's sister-in-law has been saving for the next baby in her dusty attic for 10 years.
5. And finally, I have never, EVER, EVER heard of any normal person photographing their "pooh" [sic] and posting it on the internet. (Oh wait, there was this ONE guy) This odd behavior is not related to any Vegan practices I have ever heard of, and I can say with confidence that most Vegans would not only be equally grossed out by this, but would join me in the morbid curiosity of asking: "Why? Dear GOD in heaven! WHY?!?!?!"
One last word to the negative angry folks (JINKSY) out there routing for Vegans to "convert back either from weakness or health reasons." I can only assume that your desire to see others fail at anything they attempt be it a Vegan lifestyle or otherwise, is due to a deep seated self-loathing related to an inability to successfully accomplish your own goals. The fact is that the Vegan lifestyle, when properly led will only create a resoundingly healthy human, bolstering the immune system, and literally turning off many serious diseases including diabetes, osteoporosis, and even cancer (Read The China Study by T. Colin Campbell). There are plenty of Junk Food Vegans out there who will of course suffer from malnutrition thanks to their ill-informed ideas about diet and their belief that potato chips and coke do in fact a meal make, propagated by the current fast food culture in which we are drowning (and dying). But to gleefully rejoice in their failure is perhaps the most unkind statement I have read in some time. Granted, I avoid negative drooling cretans like you as a rule, but I am heartbroken for your apparent lack of sympathy and love for your fellow man. That said, I can only respond in a language you will perhaps understand: Go f@ck yourself a&#h@le. (Sorry, Mom.)
Peace!
**links to other bloggers due to comments posted on a recent mattresspolice.com blog that referenced the fact that one of my all time favorite bloggers "hates vegans." Consider me stung to the core.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
what I do when I'm NOT singing...
It has been a while since my last gig or blog worthy-and-related event. I have one coming up on the 24th and then nothing until July, but I figure I owe my devoted readers an explanation:
First, the weather has been so nice that we have tried to be out in it as much as possible.
I know, I know: Ralph Lauren called and said they wanted their baby model back...we are negotiating her modeling contract right now so we can't really talk about that...no I'm kidding. But if anyone is interested, please contact her agent at WWW.MOMSONLYIDEAFORACOLLEGEFUND.FLO
Then, we moved into the city-ish. Briar Forest/Gessner area. I'm am going to pretend this was taken in the car on the way to the new place, but it was actually a random trip somewhere else within a few short days of actually moving...of course, I took ZERO pictures of the move because I was playing the highly coveted role of Manuel Labor...
We also had to submit to the dreaded "Shears of Terror" and cut some bangs...barrettes are soooo last year...this Spring is all about the bangs...and practicing our sad face.
And as icing on the proverbial cake of procrastination: dress up fun! She watched Barbie Fairytopia in this get-up for about 5 minutes before she decided it was "itchy." But at least the mugginess outside immediately following our first summer shower of the season made the lens fog up somewhat, giving the photos a soft hazy filtered look perfect for the theme.
First, the weather has been so nice that we have tried to be out in it as much as possible.
I know, I know: Ralph Lauren called and said they wanted their baby model back...we are negotiating her modeling contract right now so we can't really talk about that...no I'm kidding. But if anyone is interested, please contact her agent at WWW.MOMSONLYIDEAFORACOLLEGEFUND.FLO
Then, we moved into the city-ish. Briar Forest/Gessner area. I'm am going to pretend this was taken in the car on the way to the new place, but it was actually a random trip somewhere else within a few short days of actually moving...of course, I took ZERO pictures of the move because I was playing the highly coveted role of Manuel Labor...
We also had to submit to the dreaded "Shears of Terror" and cut some bangs...barrettes are soooo last year...this Spring is all about the bangs...and practicing our sad face.
And as icing on the proverbial cake of procrastination: dress up fun! She watched Barbie Fairytopia in this get-up for about 5 minutes before she decided it was "itchy." But at least the mugginess outside immediately following our first summer shower of the season made the lens fog up somewhat, giving the photos a soft hazy filtered look perfect for the theme.
So there you have it. I will be posting pics from our extreme sports spring training very soon...stay tuned!
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Comedy of Errors
The weekend wedding gig went..er...um...well, it went.
Nothing like REALLY EXPENSIVE WALLPAPER to make a party fabulous!
The band was a phenomenal collection of Houston's top musicians: David Craig, Chuck Payne, Devin Collins, Mike Owen, Woody Witt, Johan Keus, and Paul Peacock, plus the FABULOUS WONDERFUL BLOW YOU AWAY PIDO on vocals, and then there was me. Oh I'm joking, I had a moment or two...
But the room was full of, well, investment bankers. Not the liveliest of crowds. I hope to get some pro shots from the photographer that was covering the event, but until then, PIDO managed to get a few, just to give you an idea:
Here's me and Devin at the piano (rented a baby grand for this doozy!) going over some last minute things.
and here is one of the band. (minus my handsome talented and possibly deranged drummer) I believe this was taken during Moon River (father/daughter dance) which I counted off way too fast thanks to the Wedding Coordinator coming to me immediately before this and the first dance and telling me the bride has asked that we shorten the dances. This is why I need people like Glen Ackerman around to tell me that I am CRAZY and ignore my crappy tempo and just do it RIGHT instead! What a ROOKIE!
And one of Mike Owen and David Craig. These guys shared a hearty guffaw at my butchered version of Night and Day. Somehow I started out with the words all out of order/wonky and it all went downhill from there. By the end of it, I was just cracking myself up at such a TARD moment on my part.
NOTE TO MIKE AND DAVID: I SWEAR I KNOW THE TUNE BACKWARDS AND FORWARDS AND COULD SING IT IN MY SLEEP WHILE BALANCING MY CHECKBOOK, BUT I WAS TRYING TO MAKE IT INTERESTING AND CONFUSE YOU GUYS, TO SEE IF YOU WERE PAYING ATTENTION. YEAH, THAT'S IT.
PIDO took home the gold for band amusement that night, however, with his original reinterpretation of Blue Moon. He SAID he knew it. He approached the Mic with confidence and proceeded to sing...this:
PIDO BLUE MOON MADNESS
***
MWA ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
The best part was that people in the crowd were smiling and nodding at him, totally oblivious to the bizarre non-language emanating from his lips.
It had the making of a cool gig; a multi-million dollar mansion, a rented a baby grand, a pro sound man, had some of the greatest players in town, and we all looked mighty fine, if you ask me. But the room was full of silent old farts glaring at the spectacle or young tards waiting for the DJ.
I managed to get a few folks on the dance floor with "At Last" always a favorite at parties as a sexy slow dance, and then had a little fun with a few people in the room during "Gee Baby Ain't I Good to You?" Of course, our recorder had run out of memory by that point so no proof of anything exciting. I had a moment of panic during "Gee Baby" when the horns all walked off stage during the first chorus. I thought "dang it isn't THAT bad!" but it turns out they were just making room for Mike's A-MAZE-ING guitar playing. Worked out pretty well, and as usual, I enjoy having the stage to myself. (nyuk nyuk)
We will be doing this all again in December, and I look forward to a smoother, better rehearsed show that time around.
***if this audio clip doesn't work, don't tell me. Figuring out how to do this was the source of no less than one ocean's worth of blood sweat and tears, and I do NOT mean the awesome band...just know that I will figure it out and post it again later.
Nothing like REALLY EXPENSIVE WALLPAPER to make a party fabulous!
The band was a phenomenal collection of Houston's top musicians: David Craig, Chuck Payne, Devin Collins, Mike Owen, Woody Witt, Johan Keus, and Paul Peacock, plus the FABULOUS WONDERFUL BLOW YOU AWAY PIDO on vocals, and then there was me. Oh I'm joking, I had a moment or two...
But the room was full of, well, investment bankers. Not the liveliest of crowds. I hope to get some pro shots from the photographer that was covering the event, but until then, PIDO managed to get a few, just to give you an idea:
Here's me and Devin at the piano (rented a baby grand for this doozy!) going over some last minute things.
and here is one of the band. (minus my handsome talented and possibly deranged drummer) I believe this was taken during Moon River (father/daughter dance) which I counted off way too fast thanks to the Wedding Coordinator coming to me immediately before this and the first dance and telling me the bride has asked that we shorten the dances. This is why I need people like Glen Ackerman around to tell me that I am CRAZY and ignore my crappy tempo and just do it RIGHT instead! What a ROOKIE!
And one of Mike Owen and David Craig. These guys shared a hearty guffaw at my butchered version of Night and Day. Somehow I started out with the words all out of order/wonky and it all went downhill from there. By the end of it, I was just cracking myself up at such a TARD moment on my part.
NOTE TO MIKE AND DAVID: I SWEAR I KNOW THE TUNE BACKWARDS AND FORWARDS AND COULD SING IT IN MY SLEEP WHILE BALANCING MY CHECKBOOK, BUT I WAS TRYING TO MAKE IT INTERESTING AND CONFUSE YOU GUYS, TO SEE IF YOU WERE PAYING ATTENTION. YEAH, THAT'S IT.
PIDO took home the gold for band amusement that night, however, with his original reinterpretation of Blue Moon. He SAID he knew it. He approached the Mic with confidence and proceeded to sing...this:
PIDO BLUE MOON MADNESS
***
MWA ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
The best part was that people in the crowd were smiling and nodding at him, totally oblivious to the bizarre non-language emanating from his lips.
It had the making of a cool gig; a multi-million dollar mansion, a rented a baby grand, a pro sound man, had some of the greatest players in town, and we all looked mighty fine, if you ask me. But the room was full of silent old farts glaring at the spectacle or young tards waiting for the DJ.
I managed to get a few folks on the dance floor with "At Last" always a favorite at parties as a sexy slow dance, and then had a little fun with a few people in the room during "Gee Baby Ain't I Good to You?" Of course, our recorder had run out of memory by that point so no proof of anything exciting. I had a moment of panic during "Gee Baby" when the horns all walked off stage during the first chorus. I thought "dang it isn't THAT bad!" but it turns out they were just making room for Mike's A-MAZE-ING guitar playing. Worked out pretty well, and as usual, I enjoy having the stage to myself. (nyuk nyuk)
We will be doing this all again in December, and I look forward to a smoother, better rehearsed show that time around.
***if this audio clip doesn't work, don't tell me. Figuring out how to do this was the source of no less than one ocean's worth of blood sweat and tears, and I do NOT mean the awesome band...just know that I will figure it out and post it again later.
Monday, March 31, 2008
overwhelmed
I am officially losing it. I always do this. I have these long dry periods of nearly-nothin' and then, BOOM! The apocalyptic explosion of "to-dos" has me frenzied and frantic and all I want to do is stay in bed all day with books and cake and cry a lot.
On my list? Well, first, I have the last minute preparations to wrap up before The Big Gig this Saturday. That includes a set list, making sure we have charts for all the requested songs, finding a trumpet player, procuring stand lights and a piano light, reviewing power and equipment details with Sound Guy, finding a dress to wear, and making sure the musicians are all on the same page about how this crazy night is going to go down. I also need clothes pins (just in case there is wind) and I have to check with the wedding coordinator about the band meals (if there will be any) to make sure there are three vegetarian/vegan plates available, otherwise I will have to plan ahead for feeding the three of us in the band who are rabbits. Not to mention making sure the string quartet has chairs and music stands, and coordinating their arrival and departure to cause as little commotion as possible.
Next, I have to find a new place to live, which includes looking at all the options with a clear enough head to pass on the adorable bungalow in the heights (beautiful paint colors, hardwood floors, charming as can be, huge backyard with room for a garden) in favor of a roomier characterless town home further out. We need space after two years in the current shoebox. The more the better. And we REALLY need 2 toilets now that three butts are using the dang things. (Hooray for potty training!)
Then there are the myriad little gigs coming up in May that I have to get squared away. And an October event with a bride that is efficient and wants to get things done ASAP. I admire her attitude, I just can't accommodate it until this weekend is OVER.
Then there is the new dietary changes I have made. I feel very strongly about the choice to eat a vegan diet, but I have never felt AT ALL strongly about cooking ANYTHING. So I either need to find the enthusiasm to get in the kitchen or I need a live in chef. Any takers? It doesn't pay well, but I'm sure we could work something out. I recently bought some lovely vegan cookbooks (Thank you very much Half Price Books in Rice Village!) and I have every other page dogeared to try, but I can't bring myself to even wash the dang dishes in the sink so that I have a clean enough kitchen to work in. Notice I am procrastinating even this small feat by blogging about it!
Then there is:
packing for the move
the ritual "stuff cleansing" I do every spring and every move, in the hopes that I can one day fit everything I need into a single small uHaul
learning how to use my fancy new camera
paying a few bills
going to the bank (VERY far away)
organizing, sorting, and taking Gwen's baby things to a consignment shop
making it out to my uncle's in Nac for another round of testing (holistic medicine stuff)
And although I have a light week next week, it all picks up again the middle of April with a ton of rehearsals, a concert, an audition, a lesson, and...
Point being, I need help. I might even want my Mommy, except she is dealing with my toddler. I would say I need a drink, but since the diet switch, I can hardly stomach the smell or taste of the liquid poison that was once my dearest therapist.
On my list? Well, first, I have the last minute preparations to wrap up before The Big Gig this Saturday. That includes a set list, making sure we have charts for all the requested songs, finding a trumpet player, procuring stand lights and a piano light, reviewing power and equipment details with Sound Guy, finding a dress to wear, and making sure the musicians are all on the same page about how this crazy night is going to go down. I also need clothes pins (just in case there is wind) and I have to check with the wedding coordinator about the band meals (if there will be any) to make sure there are three vegetarian/vegan plates available, otherwise I will have to plan ahead for feeding the three of us in the band who are rabbits. Not to mention making sure the string quartet has chairs and music stands, and coordinating their arrival and departure to cause as little commotion as possible.
Next, I have to find a new place to live, which includes looking at all the options with a clear enough head to pass on the adorable bungalow in the heights (beautiful paint colors, hardwood floors, charming as can be, huge backyard with room for a garden) in favor of a roomier characterless town home further out. We need space after two years in the current shoebox. The more the better. And we REALLY need 2 toilets now that three butts are using the dang things. (Hooray for potty training!)
Then there are the myriad little gigs coming up in May that I have to get squared away. And an October event with a bride that is efficient and wants to get things done ASAP. I admire her attitude, I just can't accommodate it until this weekend is OVER.
Then there is the new dietary changes I have made. I feel very strongly about the choice to eat a vegan diet, but I have never felt AT ALL strongly about cooking ANYTHING. So I either need to find the enthusiasm to get in the kitchen or I need a live in chef. Any takers? It doesn't pay well, but I'm sure we could work something out. I recently bought some lovely vegan cookbooks (Thank you very much Half Price Books in Rice Village!) and I have every other page dogeared to try, but I can't bring myself to even wash the dang dishes in the sink so that I have a clean enough kitchen to work in. Notice I am procrastinating even this small feat by blogging about it!
Then there is:
packing for the move
the ritual "stuff cleansing" I do every spring and every move, in the hopes that I can one day fit everything I need into a single small uHaul
learning how to use my fancy new camera
paying a few bills
going to the bank (VERY far away)
organizing, sorting, and taking Gwen's baby things to a consignment shop
making it out to my uncle's in Nac for another round of testing (holistic medicine stuff)
And although I have a light week next week, it all picks up again the middle of April with a ton of rehearsals, a concert, an audition, a lesson, and...
Point being, I need help. I might even want my Mommy, except she is dealing with my toddler. I would say I need a drink, but since the diet switch, I can hardly stomach the smell or taste of the liquid poison that was once my dearest therapist.
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