Disclaimer: I've decided to share a funny story that is highly embarrassing. The rule is, after reading, you can't look down on me. You can't look at me differently. And you can't judge. I only tell it because it's really funny, and your laughter is more important than my humiliation.
So... a few of my closest friends and relatives (I mean only THE closest who already know the story) have asked me whether I would be sharing a particular story of mine that is more than a little embarrassing. As a habitual "over-sharer" who knows no "T.M.I." I eventually came to the conclusion that everyone (I know you do) has a story, an embarrassing story, a story about shitting their pants... and so, I share mine.... Yeah, I'm going there...
I had only worked at my previous job for a few months before the big "gala" fundraiser. As a representative of the company, of course I had to attend the high-profile event in town with the "who's who" of Louisville. I hadn't been to many formal affairs in my professional career but managed to dig up a former bridesmaid dress that would serve as the perfect ball gown for the debut event.
Dressed in my beautiful gown and feeling like a million bucks, the event went off without a hitch. Although not a natural "socializer," I managed to make small-talk with some major donors, got to know some loyal volunteers a little better and took full advantage of that blessing, the open bar. However, I did not, unfortunately, have the opportunity to enjoy much of the buffet dinner served to attendees of the opulent event.
When the event's agenda was complete and only a few party-goers remained, I politely excused myself from that long day. I was finally able to relax on my drive home. That was, until I felt a somewhat familiar pang that made me just a little more urgent (panicked) to get to my final destination. So, when I arrived at my condo building I pulled into the service driveway where I hurriedly turned on my emergency flashers and set the car in "park." As I scrambled to get inside to the privacy of my own home, I could not find my keys! Rushed and panicked to find the keys, I listened for the familiar clank in my purse... But, it was too late... I shit my pants... in my ballgown...
Desperate to do something (anything!) to conceal my "accident" (until now, when I tell all via blog,) I casually walked down the drive to my condo building's award-winning landscape garden. There, I'm mortified (obviously not enough to keep from sharing) to say, I covertly shook the offending turd loose from my gown. But, as I sheepishly made my way back to the car, I realized that in my haste, I had left the keys in the running car!
So, I let myself into my condo building and guiltily snuck into my apartment to destroy the evidence and forget that unfortunate, scandalous evening. Much to my dismay, however, Mother Nature would NOT let me forget my unforgiveable, embarrassing offense... See, the turd from my fancy ballgown on that infamous evening mocked me for at least six months from its landscaped high-traffic location where I had last left it. That son of a bitch lasted in the ornamental grasses through rain and shine, snow and sleet, humidity and drought. And my humiliation lasted for at least three times that amount of time!
But, despite my incredible embarrassment, I share my story now partly because I recently moved out of the condo building where I single-handedly caused the ruination of the landscape committee. Also, I don't keep "secrets" very well. And if you don't have a story (about dirtying your pants or something equally as embarrassing,) you're just not human. And you're lying... Now, we will never speak of this again.
Family Recipes
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
My Family Tree
Like a lot of families who eventually settled in the Midwest (and particularly my hometown in Illinois,) my ancestors are an even split of both English and German heritage. As farmers in the early to mid 1800's, both "sides" of the family came to America looking for a better opportunity in the rich farmland of the area near where my parents actually live now. While my family tree has both very English names, Bird and Hall, it also has VERY German names as well, Heitzman and Klaustermeier.
Despite the even split between two cultures, everyone in my immediate family will probably tell you, we most resemble our German heritage in appearance -we are a "robust" bunch, freakishly strong, particularly us "damens," and we have a special fondness for cured meats (summer sausage) and strong brews - ok, that may just be me- but also our work ethic and stubbornness. Afterall, a favorite saying (more a proud motto) in my family is "you can tell a German, but you can't tell him much!" (Truth be told, I've heard this saying applied to Irish and Italian as well, so I guess it's an equal-opportunity generalism.)
Fortunately, my dad has done a lot of research about our family roots, and I've been lucky to travel in the last couple of years to the areas where my family originally came from in both England and Germany. And, without a doubt, I feel very strongly connected to my roots in Germany where people most look like me, traditions are more familiar (they eat meat and cheese for breakfast!) and where I feel like I could very well be sitting in my grandma's or great-grandma's living room. When I was travelling there, I even noticed that some of the houses looked exactly like those of my relatives, including their spotless, clean-swept porches and tidy, obedient flower gardens.
As someone who appreciates history but mostly looks forward to what's to come, it's a comforting feeling to know your "roots." I never would have understood this if I had not travelled there (in both Germany and England) myself. I'm so grateful to my dad for having understood this long before I did and for doing the hours of research in order to find this information.
Come to find out, our family tree boasts no exciting drama (except maybe a couple of horse thieves in the early 1900s and my current immediate family) and certainly no European royalty (although we/I may occasionally act like it.) But it's incredible to learn more about the hard-working, aspiring people (farmers and factory-workers) who took that big leap and started over in a foreign country (America) with nothing at all. At the same time, it's also heartwarming to know that despite the distance and years our family has come, we still see and identify with the distinct characteristics of our ancestors' home lands.
So, perhaps my fondness for the German language (with its "fahrt" and "weiner"and such) is not because of the cheap giggle it brings to the "teenage boy" in me, but because of a centuries-old, deep-seated connection to my heritage............ Nah, it's because of the "fahrt" and "weiner"!
Despite the even split between two cultures, everyone in my immediate family will probably tell you, we most resemble our German heritage in appearance -we are a "robust" bunch, freakishly strong, particularly us "damens," and we have a special fondness for cured meats (summer sausage) and strong brews - ok, that may just be me- but also our work ethic and stubbornness. Afterall, a favorite saying (more a proud motto) in my family is "you can tell a German, but you can't tell him much!" (Truth be told, I've heard this saying applied to Irish and Italian as well, so I guess it's an equal-opportunity generalism.)
Fortunately, my dad has done a lot of research about our family roots, and I've been lucky to travel in the last couple of years to the areas where my family originally came from in both England and Germany. And, without a doubt, I feel very strongly connected to my roots in Germany where people most look like me, traditions are more familiar (they eat meat and cheese for breakfast!) and where I feel like I could very well be sitting in my grandma's or great-grandma's living room. When I was travelling there, I even noticed that some of the houses looked exactly like those of my relatives, including their spotless, clean-swept porches and tidy, obedient flower gardens.As someone who appreciates history but mostly looks forward to what's to come, it's a comforting feeling to know your "roots." I never would have understood this if I had not travelled there (in both Germany and England) myself. I'm so grateful to my dad for having understood this long before I did and for doing the hours of research in order to find this information.
Come to find out, our family tree boasts no exciting drama (except maybe a couple of horse thieves in the early 1900s and my current immediate family) and certainly no European royalty (although we/I may occasionally act like it.) But it's incredible to learn more about the hard-working, aspiring people (farmers and factory-workers) who took that big leap and started over in a foreign country (America) with nothing at all. At the same time, it's also heartwarming to know that despite the distance and years our family has come, we still see and identify with the distinct characteristics of our ancestors' home lands.
So, perhaps my fondness for the German language (with its "fahrt" and "weiner"and such) is not because of the cheap giggle it brings to the "teenage boy" in me, but because of a centuries-old, deep-seated connection to my heritage............ Nah, it's because of the "fahrt" and "weiner"!
Monday, August 8, 2011
Crazy Cat Mom
I have two beautiful, spoiled cats who are like children to me. Wait, before you get the thought in your head that I'm THAT woman, the crazy cat lady wearing a muu muu and shaking her broom at the neighbor kids, I'm way ahead of you. I won't be sporting any bumper stickers like, "Proud parent of a calico 'wildcat'" or "My cat is smarter than your honor student" (only because I haven't found a place that sells them yet, but that's beside the point.)
Today, I was woken up at 4 a.m. by the feel of soft cotton balls lightly touching my face. In my dream, I imagined fluffy pink powder puffs floating through the air, a peaceful scene relaxing enough to keep me in a deep slumber a little while longer. But then, the touch of those cotton balls lightly touching my face hit with just a little more pressure than before. Soon, those light, heavenly cotton balls were tapping my face heavily and insistently... and with sharp, flesh-slicing claws outdrawn! My damn cat was waking me up, like she does every morning, way too early by sitting on my chest and repeatedly smacking my face (not my arm or chest or back, as if to politely jimmy me awake) with her paw. The reason for the obnoxiously early wake-up call? Breakfast, of course. Henri, my regimented feline daughter insists on being fed very early. I would understand if she had, perhaps an early meeting or wanted to get a head start on her day...
I realize that I indulge them, which is nobody's fault but my own. But I also realize that my feline kids most-likely don't understand the concept of sleeping in or the need for rest because I have a big day ahead (I hope they don't, or else they're in trouble,) so there's no reason to punish them for waking me up. So, when they go back to bed after they've had their early breakfast and their bellies are full, and I have to get up a few hours later with a foggy head and sleep in my eyes, I don't hold a grudge.
This morning I got up at the crack of dawn to feed my spoiled babies then woke up hours later to get ready for work. But when I was attempting to drag my weary bones out of bed, I bounced the mattress just a little too hard for their liking and woke up my two sleeping beauties. I got the nastiest-looking, devil eyes half-opened, not-even-lifting-my-head-from-this-pillow scowl from two cats you ever would see! A look that says, you have personally offended and most definitely insulted me with your mid-morning disturbance. If you have a cat (any cat) you know that look... It says, "I love you, but I will cut you..."
But, I love my cats just as they are. Sure, they're spoiled, demanding, they know what they want and will accept nothing less, but how else would I know that they're mine? They are, afterall, their mother's "children."
Today, I was woken up at 4 a.m. by the feel of soft cotton balls lightly touching my face. In my dream, I imagined fluffy pink powder puffs floating through the air, a peaceful scene relaxing enough to keep me in a deep slumber a little while longer. But then, the touch of those cotton balls lightly touching my face hit with just a little more pressure than before. Soon, those light, heavenly cotton balls were tapping my face heavily and insistently... and with sharp, flesh-slicing claws outdrawn! My damn cat was waking me up, like she does every morning, way too early by sitting on my chest and repeatedly smacking my face (not my arm or chest or back, as if to politely jimmy me awake) with her paw. The reason for the obnoxiously early wake-up call? Breakfast, of course. Henri, my regimented feline daughter insists on being fed very early. I would understand if she had, perhaps an early meeting or wanted to get a head start on her day...
I realize that I indulge them, which is nobody's fault but my own. But I also realize that my feline kids most-likely don't understand the concept of sleeping in or the need for rest because I have a big day ahead (I hope they don't, or else they're in trouble,) so there's no reason to punish them for waking me up. So, when they go back to bed after they've had their early breakfast and their bellies are full, and I have to get up a few hours later with a foggy head and sleep in my eyes, I don't hold a grudge.
This morning I got up at the crack of dawn to feed my spoiled babies then woke up hours later to get ready for work. But when I was attempting to drag my weary bones out of bed, I bounced the mattress just a little too hard for their liking and woke up my two sleeping beauties. I got the nastiest-looking, devil eyes half-opened, not-even-lifting-my-head-from-this-pillow scowl from two cats you ever would see! A look that says, you have personally offended and most definitely insulted me with your mid-morning disturbance. If you have a cat (any cat) you know that look... It says, "I love you, but I will cut you..." But, I love my cats just as they are. Sure, they're spoiled, demanding, they know what they want and will accept nothing less, but how else would I know that they're mine? They are, afterall, their mother's "children."
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Actual Family Recipes
As long as I can remember, the kitchen was the center of my family. Growing up, the five of us lived in a modest ranch-style home in a typical neighborhood. And the kitchen was the place (like a lot of families) where we spent most of our time, doing homework at the table, talking about what happened at school that day and either baking elaborate recipes or cooking fabulous meals.
My mom is an excellent baker, and whether it's a large project or small, she loves the hobby of it so much that she actually bakes something just about every day. Some of my earliest memories are of scooting a kitchen chair over to the counter, wearing an apron and helping mix up a batch of chocolate chip cookies (Toll House recipe, of course.) I am the youngest daughter and the last to go to school, so I was home during the day by myself with Mom. And it felt like I was chosen for special duty when serving as Mom's "cookie assistant!" Each of us (my sisters and I) had that same experience helping Mom in the kitchen. That might explain why even today each of us swears we are still Mom's favorite. Also at an early age, my sister caught the cooking bug, scouring cookbooks, trying challenging new recipes and eventually taking over cooking a lot of our family meals. Still today, when she is staying at my parents for a period of time, she is the "manager" of the kitchen and no one challenges her over that role. She also makes the best schnitzel this side of the Atlantic Ocean (the best is still Margit's in Graz, see earlier post, "Life As An AIMS-er." I have to say, my other sister and I like to cook but mostly prefer to leave it to the "experts." However, all of us love food, love to talk about it and appreciate good cooking.
When one or both of us (my sister, the other out-of-towner and I) is in town for a visit, Mom always asks us to send our menu requests. Unfortunately, I'm the one who gets to visit least often, so I usually have lots of requests and a very specific list for those family favorites I miss so much when I'm gone. Also, a big part of every visit home is planning dinner ("supper," as we call it in the Midwest) every night and going into town to shop for groceries. Since I don't do much of the actual cooking but really appreciate the process, I love going to the grocery store and picking out the ingredients. For one, it's on Mom's dime, but also because it's a bonding experience for the women in my family. It's what we do everytime we're together, without fail.
Eventually I hope to share some of our many favorite recipes we love (except I have NO love for "Bridal Luncheon Salad." Jello is dumb and gross.) and with all of the special and very descriptive names Mom has given these dishes. For instance, there's the nasty "Bridal Luncheon Salad," an offensive, pale green, foamy, Jello concoction that seems to show up at every family special occasion whether you want it to or not. There is also "Copper Pennies," the name that sounds like it would be a "treasure" to eat, but let's be honest, cooked carrots are no treasure. Another decadent recipe that is delicious despite its name, "Bean Sludge," nacho dip made with beans that does, in fact, look like something you'd pull out of your bath tub drain. "Poop Cookies," or "Chocolate Drop Cookies" as they're known in normal families. Thinking about them actually makes my mouth water, which goes to show you just how ingrained and commonplace Mom's revised less-than-appetizing name is to our family.
I'll be making a trip home to visit my family in a few weeks, and I've already started my list of requests (no Jello!) I know that Mom will come through for me. While I'm there, I hope to pick up a few more recipes (and stories) from my family's cookbook.
My mom is an excellent baker, and whether it's a large project or small, she loves the hobby of it so much that she actually bakes something just about every day. Some of my earliest memories are of scooting a kitchen chair over to the counter, wearing an apron and helping mix up a batch of chocolate chip cookies (Toll House recipe, of course.) I am the youngest daughter and the last to go to school, so I was home during the day by myself with Mom. And it felt like I was chosen for special duty when serving as Mom's "cookie assistant!" Each of us (my sisters and I) had that same experience helping Mom in the kitchen. That might explain why even today each of us swears we are still Mom's favorite. Also at an early age, my sister caught the cooking bug, scouring cookbooks, trying challenging new recipes and eventually taking over cooking a lot of our family meals. Still today, when she is staying at my parents for a period of time, she is the "manager" of the kitchen and no one challenges her over that role. She also makes the best schnitzel this side of the Atlantic Ocean (the best is still Margit's in Graz, see earlier post, "Life As An AIMS-er." I have to say, my other sister and I like to cook but mostly prefer to leave it to the "experts." However, all of us love food, love to talk about it and appreciate good cooking.
When one or both of us (my sister, the other out-of-towner and I) is in town for a visit, Mom always asks us to send our menu requests. Unfortunately, I'm the one who gets to visit least often, so I usually have lots of requests and a very specific list for those family favorites I miss so much when I'm gone. Also, a big part of every visit home is planning dinner ("supper," as we call it in the Midwest) every night and going into town to shop for groceries. Since I don't do much of the actual cooking but really appreciate the process, I love going to the grocery store and picking out the ingredients. For one, it's on Mom's dime, but also because it's a bonding experience for the women in my family. It's what we do everytime we're together, without fail.
Eventually I hope to share some of our many favorite recipes we love (except I have NO love for "Bridal Luncheon Salad." Jello is dumb and gross.) and with all of the special and very descriptive names Mom has given these dishes. For instance, there's the nasty "Bridal Luncheon Salad," an offensive, pale green, foamy, Jello concoction that seems to show up at every family special occasion whether you want it to or not. There is also "Copper Pennies," the name that sounds like it would be a "treasure" to eat, but let's be honest, cooked carrots are no treasure. Another decadent recipe that is delicious despite its name, "Bean Sludge," nacho dip made with beans that does, in fact, look like something you'd pull out of your bath tub drain. "Poop Cookies," or "Chocolate Drop Cookies" as they're known in normal families. Thinking about them actually makes my mouth water, which goes to show you just how ingrained and commonplace Mom's revised less-than-appetizing name is to our family.
I'll be making a trip home to visit my family in a few weeks, and I've already started my list of requests (no Jello!) I know that Mom will come through for me. While I'm there, I hope to pick up a few more recipes (and stories) from my family's cookbook.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Grandma's Words, Part 2
After posting "Grandma's Words of Comfort" about my grandma's unfortunate knack for the Freudian slip, a few family members kindly reminded me of a few other classic Grandma moments. Again, my point in sharing is not to embarrass or poke fun at Grandma (well, maybe just a little) but to help describe her as the quirky octogenarian she is and a big part of the long line of eccentric women in my family.
One of the funniest things in the world is to hear my grandma to cuss. Now, on any given day, it's not out of th ordinary to hear the rest of the family demonstrate our four-letter vocabulary, but Grandma usually saves such language for only the most dire circumstances. One such time, was when both of my sisters, Mom and Grandma were on a very long roadtrip to take the violinist sister to school in upstate New York. The smart travelers decided to break up the arduous 14-hour journey with a stop at a motel along the way, however, it was anything but restful for ANY of them. Along with her wacky sense of humor, unfortunately Mom also inherited Grandma's amazing habit of snoring. We're not talking polite, occasional gurgling of the throat. This is full-on lumberjack, aint-no-one-sleeping-through-this log-sawing, and no one does it like Grandma! The next morning, after attempting unsuccessfully to sleep through the racket of Grandma's snores, all three weary travelers got ready to be on their way again. Irritable and exhausted, Mom and Grandma went down to the hotel lobby for the "Continental" breakfast they were promised on a promotional sign inside their room. Minutes later the defeated travelers returned to the room with no success in getting their meal. Mom calmly told my sisters that they weren't able to get anything to eat, because it was only 6:30 and breakfast wasn't served until 7:00. Disappointed and hungry, my "innocent," little old lady grandma then uttered the phrase that still haunts her (and makes us giggle) today. She very unexpectedly said, "And all I wanted was my f*ckin' danish!" Grandma?!! The "f-bomb?"
When they stopped laughing at Grandma's dramatic display, my sister (who seems to have a way with getting through to people,) left the room and quickly returned with enough "f*ckin'" danishes for everyone.
There are also the instances when Grandma utters a cuss word without intending to. One honest mistake is her regularly referring to a nearby restaurant Lotawata Creek, as "LaTwatta Creek." Although an unintentional slip, no one was surprised to hear Grandma turn the name of a harmless family establishment into something of the more X-rated variety. Now, she wasn't born yesterday, and although it's not something you normally hear from an 88 year-old, Grandma does know what that word means. And she was partly embarrassed, but mostly amused, when her mistake in pronouncing the restaurant's name was pointed out to her.
Grandma, Grandma... we wouldn't want you to be any other way. I'm certain that those "traditional" grandmas, the ones that knit and make jam and who tell bedtime stories to their brood of eager grandchildren around the fire (I'm picturing Little House again...) don't have nearly as much fun as we do!
One of the funniest things in the world is to hear my grandma to cuss. Now, on any given day, it's not out of th ordinary to hear the rest of the family demonstrate our four-letter vocabulary, but Grandma usually saves such language for only the most dire circumstances. One such time, was when both of my sisters, Mom and Grandma were on a very long roadtrip to take the violinist sister to school in upstate New York. The smart travelers decided to break up the arduous 14-hour journey with a stop at a motel along the way, however, it was anything but restful for ANY of them. Along with her wacky sense of humor, unfortunately Mom also inherited Grandma's amazing habit of snoring. We're not talking polite, occasional gurgling of the throat. This is full-on lumberjack, aint-no-one-sleeping-through-this log-sawing, and no one does it like Grandma! The next morning, after attempting unsuccessfully to sleep through the racket of Grandma's snores, all three weary travelers got ready to be on their way again. Irritable and exhausted, Mom and Grandma went down to the hotel lobby for the "Continental" breakfast they were promised on a promotional sign inside their room. Minutes later the defeated travelers returned to the room with no success in getting their meal. Mom calmly told my sisters that they weren't able to get anything to eat, because it was only 6:30 and breakfast wasn't served until 7:00. Disappointed and hungry, my "innocent," little old lady grandma then uttered the phrase that still haunts her (and makes us giggle) today. She very unexpectedly said, "And all I wanted was my f*ckin' danish!" Grandma?!! The "f-bomb?"
When they stopped laughing at Grandma's dramatic display, my sister (who seems to have a way with getting through to people,) left the room and quickly returned with enough "f*ckin'" danishes for everyone.
There are also the instances when Grandma utters a cuss word without intending to. One honest mistake is her regularly referring to a nearby restaurant Lotawata Creek, as "LaTwatta Creek." Although an unintentional slip, no one was surprised to hear Grandma turn the name of a harmless family establishment into something of the more X-rated variety. Now, she wasn't born yesterday, and although it's not something you normally hear from an 88 year-old, Grandma does know what that word means. And she was partly embarrassed, but mostly amused, when her mistake in pronouncing the restaurant's name was pointed out to her.
Grandma, Grandma... we wouldn't want you to be any other way. I'm certain that those "traditional" grandmas, the ones that knit and make jam and who tell bedtime stories to their brood of eager grandchildren around the fire (I'm picturing Little House again...) don't have nearly as much fun as we do!
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
My Gay Husband and the "Purse Scene"
As I sit here this evening, my gay husband "Corky" has been stone-faced reading my recent blog posts. Waiting for a reaction that I'll never receive, I should know better than to expect my gay to have the same emotional scope and perspective that I did. My "husband" is honest TO A FAULT! This is a man who actually believes you want the truth when you ask whether you look fat in that skirt or whether or not he really liked that gift you gave him for his last birthday. Yes, when I ask the opinion of my gay best friend, my partner in crime, I have to spell out that I don't actually want the truth, I want the kind, "friend" response.
Case in point, a few years ago I worked for an animal shelter where I was in charge of making a video for a very important fundraiser. The purpose of the video was to show the life of a shelter animal and evoke emotion from animal lovers (and potential donors) much like that commercial for the Humane Society of the United States that uses that damn song by Sara McLachlan. You know the one... Hours were spent on this video, where I painstakenly conceptualized the narrative, wrote the script, interviewed staff, pieced together dozens of photos, and worked with a local television station to produce the final cut. I was so proud of the end product and couldn't wait to show my loved ones what I had accomplished. Whether it was the pride I felt in having been part of this amazing process or the emotion I felt each time I watched this heart-felt video about homeless, unwanted and abused animals, I cried (despite countlessly watching it scene-for-scene over many months) every single time I watched it.
A few days before the big fundraiser, I brought my BFF, my gay husband, to my office to show him the video I had worked so hard on these many months. As I pressed "play" I anticipated the flood of emotion that would soon commence, however, it soon became clear that the only "flood" was from my own tears as I watched the video for the hundreth time. Meanwhile, "Corky," my gay husband, sat watching the same video as I did but with no visible emotion and Kalahari Desert-dry eyes. What was wrong with him? Didn't he see the same pictures of helpless animals that I did? Didn't he understand that the poor caged animals in the film were exactly why I worked as hard as I did? Apparently not.
When the video was over, I asked "Corky" what he thought of it. In the same unimpressed manner in which he spent the last ten minutes watching the efforts of all my hard work, he said "it was nice." No tears, no emotion, no dramatic praise. Instead of questioning my best friend (who also has two cats and a dog who he adores) whether this video brought any emotion at all to the surface, I decided that "Corky's" empathetic priorities and weaknesses were much different than my own. Clearly, we should agree to disagree.
After watching the video (my failed experiment in attempting to make my Pinocchio a "real boy,") we left my office to go see the movie, Sex and City. Little did I know that the same cold-hearted, dry-eyed martyr that sat through my "orphan animals" video not an hour earlier would BAWL HIS EYES OUT every five minutes of this silly, fictional, fashion-focused chick flick! The peak of his emotional outburst, the "purse scene!" This was the part of the movie where one Manhattan fashionista gives her assistant, another Manhattan fashionista, a designer purse as a Christmas gift. I know, I know... I can almost hear the tears falling right now!
The moral of the story, never expect your friends (even your BFF) to have exactly the same passions as yours. And always expect your gay husband to enjoy a good chick flick (and a great cry) with you.
Case in point, a few years ago I worked for an animal shelter where I was in charge of making a video for a very important fundraiser. The purpose of the video was to show the life of a shelter animal and evoke emotion from animal lovers (and potential donors) much like that commercial for the Humane Society of the United States that uses that damn song by Sara McLachlan. You know the one... Hours were spent on this video, where I painstakenly conceptualized the narrative, wrote the script, interviewed staff, pieced together dozens of photos, and worked with a local television station to produce the final cut. I was so proud of the end product and couldn't wait to show my loved ones what I had accomplished. Whether it was the pride I felt in having been part of this amazing process or the emotion I felt each time I watched this heart-felt video about homeless, unwanted and abused animals, I cried (despite countlessly watching it scene-for-scene over many months) every single time I watched it.
A few days before the big fundraiser, I brought my BFF, my gay husband, to my office to show him the video I had worked so hard on these many months. As I pressed "play" I anticipated the flood of emotion that would soon commence, however, it soon became clear that the only "flood" was from my own tears as I watched the video for the hundreth time. Meanwhile, "Corky," my gay husband, sat watching the same video as I did but with no visible emotion and Kalahari Desert-dry eyes. What was wrong with him? Didn't he see the same pictures of helpless animals that I did? Didn't he understand that the poor caged animals in the film were exactly why I worked as hard as I did? Apparently not.
When the video was over, I asked "Corky" what he thought of it. In the same unimpressed manner in which he spent the last ten minutes watching the efforts of all my hard work, he said "it was nice." No tears, no emotion, no dramatic praise. Instead of questioning my best friend (who also has two cats and a dog who he adores) whether this video brought any emotion at all to the surface, I decided that "Corky's" empathetic priorities and weaknesses were much different than my own. Clearly, we should agree to disagree.
After watching the video (my failed experiment in attempting to make my Pinocchio a "real boy,") we left my office to go see the movie, Sex and City. Little did I know that the same cold-hearted, dry-eyed martyr that sat through my "orphan animals" video not an hour earlier would BAWL HIS EYES OUT every five minutes of this silly, fictional, fashion-focused chick flick! The peak of his emotional outburst, the "purse scene!" This was the part of the movie where one Manhattan fashionista gives her assistant, another Manhattan fashionista, a designer purse as a Christmas gift. I know, I know... I can almost hear the tears falling right now!
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
These Are the People In Your Neighborhood
After more than two weeks in my new apartment, I'm a little surprised to find that the place still feels a little off to me. Or, as my sister might say, I feel like I'm "wearing someone else's underwear." I can't say I have a lot of experience in this area, however, I do have two sisters, our laundry was all thrown into the same pile, and misidentifications were occassionally made. So, I'm doing what I can in order to feel more comfortable and settled in my new home. This includes cooking in my new kitchen, introducing myself to the neighbors (instead of peering at and judging them from the safety of a crook in my mini-blinds, like I'd like to do,) and appreciating that I'm still in the same great neighborhood that I've lived in since first moving to Louisville more than eight years ago.
Louisville isn't a large city, but it has more culture and "big city" opportunities than most give it credit for. My neighborhood, the Highlands, is known for artsy shops and boutiques, great restaurants (many of them ethnic) and an appreciation for the fine art of people-watching. I was actually in the legendary Haight-Ashbury AND Castro neighborhoods in San Francisco only a few weeks ago, and aside from the two stark-naked gentlemen we saw walking down the sidewalk at 3 p.m. on a normal Sunday, it reminded me a lot of the Highland's own Bardstown Road.
In the Highlands, one of my favorite stops (although not bragged about to the tourists) is the Valu Market, a locally-owned grocery store that offers the best selection of Indian food ingredients and employs some of the kindest and most eccentric developmentally-disabled people in the neighborhood. I know, totally un-PC! But I mention it only because the locals know these particular employees, who have been regular staples at the store for ages (even when it was Buehler's Market and Winn-Dixie before that.) To me, this shows a real loyalty to their employees (who they've inherited from long before it was a Winn-Dixie) and a real handle on the neighborhood. For this, I am more than happy to shop there and give them my business.
Another of my neighborhood favorites, Keith's Hardware, is run by a former music teacher (that explains a lot!) Everytime I go in there, I see the most diverse group of pony-tailed, ironic band name t-shirt wearing, helpful staff. The store itself is tiny, but they literally have everything! As someone who hates household repairs, let alone shopping for "hardware" supplies, I'm comforted that I need only walk inside the door where I'm greeted with a knowledgeable (failed career musician or artist) professional who retrieves my merchandise, explains how to apply/use/replace said merchandise and I'm on my way. Last weekend I had a lengthy conversation with a lovely staff person who made it his Saturday morning goal to help me find the best rubber mat to catch that pesky cat litter from tracking all over my hard-wood floors. A homo working in a hardware store... only in the Highlands!
I do realize how lucky I am to live in this neighborhood, and I know that my new apartment will feel more comfortable with each day. Until then, I look forward to getting to know my new neighbors, the 1st-shift grave digger at the cemetery across the road and the kindly wheelchair-accessible van driver for the home for developmentally-disabled, who I've heard more than once yelling some really unsavory words out the window to those inpatiently honking at him from behind. I used to worry about whether his language was appropriate in front of his clients. But, then I figured if you can't enjoy a good cuss word when you're severely physically and mentally disabled like those riding his van, when can you?
Louisville isn't a large city, but it has more culture and "big city" opportunities than most give it credit for. My neighborhood, the Highlands, is known for artsy shops and boutiques, great restaurants (many of them ethnic) and an appreciation for the fine art of people-watching. I was actually in the legendary Haight-Ashbury AND Castro neighborhoods in San Francisco only a few weeks ago, and aside from the two stark-naked gentlemen we saw walking down the sidewalk at 3 p.m. on a normal Sunday, it reminded me a lot of the Highland's own Bardstown Road.
In the Highlands, one of my favorite stops (although not bragged about to the tourists) is the Valu Market, a locally-owned grocery store that offers the best selection of Indian food ingredients and employs some of the kindest and most eccentric developmentally-disabled people in the neighborhood. I know, totally un-PC! But I mention it only because the locals know these particular employees, who have been regular staples at the store for ages (even when it was Buehler's Market and Winn-Dixie before that.) To me, this shows a real loyalty to their employees (who they've inherited from long before it was a Winn-Dixie) and a real handle on the neighborhood. For this, I am more than happy to shop there and give them my business.
Another of my neighborhood favorites, Keith's Hardware, is run by a former music teacher (that explains a lot!) Everytime I go in there, I see the most diverse group of pony-tailed, ironic band name t-shirt wearing, helpful staff. The store itself is tiny, but they literally have everything! As someone who hates household repairs, let alone shopping for "hardware" supplies, I'm comforted that I need only walk inside the door where I'm greeted with a knowledgeable (failed career musician or artist) professional who retrieves my merchandise, explains how to apply/use/replace said merchandise and I'm on my way. Last weekend I had a lengthy conversation with a lovely staff person who made it his Saturday morning goal to help me find the best rubber mat to catch that pesky cat litter from tracking all over my hard-wood floors. A homo working in a hardware store... only in the Highlands!
I do realize how lucky I am to live in this neighborhood, and I know that my new apartment will feel more comfortable with each day. Until then, I look forward to getting to know my new neighbors, the 1st-shift grave digger at the cemetery across the road and the kindly wheelchair-accessible van driver for the home for developmentally-disabled, who I've heard more than once yelling some really unsavory words out the window to those inpatiently honking at him from behind. I used to worry about whether his language was appropriate in front of his clients. But, then I figured if you can't enjoy a good cuss word when you're severely physically and mentally disabled like those riding his van, when can you?
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