Uncle Neil Comes to Visit

Not only did my secret Uncle Neil Diamond come to visit on Friday night, he played two shows this weekend for my friends at the AA center.

Frank and I went to see him on Friday. Since I still haven’t told Neil that he’s my Uncle I didn’t want to scare him and try to get free tix. But don’t you think it’s odd that we just happened to get free tickets through Frank’s work? Not a coincidence.

I learned a few things about Uncle Neil that night:

--I don’t actually like the majority of his songs. In fact, I don’t like any of the slow ones.

--Seeing him sing the songs I DO like made it totally worth it. Well, the tickets were free so I guess even watching Marilyn Manson would be “worth it.” No, I take that back.

--What I’m trying to say is I would have paid $42.50 just to see him sing my fave songs.

--When Neil started singing “Red Red Wine” I asked Frank, “Why is he covering a UB40 Song?” Frank said, “You know what? I think he wrote that song…” and then Neil did a little rap segment that went something like, “…I don’t care cause UB40’s singing my song!” Uncle Neil, I had no idea! Next you’re gonna tell me that UB40 wasn’t the first to perform “The way you do the things you do.”

Frank went to the Uncle Neil concert with the attitude, “I don’t really like this guy or his music. I’m just going cause Elsa likes him and the tickets are free.” But he came out of it saying, “That guy is pretty cool. I like the way he dances.” In fact, Frank can’t stop talking about Uncle Neil and I fear he not only will take on his dance moves, but his wardrobe, too.

Best part of Uncle Neil’s show? When he would start to talk about the next song and the crowd would figure out what it was right away:

Uncle Neil: “You know, since the last time we were in Dallas, my band and I have traveled around the world. And that reminds me of how my grandparents traveled as immigrants…”

Crowd: “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Me: (on my feet) “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

America is my fave song by Uncle Neil so I clapped, sang along and saluted like a good secret niece. When it was over, I had a little tear in my eye.

After the show I went to the women’s restroom (and by the way, we were on the fancy Platinum level which doesn’t mean you get free alcohol like I originally thought but it does mean that the bathrooms are posh and the stall doors go all the way down to the floor! Now that’s V.I.P.)

So anyway, I’m in the line and these 50-year-old ladies behind me are gushing about the concert and talking about what he sang and didn’t sing and then one of them taps me on the shoulder and says jokingly, “And what is she doing here? She’s twelve years old!”

I told her, “Um, Neil and I have the same birthday. And my mother’s maiden name is Diamond.”

Lady: “So?”

Some people are so slow. “So I’m his niece,” I told her.

If she thinks I’m gonna get Uncle Neil to autograph her breasts, she can think again.

No Baths on Fridays

A few years ago I was doing the weekend visit thing at the parent’s house and I stumbled upon something strange whilst looking for a photo album. On the shelf in the hall closet was some graffiti—some kid graffiti. There, written in green crayon, were the words “No Baths on Fridays!”

What? Was this some sort of message from beyond? Or scarier, a little kid ghost?

Then it all came back to me:

When I was a kid at Landolt Elementary school I really liked Fridays. But not for obvious reasons. I remember sitting at my desk in Mrs. Melton’s 2nd grade class, feeling really anxious about the last bell ringing. What would happen after Ms. Gravy Train picked us up from school?Well natch, we would go to Wendy's(where I wouldn't eat pickles or pudding),go home and watch The Dukes of Hazzard and then…no bath!

I hated taking baths. I’m not sure why but I don’t think I was the only kid. Anyone know why we hated them so much? I mean, I remember I had pretty cool bath toys like “the little people” and some kind of mermaids that lived on lily pads. Sometimes there were even bubbles. What’s not to like?

But I bitched and moaned so much that my parents decided six days a week was plenty. And thus the rule—no baths on Fridays! I have to wonder, on Saturday was I that stinky kid who hadn’t taken a bath since Thursday night?

I do remember bath time always being an ordeal. I would turn on the water myself and then forget about it. My mom would say, “Elsa, are you watching your water?” Ugh. And then once I would get in the bath I never wanted to get out. That I understand—it’s too cold! “Elsa, isn’t it time for you to get out of the tub and go to bed?” But I had all those cool little people in there. And they floated! So I bitched and moaned some more.

But Friday nights we had none of that. I was as dirty as those Duke boys I watched on TV. Nobody had to remind me to watch my water, nobody had to make sure I got out of the bath tub.

Hmmm…maybe it was my parents who got hold of a green crayon and enthusiastically vandalized the bookshelf with the message “No Baths on Fridays!” Yep. That's the only explanation.

P.S. I do bathe on Fridays now. Well, most of the time--if I don't stay out too late at Wendy's.

Why Strictly Business Rocks

Frank's parents bought him a guitar when he was ten and he’s been a guitar geek ever since.

In fact, when Frank asks his dad why he isn’t as handy or mechanical as he or his brother, his dad answers, “When David and I were working on cars, you were upstairs playing your guitar.” In other words, “You’re not an idiot. You have a talent too, son.”

So Frank was in a band in high school called “Stain” (not to be confused with the current band “Stained”). They had some success—a tape, some shows with decent crowds and some home videos his parents shot.

Then he was in a no-name band in college that played cover songs at parties. I suggested they call themselves “Nudist Camp Rejects” which they quickly rejected.

But my favorite band that Frank has been in is Strictly Business. They rock. Oh, and if you couldn’t guess, this was Frank’s band during business school. I did not come up with this name.

Before I saw them play I dismissed them as just another cover band. Their first show was at La Zona Rosa in front of about 500 current b-school students, prospective students and alums. I was worried that nobody would listen to them so I stood right in front, cheering really loud. But then as they played, more and more people started gathering around. I started to get pushed—got a little scared there for a minute!

I left to go to the bathroom during one song and when I returned, I couldn’t even get back to my place in the front row. I decided to stand on a chair and realized I wasn’t the only one. I had a good view of the crowd and everyone in the joint was dancing to the tunes of Strictly Business.

So why do they rock? They play crowd pleasers but they “make it their own” as Paula Abdul would say. Some highlights:

--A rousing rendition of “Proud Mary” that goes into Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing in the Name of…”
--The Devil went down to Georgia featuring their talented violin player
--An encore--since the crowd ALWAYS asked for it: “It’s Tricky”

Strictly Business got so big that they even had band drama: One of the members quit and went to a rival business school band. They had to replace him in true Van Halen fashion (or Destiny’s Child, whichever one you can relate to).

And beyond that they even had groupies—they were business school girls but still…One of them made t-shirts for their “Farewell Tour” and I believe there may have been some panties tossed up on the stage. I even had to fight off a few at one show. They pushed me out of the way and said, “Oh, sorry. We’re groupies, hee hee hee.” I yelled back, “Oh, yeah? I’m a wife!”

So now Strictly Business is no more. That’s what happens when you’ve got a band made up of business school students. They sell out for corporate jobs. You know, working for the man.

But now when Frank asks, “Hey, why didn’t I learn anything in business school?” I just say, “You were too busy playing your guitar, son.”




See? The Groupies even come up on stage!


The boys of Strictly Business--their final show. Did I hear somebody say reunion?

Save the Rainforests. But don't eat in them.

Of all the reality shows, I’m pretty sure I could never be on Survivor. Real World? Sure, if I hadn’t already aged out. Laguna Beach? Definitely, if I had plastic surgery. The Apprentice? I’ve got more business sense than Martha and Donald’s candidates put together. But Survivor? No way. Why? Because of the obscene lack of food, of course.

I require food about every three hours, if not more. No, I’m not pulling an Eva Longoria “I eat pizza all day long and then for dinner I stuff my face with hot dogs but I’m still so skinny.” It’s not like that. I can’t eat crap every three hours. I just need to eat something.

What happens if I don’t eat? Oh, it’s not pretty. Let me take you back to sometime in the year 2000. It was a weeknight. (Let’s say Wednesday. I always hate Wednesdays. Oh, great. Today is Wednesday.) Frank and I went to Grapevine Mills mall to look for some shoes for him. I was hungry so I kept asking when we could eat. I could feel my blood sugar lowering and I started to become irritable: “Those shoes are ugly!” I snapped.

Finally, we decide to go to the Rainforest Café which is in the mall. We have to wait for a table which I’m not pleased about. On a Wednesday night? It’s a school night!

Have you been to this place, the Rainforest Café? It’s dreadful. And I told Frank this that very night after we finally got a table around 9pm. “Look at these prices!” I exclaimed, “Ten dollars for a chicken sandwich which doesn’t include fries! All for this great atmosphere, which means a monkey screams at me through my meal!”

By the time they brought out our food I was so hungry that the elephant sounds and constant rain were pounding into my head and making me dizzy. All I wanted to do was take a bite of that $10 chicken sandwich. But when I try to pick it up, there are all these burnt chips in front of me. I hate those burnt chips! That’s what they give you when they want to make a point that you should have paid the extra $4 for fries. They’re not even edible!

Let me preface my next action by saying at this point I had lost my mind. I’m having an out-of-body experience. I just want those chips out of my way so I can take a bite of my chicken sandwich. So I start to brush them off the plate with my hand. But they don’t just land on the table; some of them start to fall on the floor. But I don’t care. I keep brushing them away, pushing them harder and harder until they’re all on the floor. I hate those chips! I hate the Rainforest Café! And will those monkeys please shut up? I don’t look up at Frank. I just start digging into my chicken sandwich.

When I finally look up at him he says, “Can I ask you a question and you won’t get mad?” I say, “No.” He asks anyway, “HOW OLD ARE YOU?”

Since I had some food in me, the anger had subsided and the guilt set in. I leaned down to start picking up my mess but I noticed something. My purse was on the floor and it was open. I think you see where I’m going with this. Frank didn’t suppress his urge to laugh.

So now I’ve decided I’m in charge of my own blood sugar. If that means carrying granola bars in my purse (not the chip-filled purse) or eating a snack before going out to dinner (in case of the long wait) then I do it.

All I know is that I don’t want to have anymore restaurants where my picture is up as “crazy chip throwing lady.” One is enough. And as a crazy screaming monkey is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again.

Missing: One Gay Friend

I used to have this gay friend—Luis. We met in college when we both worked at The Daily Texan. When he first started working there we all whispered to each other, “Is he? Or does he just have that Latin aura that can sometimes be confused with gay?” One quick 11-point assessment and we knew. Well, we also just flat out asked him over some margaritas one night.

But Luis wasn’t a typical Jack. He was even less gay than Will. He drove a motorcycle. He liked sports. In some ways he was straighter than Frank! But we had a blast my senior year of college. Back then I had to share Luis with a flurry of gay-friend-wanting-gals.

So when I went off to work in Dallas, I invited Luis to come along and work at the ad agency with me. Well, we also got $1,000 for recruiting someone. Everybody won. When Luis moved here he got all into the gay scene. Have you seen the gay scene? It’s awesome. In fact, one day Frank and I were driving down Oak Lawn in the middle of the afternoon and when he saw all of the activity, Frank asked with extreme curiosity, “Hey! What’s this part of town?”

Luis took me to the gay bars where everyone is friendly and inviting. And they play the BEST songs! It’s like I gave them a mixed tape of all my fave tunes—Madonna, Destiny’s Child, Britney. And the ultimate: Cher, If I could Turn Back Time. When that song played I did my famous counterclockwise dance which the gay men love.

Like me, Luis wasn’t that into shopping but we knew that’s what gay guys and their gal pals did together so we complied. When we were first decorating our apartments we went to Garden Ridge Pottery. I know, it’s so not gay chic but remember, we worked in advertising. We each picked themes for our décor. He went for an art motif and I nautical. Together we helped each other decorate our homes with plastic busts of David and cheap sail boat paintings.

I liked hanging out with his new group of gay pals too. If we were in the car and one would say, “Keep going straight,” they would all erupt in giggles. And because Luis was so not flamboyant even Frank was comfortable around him. Frank once said, “Oh, good. Luis joined my gym. He can spot me.” Oh, I’m sure he will, Frank!

Naturally I could only keep my best gay pal to myself temporarily. All the girls at the agency befriended him and wanted his attention. So much so that when I got laid off Luis didn’t even call me to see how I was doing. I was so mad and I played the game of “I’m not calling him. Let his gay Brazilian butt call me.” Later I found out that with all the layoffs at our agency he was worried because his Visa had expired. He knew if he came forward he would surely be let go.

So about a month later a mutual friend called me and asked if I had talked to Luis. “No, he didn’t even call me after I was laid off…” I started to rant. “Well,” my friend said, “At the advice of a lawyer he told the agency about his Visa and they fired him on the spot. Now he’s being deported.”

Not only was Luis my first gay friend, he was my first illegal immigrant friend! I never spoke to him again and it’s been over four years. I don’t know where he’s living. What he’s doing. Which gay bars he’s frequenting. I’m sure wherever he is, he has plenty of lady friends to take dancing and shopping.

But if anyone wants to hit the gay clubs with me in search of a new gay friend, I’m always up for a little Cher.

Does P.E. stand for "Pretty Easy?"

Today I went to what’s becoming my new fave hangout—the VW dealership. I arrived wearing track pants, a wife beater, a grey hooded jacket (which Frank calls my “Kelly Taylor Jacket”) and running shoes. I wondered what Mike the valet guy thought I did for a living. Sure, we all know this is my writing uniform but he must have thought I did something quite athletic for my job.

Perhaps he thought I was a P.E. coach. I’m okay with that. I always thought that looked like a pretty good gig. And the wardrobe is only the beginning.

Just like teachers, they get summers off, spring break and two weeks at Christmas. But unlike teachers they don’t have to grade papers, deal with the same kids all day or even teach, really. Yes, they probably have to make lesson plans but how hard is that? Look. I just did a P.E. coach’s lesson plans for the week:

Monday: Dodge Ball
Tuesday: Open the doors, let the kids run around outside for 45 minutes
Wednesday: Jumping Jacks
Thursday: Dodge Ball
Friday: Teacher In-service Day—do lesson plans for next week.

At lunchtime they get to eat in the school cafeteria which is as delicious as it is affordable. And they get to cut in front of the kids. They do all this while wearing a comfy plastic workout ensemble. I think they can even wear visors.

In sixth grade I had this mean P.E. coach—Coach McMillan. Whenever a kid would approach him and complain of feeling sick, he would say, “What are you sick of? Sick of ice cream?” I hated it then but I have to say I use it on Frank and I’m pretty sure our kids can expect it too.

One day Coach McMillan made us run the mile (eight laps around the Landolt track) in the rain. How cruel! We were all “sick of ice cream” that day. So later some of the kids in my class approached me with a proposition:

“Elsa, we need you to write up a petition about why Coach McMillan should be fired for making us run in the rain. Then we’ll get everyone to sign it and we’ll take it to the principal.”

Natch, I was chosen because of my kick ass spelling skills (see blog from Thursday). So I wrote it up and tried to make it sound really legal-like with big words like “appalling” and “pneumonia” and “constricting” (to describe his ill-fitting coach’s shorts). Everyone signed it. And then I think I chickened out and didn’t turn it in. I’m glad I didn’t go through with it. I would feel awful if my persuasive legal jargon was the reason someone had to leave such a cool job.

Back at the VW dealership they interrupted my P.E. coach daydream to tell me my car was ready. “Are you off to work now, Mrs. Simcik?” they asked me. I told them, “Oh, no. We’re off for Columbus day. But I need to rest up because tomorrow is non-stop Dodge Ball. And by the way, the name's COACH Simcik.”

Doctor Deal Breakers

Maybe I’m finicky but I expect a lot out of my doctors—right down to their waiting rooms. I mean, if they don’t bother to change out their reading material and I’m stuck with Good Housekeeping from April 2001, I gotta wonder if they bother to change out the examining table paper.

In college we had to go to the UT health center and inevitably, no matter what was wrong with you, you’d leave with a sling. Once I had a stomach ache and the doctor actually got out a book and started looking up my condition. Either I was a medical marvel or she got her degree from Medical Community College. Her diagnosis? Tummy ache. Remedy? Sling.

So the next time I got sick in college I went to a real doctor. Or as real as my health insurance would allow. I went through the whole appointment and when I was at the counter, waiting to check out, I noticed that their giant wall calendar said “AUGUST.” That would be great except it was NOVEMBER. What kind of people fail to flip their calendar THREE times? The kind of people who fail to sterilize needles? The kind of people who fail to throw the biohazard materials in the correct bin? The kind of people who actually mistake a urine sample for lemonade? I never returned.

Yesterday I went to a dentist to get a crown. (No, not the kind of crown I really want.) I had just been once before and I was already uneasy because he’s in a shopping center and there’s a sign over his office that says “DENTIST.” In fact whenever his hygienist/assistant/receptionist calls to remind me of an appointment she says, “This is Rebecca from the dentist’s office…” What? Like he’s the only dentist in Dallas? Don’t they usually say “…from Dr. Ramos’ office?”

Anyway I had let all that slide because they had very current and interesting magazines.
So I’m sitting in the waiting room yesterday and I notice this fake plant. That’s cool but what’s hanging from the plant? Are those CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS?! I start to get up to run out of the office (which again, is really a shopping center) but then I calm myself by rationalizing that they’re probably just Chinese symbols or something. Just as I was realizing that Dr. Ramos is actually Hispanic, Rebecca (the hygienist/assistant/receptionist) calls me back.

I explain to her that I had brought my iPod because my friend told me it’s very soothing to listen to during a procedure. She gives me a puzzled look and asks, “What’s an iPod?”

What?! I mean, Grandma Valerie probably knows what an iPod is! Rebecca’s like 25! She asks, “Is it like a walkman?” I was shaking with fear. What kind of cave men was I dealing with? Were they gonna use rocks and two sticks to give me my crown?

The not-Chinese dentist came in and I thought I’d test him before I ran out screaming. “I’m going to listen to my iPod if that’s okay with you,” I said slowly, watching his reaction. “Sure, no problem,” he answered. Shwoo…what a relief.

As I sat in the chair I kept saying to myself, “It’s okay…He’s got current magazines, he knows what an iPod is…No! Don’t think about the Christmas decorations. That’s probably all Rebecca. She still thinks it's Christmas 2001 before iPods were invented…But what about the shopping center? No! Stop it! It’s a very nice shopping center. Very close to my house…within running distance…”

The whole crown procedure went fine. I packed up my hip new walkman gadget, paid my bill and sprinted out the door…just in case they were gonna try and fit me for a sling.

To Err is Human

Now, I hate to bring this up because I know I’ve made grammatical errors on my blog. Might even make some now. But back in the day, I was a kick ass speller.

My first bee (that’s what we champs call ‘em) was in third grade. And I wasn’t just competing against other eight and nine-year-olds. This was third-fifth grades. And I did okay. Definitely made the top ten.

Then in fourth grade I placed fifth. But still first of the fourth graders. I remember my friend A.J. was so mad when he was eliminated. He stormed off the Cafeteria-Gymnasium-Auditorium stage and ran out of the building. They had to chase after him.

So everyone in the fourth grade knew I was like the spelling queen (hmmm…starting to see why I couldn’t be considered for homecoming queen now.) We would play this game called “Sparkle” where we’d all stand in a circle and go around spelling our spelling words for that week. The deal was that if the person next to you spelled it right, you were out. What’s with these military tactics in fourth grade?

Anyway, when we would go to form the circle, everyone would run away from me. Naturally, at first I thought there was an odor or something. But then I realized that nobody wanted to stand next to me because they KNEW I would spell the word right and they would be out! That was a cool feeling--in a leperish sort of way.

Okay, so that brings us to the fifth grade bee. This was my chance, right? I was like the returning fourth grade champion. So it got down to three of us (A.J. had already been eliminated. Pretty sure he ran out and never returned.)

I got up there and they asked me to spell “Error.” I said, “Um, E…” and then for some reason I made the most critical bee mistake…a rookie mistake, really. I repeated the letter E. So that meant that technically, I spelled the word “E-E-R-R-O-R.” But the worst part is that right after I said the second E, the audience went crazy. I thought they were really rooting for those other two. But more likely they were just glad it was almost over.

That was the year of my big bee ERROR.

But don’t worry, in sixth grade I made my comeback and won the whole thing. You might be thinking, “Yeah, but that’s only against other sixth graders.” True. But we’re dealing with intermediate level words here! We’ve got words like…woah, I just checked the official intermediate spelling bee list for some examples and these words are crazy hard! I’m talking Algorithm, Bourgeois and Extemporaneous.

How did I do it? My dad had started coaching me the summer before sixth grade. We practiced so much that when I won, my dad wasn’t surprised. He gave me a high five and said, “Well, I figured. We practiced enough.”

I did go on to represent my school in the district bee but let’s just say it started at 11am and my mom and I left early enough to make it for lunch at the food court in the mall.

So I’d rather remember the day that I was the spelling queen of Landolt Elementary school. My subjects respected me, admired me, even feared me. Can you believe they don’t give out crowns for this?

Oh, the places Frank's Feet will go!

Hello. We’re Frank’s feet. We’re hairy, sometimes stinky and rough around the edges but we’ve been on many adventures.

Frank first got the idea to photograph us on a 2002 trip to Barbados. Incidentally, Frank had just proposed to the beautiful Elsa the night before. We were pleased when that happened because that meant someone would be around to encourage Frank to trim our toenails and maybe even let us get in on some of that soap action. Anyway, the next day Frank started this whole feet photography obsession. It seems Frank was full of great ideas on this trip.

What happened is that Frank took a picture of the pool and we sort of just got in the way. He reviewed the pic on his digital camera and admired his keen eye for photography. And thus, we became stars of all of their trips.


The first (we're wearing "mandals" as Thea calls them)

At the Leaning Tower of Pisa—we climbed it even though it’s about to fall over. We didn’t think it was such a great idea but Elsa did it and she’s the smart one.

Aw, on their first anniversary in Gruene, TX. Elsa was sick in the hotel with a tummy ache so we hung out with Frank. So romantic.

At the Colleseum in Rome! We were too late for the tour so all we know is that Gladiator was filmed here.

Los pies en México. Tráiganos otra cerveza.

Snowshoeing in Colorado. This was a lot of work for us. But Elsa's feet fell into a frozen lake--losers! They're always sort of bitchy to us anyway.

On the beach in the Cinque Terre, Italy. They sunbathe topless there, ya know.

Our farthest trip--the Great Wall of China!

So basically we're international celebrities. We're the subject of this amazing photography and we've pretty much been around the world. And now we've even written a blog.

Would it be too much to ask for some traveling, literate feet to get some socks without holes in them?

Why Nicole Richie's Daddy Rocks

“Say You. Say Me.” What more can I say? Nicole Richie’s daddy rocks.

The first time I realized his rockiness was in 4th grade. My elementary school choir performed a rousing rendition of his hit, “Dancing on the Ceiling.” We clapped, we swayed, I think I might have even yelled out a “Sing it, sistah!” Or maybe that wasn’t me.

Sure, he rocked long before that with the Commodores (She’s a Brick…House. You MUST pause appropriately between those words. Another pet peeve. Another blog.) And then there was the recognition he received from his “Endless Love” duet with Diana Ross (Mariah Carey and Luther Vandross tried to cover it in ’94 but they didn’t quite have the sexual chemistry of Ross and Richie.)

My faves? Well I must divide them into categories. I’ll also note some sample lyrics but this time I’m not going to consult a lyrics website. This is all from memory, baby. Ambitious? Maybe. Lazy? Definitely.

Best Party Song: All Night Long
“Kobonista say you say, Oh, jumbo jumbo.” He speaks many languages!

Best Love Song: Stuck on You
“Needin’ a friend? Cause the way I’m feeling now I guess I’ll be with you till the end. Guess I’m on my way. I’m mighty glad you stayed.”

Best Chill Song: Easy Like Sunday Morning
“Cause I’m Eeee-asy. Easy Like Sunday Morning…” A girl couldn’t have pulled this off.

Best Semi-Perv song: Ballerina Girl
“Ballerina Girl, you are so lovely. Every day and night, you know it’s right…don’t you ever go away.”

In fact, Nicole Richie’s daddy has so many songs, there’s bound to be a few I don’t like. So I’ll briefly mention them—“Hello? Is it me you’re looking for?” Creepy. Then there’s “Three Times a Lady” which I know is a classic but I gotta say, I would probably change the station before he even got to “twice.”

But hey, this blog isn’t titled “Why Nicole Richie’s Daddy doesn’t Rock” so let’s just focus on the good things: He’s successful, I wouldn’t change the station for about 83% of his songs and he never seems to age. That means if you run into him he’ll want to party all night long. You'll probably end up dancing on the ceiling. But no matter how excited you get, don't yell out, "Sing it, Nicole Richie's Daddy!"

Body is not my Second Language

Anthropologists, sociologists, linguists, psychiatrists and even archaeologists make it hard on those of us who just like to cross our arms. They say it’s a defensive stance.

Try it. It’s quite comfortable, right? But because the experts mentioned above have decided it makes people look stand-offish, unapproachable and downright bitchy, I can’t do it in public. I find myself doing this variation of it where I cross my arms but hold my elbows. I guess that seems better because my hands are still visible…like I’m ready for a hug at any minute?

I also like to stand with my hands on my hips. The fellas even gave this one a fancy name—arms akimbo. But when I do this it doesn’t mean I have a naughty four-year-old child who I’m about to address by his first and middle name. It’s just a place to put my hands so they’re not dangling by my side or flailing about like a Cirque du Soleil dancer.

And what’s with the whole eye contact thing? Way overrated in my opinion. Why do I have to look into your eyes? Maybe I’m noticing your neglected roots or your unkempt nose hairs. I mean, eyes? They all look the same. And if I’m looking into yours, you can be sure you’ve got an unsightly clump of mascara.

Yawning has to be the most unfair of all body language theories. I mean, I bet you yawned just now when you read the word “yawning.” Ah, got ya again. So if you’re in a meeting and the lazy, hung-over co-worker next to you happens to yawn, you’re doomed. The boss thinks you hate his speech (which you do) and that you’re thinking about how you’d rather be sitting at home in your underwear watching Lifetime movies (which you are). But still, you didn’t initiate the yawn—the official sign of boredom according to the body language experts.

I say we ban this language—kinda like we did with Latin. Then we could live in a world where girls could cross their arms and guys would still hit on them, people could put their hands on their hips without making young children run and we could look each other up and down without feeling like pervs. I’m so excited about this. Makes me wanna yawn.

Afternoon Delight

I know some of you like to read my blog in the morning. And if it's not here then you never come back. Well, I don't want that to happen today. So I'm telling you in advance that I won't be posting my real Monday blog until this afternoon.

I'm spending the morning at the VW dealership. My car is sick. I'm going to hang out in the waiting room, eating a Nutri-Grain bar from the vending machine--except it will probably be the two-pack yellow cupcakes--reading the April 2002 issue of Car and Driver and writing today's blog. So please check back this afternoon for the real deal.

Until then, I'll leave you with a picture of my bug and me--in happier times.

Eat a pickle. Save a girl from a well.

Every Friday night my family had a tradition: we’d go to Wendy’s and then go home and watch the Dukes of Hazzard. That was back when Wendy’s had a salad bar. And Daisy Duke had a brain. Well, sort of.

I always got a kid’s meal and I would ask my parents to get me some pudding from the salad bar. My dad would say, “No, we can’t do that because it’s all-you-can-eat.” I didn’t understand that. If it was ‘all-you-can-eat’ why couldn’t I have pudding? I mean, they were always trying to get me to eat more. Why the pudding Nazi treatment?

My Wendy’s cheeseburger came with pickles on it and I would always take them off. Gross. I hated pickles. Still do. But one Friday in October 1987 we had more on our minds than pudding, pickles and even frosties. Baby Jessica had fallen down the well. She had been trapped since Wednesday morning—over 55 hours. That’s longer than Britney Spears was married to Jason Alexander.

So this time, instead of taking my pickles off my cheeseburger, I made a deal with God. I told him that I would eat ALL of my pickles (both of them) if he would just let baby Jessica out of the well. It was gross. It was disgusting. It was my ultimate sacrifice.

That night when we got home the Dukes of Hazzard had been interrupted with a special report. At first I was peeved (back then we were peeved rather than pissed). But then I saw the headline. Baby Jessica had been rescued! I wasn’t sure why she looked like a mummy but who cared? I had done this--with the help of Dave Thomas’ pickles, of course.

I encourage everyone to eat pickles in times of crisis. But there are a few rules:

1. You have to not like pickles. If you do like them, you have to choose something else.

2. It has to be a really big problem. I’ve tried to eat them to get a boy to like me, to get an A on a test without studying and to get rid of a killer hang nail. No success.

3. Once you’ve eaten your pickles (or other enemy food), you can’t celebrate until the crisis is over.

And whatever you do, don't ask for pudding from the all-you-can-eat buffet.

Duff v. Lo

I’ve always been on Hilary’s side. After all, she’s blonde. She’s naïve. And I like how she spells her name with one “L.” Way to be different, Hill. I mean Hil.

I even liked some of her music. Hello? Her song inspired one of my most googled articles: PDA. It's so Yesterday


Plus, she sings the theme song to my fave reality show, Laguna Beach: “Let the Rain Fall Down.” LC v. Kristin? Now there’s another blog-worthy battle.

But the other day I heard one of Hil’s songs and the lyrics stopped me in my tracks. Well, they stopped me in the oversized pedals of the elliptical machine at the gym. Here’s what Hil sang over the speaker:

There's people talking. They talk about me. They know my name. They think they know everything. But they don't know anything...about me

What? Sounds like a prepubescent nursery rhyme. And even those kids are too old for that. And it doesn’t rhyme. So that’s a big con on Hil’s list. Let’s weigh in on everything else:

Pro:
Well, she’s “pro” as Frank would say but even he thinks she's too skinny now.

It’s all relative:
She needs to lose that sister, Haylie. She’s just bringing her down.

Switzerland:
She dates that Joel Madden guy from Good Charlotte. I like their music (could he help Hil?) but I couldn’t eat and look at him. So I’m neutral.


Then in the other corner we’ve got Lindsay. She’s blonde but I like her better as a redhead, don’t you? She’s NOT naïve. In fact, she seems a little bit dirty. And her songs? Well, here’s a sample:

I'm tired of rumors starting. I'm sick of being followed. I'm tired of people lying, saying what they want about me.

What? That sounds just like Hil’s song. I’m not here to debate who wrote which brilliant lyrics first; I’m just saying they’re about the same subject. Why not be friends?

So Lindsay’s con is that she’s dirty. And that she's way too skinny. She makes Hil look like a chubster. Other areas of her life that we can examine?

Pro:
Her movies are pretty good. Who doesn’t love a Parent Trap remake? Or Mean Girls?

It’s all relative:
Oh, poor girl. Her parents are white trash. I know she's phasing out Dad but she should go ahead and ditch mom, too.

Switzerland:
Sometimes they’re enormous. Sometimes they’re teeny tiny. What’s up with that?

Bottom line, the two teen queens hate each other. Lo says she tried to make nice: "I called her last week, and I was like, ‘Do you wanna hang out?’ And her sister hung up the phone on me!" See, Hil? I told you to lose that conniving sis, Haylie. You could have hit the clubs with Lo!

The real tragedy is the reason they started fighting: When they were 14 they both dated little Aaron Carter. That's like me fighting with my friend Amber in college over some guy we both dated in junior high. Wait. Nobody wanted to date me in junior high. Hence why we're still friends.

So who's the winner and who's the loser here?

Loser(s): Us. The radio listening public.

Winner: Why, Joel Madden of course. When he's done with Hil he can surely hook up with Lindsay. Hil may even tell Linds, "He's great for your figure. You won't be able to eat and look at him!" and Linds will snap back, "I don't eat anyway, chubster."

Why Neil Diamond Rocks

There was this line in a movie; I think Billy Crystal said it: “There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who like Neil Diamond and those who don’t.” I would agree with that. I just don’t agree with the people who don’t like him. What’s not to like?

Now I’m not the first person to acknowledge Neil’s talents. In fact, I remember when I was little watching this commercial for his compilation album that said, “NEIL DIAMOND. THE GREATEST SINGER/SONGWRITER OF ALL TIME.”

Wow. That’s quite a title. And I hadn’t even voted. But I certainly would have. And not just because his songs rock but because Neil and I, well, we have a special connection:

My mother’s maiden name is Diamond
Neil was born on January 24th (mine and Thea’s birthday)

Hello? Are you getting goose bumps? I’m pretty sure we’re related somehow. Like maybe he’s my uncle. Don’t you think we look alike? Actually, I’m really surprised Neil hasn’t responded to my letters stating these facts but I know he’s super busy. And speaking of being super busy, how many performers have been able to tour for over 30 years and still play to sold-out crowds? And have you seen these crowds? They’re a smorgasbord of young and old, WB and PBS, American Idol and Solid Gold.

And his songs! They’re all so different that you have to love at least one or five:

--Sweet Caroline
--Cherry Cherry
--Girl, you’ll be a woman soon
--Cracklin’ Rosie
--September Morn
--Heartlight (remember from a previous blog? I called it “The E.T. Song” and Miss Davis was pissed. http://writinggal.blogspot.com/2005/08/why-hall-oates-rock.html)
--America (Personal Fave: “They’re coming to America. TODAY!”)

You gotta give it to Neil. He’s smart. He knows what the crowd wants to hear. Not new songs from this decade. Give us the old stuff! The stuff before I was born! So he delivers. And he even wears sequined shirts that he had before I was born. That Neil.

Sadly, I have never had the chance to see Neil in concert. Once Frank and I were going to a U2 concert and on the way we passed another venue that was having a Neil Diamond show that very same night. I was a 25-year-old but I would have traded Bono for Neil no question.

He’s coming to Dallas in a few weeks and I looked into getting tickets. It’s $42.50 for my usual nosebleed seats. Yikes. I mean, he does rock, but at those prices it’s like he really believes he’s the greatest singer/songwriter of all time. I’m gonna need to talk to Uncle Neil about getting the family discount. And maybe I'll talk to him about losing the sequined shirts.

What Happens in Cabo Stays in Cabo

Lucky for you, we weren’t in Cabo. We were in Cancun. That means it's all fair game for the blog.

Observation: when two girls travel together they get a lot of attention. Therefore Thea and I made life long friends at the GR Solaris resort. And we’re not discriminating—we hung out with guests, employees and even people from Oklahoma.

Allow me to introduce you to our new friends:

Roger and Jenn: I’ve never been to Oklahoma but I've heard the rumors: People are white trash, poor and obnoxious. Well, after meeting Roger and Jenn I have to say, the rumors are true. Rog and Jenn liked to drink, dance and talk loudly about their genitalia. Can I say that word on my family-friendly blog?

Roger and Jenn, we thank you for teaching us to have faith in stereotypes and to not bother trying to be PC about our neighbors to the north.


Federico: At first glance, Federico looked like the resident hottie employee of the GR Solaris. But then he opened his mouth. He decided to join Thea and me while we sat eating our lunch at the buffet one day. Instead of making small talk he launched into a monologue about his childhood, his parents, his life in Cancun.

Federico, we’re glad your parents reconciled and that your apartment is not so messy anymore but I just came here to eat guacamole with a spoon and drink queso. Can I go get thirds now?


Bucky and the NJ boys: You know these guys. They come in a big group and make friends with people like Roger and Jenn. Dislikes? Shirts and sobriety. Likes? Many tattoos and wrist bands that go up their arms (this is a badge of honor representing how many cheesy Cancun clubs they've hit.) They make comments like, “I don’t remember Thursday or Friday. I sort of remember Saturday but not this morning.” Bucky is their leader and he took a liking to Thea. He wanted to be her instant Cancun boyfriend. Now there's an oxymoron.

Bucky, we know that’s not your name but it should be (see pic below.)


Perfecto: Now this is his real name and it fits him, well, perfectly. He brought us drinks by the pool. I bet he never gets tired of guests yelling “Perfecto!!” every time he brings them those high-calorie, weak drinks. NJ boys say he only makes $16 per day. Hey, that’s more than I make on this blog.

Perfecto, thank you for making us “Tickets to Fly” and for bringing them so promptly. You are muy perfecto!

Oh, I'm getting that Oscar-speech panic. I have so many more people to thank but not enough time: Ramón with the mohawk, Carla the curly-haired entertainer who competed with me on the treadmill (good try, Carla, but you could pick up the pace a little), Luis the waiter who raised his eyebrows at us at breakfast (I couldn't return the look, see last week's blog), Lupe and Sylvia for singing "Now I had the time of my life" every night in the lobby bar and Henry, the deli sandwich maker for creating those delicious mayonnaise sandwiches. Hey, you try drinking a dozen "Tickets to Fly" from Perfecto and see what weird foods you crave.

But now it's over. It's back to the real world. A world where you have to pay for drinks, you don't eat every two hours and a day's work involves more than rubbing on SPF 30. And as for our life long friends? Well there's talks of a Cancun reunion Spring Break time. Thanks, guys. But I think we're gonna try Cabo.




Federico: He looks cute but don't let him talk.

Roger: We didn't dare tell him we root for Texas.





Jenn: Just like Federico--if she would just keep her mouth shut!



Come on, you would have called him Bucky too, right?

Writinggal is out of the office

Blog readers: Thank you for visiting writinggal.blogspot.com. I will be out of the office, today, September 23rd and Monday, September 26th. I will be traveling with a regular blog character, Thea (see photo at left) to Cancun.

If you need immediate assistance, please refer to my past blogs as they should help you through these next two days. If you are having serious writinggal blog withdrawal, may I recommend "A picture's worth about 300 words" in which Liz and I do the "working girl" dance? I think you may chuckle. There now, all better.

While in Cancun, Thea and I will be taking pictures much like the one above. They will all feature alcoholic beverages (as we will always have one or four in hand), we will be smiling and we will be fully dressed. You see, we're so white that we would surely cause some sort of malfunction with the camera flash should we attempt to be photographed in our bathing suits.

So I'll blog you when I get back. Maybe I'll have stories from the "trip with two petite blonde girls born on January 24th with four-letter, weird, European names." Wait. What do I mean maybe?

P.S. Just because I'm gone, doesn't mean you can't click on my ads. Come on, this trip isn't gonna pay for itself.

Hurricane Houseguests

After Katrina hit I knew I needed to do my part. So I headed to Costco and stocked up on peanut butter crackers, cheese crackers and water. I figured if I hadn’t eaten in awhile, some peanut butter crackers would look mighty tasty. Frank and I took our supplies (which could all fit in the trunk of my VW Bug) to the Salvation Army the next day. Wow, we're such givers. And Jon Bon Jovi is right. Giving feels good.

And if we hadn’t already contributed enough, Frank pledged money at work and they matched it. We’re still waiting for a personal call from the president. Or at least mayor Ray Nagin. But we understand they’re busy. Hey, we just like to give.

Just as we were getting sore from patting ourselves on the back, we got an email from Frank’s Aunt and Uncle in Houston. They gave peanut butter crackers too—to the displaced family from New Orleans living at their house! That’s right. They’ve got a family of three sleeping, eating and swimming (they have a pretty cool pool) in their home.

I should have seen this coming. If anyone was going to outdo us (and we set the bar pretty high), it would be Aunt Marilyn and Uncle John. Why just this past June, when Frank and I had to change our travel plans and fly out of Houston at the last minute, Marilyn and John stepped up. We gave them two-hours notice. And when we arrived, not only did they have a room all prepared for us, (I think maybe there was even a mint on the pillow) Marilyn had cooked this extravagant meal. And what’s more, we ate in the dining room with a tablecloth and candles! I’m hesitant to get out the tablecloth even at Thanksgiving. Then very early the next morning, John rose to drive us to the airport. But not without a full breakfast from Marilyn.

I mean, if someone wanted to sneak a visit on me, I’d be okay with it. I may even call Papa John’s in honor of their arrival. But they’re not getting a tablecloth or candles. They’re lucky if they get clean sheets!

I tried to imagine what it would be like if Frank and I took in a family.

(Begin dream sequence):

I mean, really, hurricane victims are the best kind of houseguests. They’ve been living in horrific conditions. You know what that equals? Low expectations. I could cook mac-n-cheese every night and they would be grateful. Pop Tarts for breakfast (we have a huge box from Costco), PB&J for lunch…they would think I was their queen. But after a couple of weeks, they may start complaining: “Mac-n-cheese again, Queen Elsa?” and “Really, I’ll wash the sheets myself!”

And then what if they got wind of what was going on at Marilyn and John’s? “Queen Elsa, they’re getting steak on tablecloths over there! And I heard they get to play water volleyball and chill out in a hot tub!”

“It’s all a myth!” I’d tell them. “Marilyn IS cooking them mac-n-cheese. But it’s not even Kraft. It’s the generic kind from Wal-Mart. So consider yourself lucky!”


(End dream sequence.)

Do you see what saints like Marilyn and John do to the rest of us? I used to be this charitable, giving person and now, here I am, lying to hurricane victims! I decided I could never go beyond providing lame snack food or making impersonal monetary donations.

But then, a second chance. Another hurricane. And this time in my hometown. I got calls from family, asking if we could take them in. And these hurricane victims would be a tougher crowd. They were going to arrive before the storm. You know what that equals? High expectations.

I prepared for at least six people plus five pets. And when I say “prepared,” I mean I just daydreamed again about what I would cook, where they would sleep and whether or not I needed to clean the bathroom. I didn’t bust out the table cloth or anything.

And then last night at 9:00 the troops arrived. Well, it turned out to just be one troop. And by that I mean just my mom. Everyone else decided to stay.

Nevertheless, I’m going to do my part. I’m giving my mother and her cat the best accommodations. And yes, I even washed the sheets. She may not get candle-lit dinners, a hot tub or fun-filled games of water volleyball. But by golly, she can have all the peanut butter crackers she wants.

I'm not a Rapper. But I used to be.

In the summer of ’89 my friend Jaime and I memorized a :60 commercial for Computer Learning Center in Houston. This is no “My bologna has a first name…” It’s a complicated mix of rap, prose and repetitive phone numbers.

We sang it several times a day that summer, to the point where her two-year-old brother even knew some of the words. Family and friends would request us to perform at gatherings. We really should have taken our act on the road. We could be rich by now. But there are two very sad facts about this story:

1. The frightening amount of TV we apparently watched that summer.
2. The fact that, 16 years later, we still know all the words and when we get together, still sing it. And by the way, this is against the request of our husbands.


Because I know you are bursting with anticipation, I will perform it for you now:

First scene: Man is working at a fast food chain. His boss comes in and yells, “Hey Shorty, fifty double meat, double cheese!”

(Rappers Enter)

Rappers:

Hey, man. You think you’re cool.
Well I think you better get in school.
Flippin’ those burgers just ain’t your style
But workin’ with computers can make you smile.

Get a career, not just a job
Become somebody different, not part of the mob
Earn some money, get some respect
You can make it big, ain’t that correct?

Girls in short dresses:

Yeah!

Rappers:

CLC that’s where you need to be.
Try CLC and you will soon see
That minimum wage is not where it’s at

Girls in short dresses:

So whatcha waiting for? Step up to the bat
And call 781-6800, That’s 781-6800
You get hands-on training and it’s quick not slow
So call 781-6800 (aside: this was the days before Houston had four area codes. I'm so old.)

Rappers:

If you qualify, don’t you see?
You can get financial aid, call CLC
Call us now, don’t be slow
Don’t you wanna see your income GROOOOOOOW? (aside: this is where Jaime’s little brother would chime in. He’s in college now. I'm really old.)

Girls in short dresses:

CLC. CLC. CLC. C-L-C!!

So there you have it. Jaime, I know you’re singing along. You better be. We’ve got the 20th anniversary coming up in just four years and we need to get ready for the big tour.

And yes, we are auditioning for opening acts. But you’ve gotta be good. We’re not taking “Big Mac, McBLT, A Quarter Pounder with some Cheese, Filet-O-Fish, a Hamburger, A Cheeseburger, A happy meal…”

I’m ashamed to say I think we’ve already got that one covered.

What’s with Walgreens?

I’m a drug store kinda girl. I used to go to one in college when I didn’t have a car and I had to do my grocery shopping there. Walgreens is my favorite. It just feels cleaner than Eckerd (which is now the dirtier CVS). I have a Walgreens down the street so I pop in there several times a week. In fact, I got my credit card bill the other day and it claimed I had been to Walgreens twice in one day—and each time spent $6 and change. Who knows what I bought? Cards, hair stuff, flaxseed vitamins? They’ve got everything. My father-in-law even bought luggage there.

But lately I’ve had some bad experiences at W. The first:

I’m at the check-out and I see one of those signs about donating to a cause. It’s juvenile diabetes. That’s nice. But then the check-out girl straight out asks me, “Would you like to donate to help the victims of juvenile diabetes?” How do I answer that? I liked the kids on the sign when it felt optional. But now they were staring at me like, “What? You and your healthy pancreas don’t want to help us?” I whispered, “Uh, no.” I felt awful. I think it’s how they phrase it: “Would you like?” And then my answer is basically, “Nah, I don’t feel like it.” Maybe I don’t have any money after paying $7 for toothpaste!

The second:

The next time I go the sign is pushed back and the kids aren’t really staring at me anymore. The check-out girl says, “Would you like to donate to the victims of Katrina?” What? What happened to the diabetes kids? Now, suddenly we don’t care about them anymore? Like their insulin problems have to take a back seat to the hurricane victims? And by the way, W, EVERYBODY is helping the hurricane victims! Maybe it would be more noble if you stuck to your original cause. Maybe I was even gonna donate this time (hey, I might have!) Plus, I’ve already contributed to that sneaky Red Cross. So again I have to say, “Uh, no.” This girl thinks I’m anti sick kids and displaced people. I’m evil!

The third strike against W (which lead me to take email action):

Frank and I go to W because I need to pick up a prescription. I totally fall for the end-cap scam and grab a tube of that Jergen’s lotion that’s supposed to make you tan. Does that work, by the way? I’m still ghostly. So the check-out girl in the make-up section (we’ll call her Barb) sees me grab the tube and says, “Hey, I have a $1 off coupon for that when you’re ready to check out.” I tell Barb, “Great. I have to pick up a prescription and then I’ll come back over here to pay.”

I pick up my prescription at the pharmacy and tell the tech (we’ll call her Tanya) that I’m going to pay at the make-up counter. Tanya says I can’t do that. Guess she thinks I’m going to steal my $8 prescription. So I go to Barb and say, “The pharmacy won’t let me check out over here so I need to just get that coupon and take it back there.”

Barb rolls her eyes, sighs and looks like she’s going to kill Tanya. It’s Walgreens War. As I’m walking away Barb says, “You know, you could buy everything here and then buy your prescription there.” Yeah, that sounds super easy. Talk about customer service. I say, “Does it really matter?” Barb says, “Yes, I get in trouble if I don’t ring up someone every 15 minutes.” Barb then proceeds to tell me about all the make-up items she makes commission on and how I should always check out there.

What?? Did anybody know this? I felt so uncomfortable—like I was being sucked into some sort of pyramid scheme. And I did it. I checked out with Barb and then with Tanya. Tanya rolled her eyes when I came back and told her what I’d done. And poor Frank. He’s just going back and forth with me between Barb and Tanya and he doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s just glad I got $1 off that expensive faux tanning lotion.

Walgreens, do you see what you’re doing? You’re making customers feel bad about themselves for not donating, you’re causing friction between employees and you’re contributing to the juvenile diabetes epidemic!

I’m sending them a note saying as much.

So forget you, Walgreens. Forget your extensive array of salon quality hair products. Forget your vast selection of cards of both humor and sentiment. Forget your quality luggage sets. I’m no longer white Walgreens woman. Soon I’ll be taking my newly tanned self to another drug store. That’s right. I’ll be a dirty CVS girl.

Let's Focus on What's Important. TV.

I love TV. It gets a bad rap because apparently it conjures up images of sloth-like behavior, obese kids and ADD. But that’s only if you watch the bad shows. If you concentrate on the high-quality, cerebral programs, not only can you increase your I.Q., you can participate in conversations, offer thoughtful opinions and make controversial statements like, “That gardener’s not that hot…”

Every year TV Guide puts out a cover story called “The Best Show you’re not Watching.” I love that issue because it usually features a show I am watching. So since I obviously have elevated taste, I thought I’d do my own little “The Best Shows you’re not Watching” blog.

But before I reveal my top picks, I want to give some advice to those who think they prefer the page to the tube. You don’t. You love TV. You’re just ashamed for some crazy reason. And next time I say that I love TV, whatever you do, don’t give that standard, cliché, non-TV-watcher response: “I don’t have time to watch TV.” Ugh. Who likes that person? No one. And we’re not going to invite you to our Desperate Housewives watching party with an attitude like that. So, now that we’ve got that out of the way…

Arrested Development: Premiers tonight at 8/7 on Fox (Non-TV Watchers: All TV times are given in Eastern Standard Time so I’m offering the Central time too: 8/7. Get it?)

I know, it’s old news. All the critics love this show. But I had to give it a little plug for the following reasons:

1. I’ve loved Jason Bateman since Silver Spoons.
2. AD is probably the best written show on Television.
3. It’s about a cooky family—who doesn’t love a cooky family?

I’m not sure why this show isn’t catching on. Is it because people are scared they won’t understand it? Don’t worry. There’s a narrator (kind of like the Housewives) who explains it all. And if you still can’t follow it, please refer to reason #1.


What I like about you: Friday nights, 8/7 on the WB. Don’t give me the old, “But I have a life. I go out on Friday nights” excuse. This is the perfect show to watch while you’re getting ready to go out. It’s got Amanda Bynes (what a doll) and our fave, Kelly Taylor. She prefers to be called Jennie Garth now for some reason. They’re sisters and they live in a fancy apartment together. I’m not sure why. They have all these problems with boys and jobs and I’m not sure what else. But I always laugh out loud. Hey, is it possible I only like this show because I’m usually downing wine whilst watching it? Not sure. But you should try it. The wine and the show.

CSI: St. Louis: Special Victims Unit: Trauma and Guts: I think I made this up. But it sounds real, no?


The Comeback: Sunday nights, 10:30/9:30 on HBO. Can’t believe Frank lets us have HBO, right? He doesn’t. We got HBO and Showtime free for two months. I called to cancel the two “premium” channels when our free trial was over (I promise, Frank!) but then they said I could keep HBO for $5 a month. I kept it just for The Comeback. Frank immediately started doing the math: $5 for four episodes is $1.25 per episode. Nope. Not okay. So we got into Entourage too. That’s about $.63 per show. Not bad.

The Comeback stars Lisa Kudrow as a has-been TV actress who just got her second break with a new series. But the show is really about the reality show she’s filming while she’s filming the TV series. It’s a show within a show within a show…I think. At first you won’t like it. You’ll think she’s goofy and quirky and you’ll hate her voice but then for some reason, you’ll get sucked in. I’m like in a trance when I watch this show. It’s brilliant. Or maybe HBO is pumping some sort of fumes into my home. Oh, well. It’s a nice $.63 high.

Although I’m obviously an established TV writer, I’m not privy to pre-screenings of new shows. So I’ll have to check them all out this week, same as everybody else, and get back to you.

But when it comes to TV, you should listen to me—not that girl from E! Remember when she was pleasantly plump and her stint was called “Watch with Wanda?” Then suddenly she got all skinny and demanded that we call her by her real name—Kristin. And the folks at E! totally caved. Instead of saying, “No, Kristin doesn’t lend itself to a catchy segment title. I mean, we can’t say ‘Kickin’ it with Kristin’ now can we?” They said, “Okay. Since you’re skinny we’ll give you anything you want.” And now she’s the host of the lame “Watch with Kristin.” What?

But she does seem to have more of the inside scoop on the shows. She obviously just has more time to watch TV than I do. I wonder if she wants to hang out with me and the WB on Friday nights. Hey, fine with me. As long as she brings the wine.


http://www.eonline.com/Gossip/Kristin/index.html?fdsskristin

Why R.E.M. Rocks

When I was 12, I thought R.E.M. rocked for one simple reason: because my sister thought they rocked. Her influence even had me believing that Duran Duran rocked before I knew what rocking was. At seven I thought John Taylor was fine.

But back to the guys from Athens, GA. Kristin was a mega-fan. Their tapes blared on her boom box all the time. And it was old-school stuff like Murmur and Reckoning--long before "Stand" became their flagship song. But it was Stand's album, Green, that R.E.M. toured for in 1989.

And that was the year I attended my very first concert.

Having a big sister who's into music is helpful for moments like these. That way you don't end up with a story like, "My first concert was Color me Badd. 'I Wanna Sex you up' was their opening song."

No, for me, it was much cooler. It was March 21, 1989--Spring Break. Like I said, I was 12. So Kristin was 17. We were in Austin with our parents for a quick mini-vacation. It was pouring so we couldn't do the regular Zilker Park/Barton Springs excursions. We drove by the Frank Erwin Center and the marquee said that R.E.M. was playing that night. Duh, like Kristin didn't know that already. She had tickets to see them two days later in Houston. Somehow we convinced our parents to buy us tickets for that evening since we didn't have any other plans. I remember that they were $17.

Along with having no musical taste of my own, I had no sense of fashion either. Luckily, Kristin picked out a very appropriate outfit for me--all black. We looked like we were going to the rockingest funeral ever. My parents dropped us off at the Frank Erwin Center and we took our places in the nosebleed section (this seems to be a theme in my life).

Before the boys took the stage, I noticed a strange smell in the area. I inquired about it and Kristin said, "Shh...it's pot..." Huh? "It's marijuana!" Well, what's a first concert without some drug paraphernelia?

Then the lights dimmed and the band entered much in the same way Britney Spears would enter 13 years later--with some sort of explosion. They opened with "Pop Song 89" which you know better as "Hello, I saw you I know you I knew you..." Luckily, I had spent a lot of time with Kristin's cassette's too so I was able to sing along with our neighboring pot heads.

The set list went like this:
Pop Song 89
Exhuming McCarthy
Welcome To The Occupation
Turn You Inside-Out
Pilgrimage
Orange Crush
Cuyahoga
Feeling Gravity's Pull
Time After Time
Begin The Begin
World Leader Pretend
Pretty Persuasion
Frogmore - Tired Of Singing Trouble - I Believe
These Days
Get Up
Auctioneer
It's The End Of The World As We Know It
Then they did THREE Encores which included Stand, Fall on Me, Finest Worksong and some others.

Yes, I remember it like it was 15 years ago but it was really 16. NO--they have these set lists on the Internet! Some other loser documented every single R.E.M. concert ever. That's how I knew the exact date too. I'm not that psycho sentimental.

So I thank my sister for taking me to my rocking first concert. Unfortunately, after she went off to college I had no musical guide and my tastes faltered. And now I have to live with the fact that my fifth concert ever was, in fact, Color Me Badd. And lucky me, they did open with "I Wanna Sex you up."

Will the real Britney Spears please stand up?

My friend Britney had a baby yesterday. It's a boy. She and husband KFed are thrilled. Do I know this from reading E! or US Weekly online? Well, yes, but I also know because Brit and I...well, we have a special bond.

I attended her concert in July 2002 with my friend Jacquie. Yes, we were the only people over the age of 13 who weren't moms. Yes, we were the only people who drove ourselves. And yes, we were the only people buying beer at the concession stand. We sat in our nosebleed seats, feeling quite Amazonish in a sea of tweens. But we were pumped.

Before the show they played videos of other songs that would probably be found on "Now that's what I call Music Volume 32." We were singing along to 'NSYNC's (Ah! Brit's ex--how rude!) song "If you were my Girlfriend." And I should add we were singing quite loudly. But why not? It's a freaking great song.

The little 5th graders next to us were singing along too. When the song was over, one of them tapped me on the shoulder and asked, "Um, do you like sing professionally?" I KNEW my parents' money wasn't wasted on those voice lessons. Here I was, meeting my first fan. "No," I told her. And then just to make sure they weren't fair-weathered fans I asked, "Did you hear her sing too?" and pointed to Jacquie. The girl said, "Um, yeah." Oops. Obviously not impressed with Jacquie's soprano. Did I feel sorry for her? Um, no. Take one look at Jacquie and you'll see why. Let her have the looks. I had the voice of a pop star.

Now the 5th graders were huddled together, discussing something that must have been very important--the state of the war in Iraq, perhaps? Their spokesperson tapped me again, "Okay. We've decided something. Not that we would EVER want this to happen," (they all shook their heads, pony tails going side to side) "But...if Britney died" (a solemn look from the group and a gasp from one) "we think you should take her place."

Wow. Never have I received such an honor. What could I say? I was beyond flattered. But even though I had a rockin' voice and with a little more time at the gym, could also have some rockin' abs to match...I couldn't accept. So it was with great sorrow that I had to say, "Oh, no. Not me. I couldn't do that." The spokesperson said, "You're right. No one could ever take her place." We didn't have time to continue our discussion nor did Jacquie have time to fume with jealousy. Brit was making her entrance--which included an underground tunnel, some smoke and I think maybe an explosion of some sort.

We danced in our seats as Brit lip sang her heart out. It was magical. And when it was over we bid farewell to our four-foot friends and vowed to meet up at the next Backstreet Boys show.

I've been closely following Britney's career ever since--wondering if there would be a chance for me to step in and carry on her legacy. But Brit, in true over-achiever form, has paved a challenging road for me. If I truly want to take her place and win the love of those young girls (or maybe their little sisters since those girls are driving by now), I have to do the following:

--Have a quickie wedding in Vegas
--Find an unemployed loser with two kids, marry him and quickly get knocked up
--Consume massive amounts of Cheetos
--Develop a love for public restrooms
--Toss out all my shoes

So Brit, as your understudy and heir to your throne, I just want to say, "Congratulations." But I think my lone fan was right. No one could ever take your place.

You may be lowbrow. But I'm nobrow.

Maybe you've noticed. I don't have eyebrows. My mom and my sister don't have them either but they've figured out a way to color them in and make them look natural. I'm not so lucky. In the seventh grade they tried to show me how to do it myself. It looked weird--like two patches of dirt on my forehead.

In my seventh grade yearbook this girl wrote (and I have it right here so this is a direct quote), "Elsa, you are a very weird person. Keep watching Tribes! It rules! Well, see ya later. Don't draw on your eyebrows (ha)! Love ya."

Well that was the end of my little experiment to try to look like everyone else. I sort of forgot about the issue until college. Twice it was brought to my attention that I was lacking in lower forehead hair:

1. I was out with a girlfriend and we were having a few Adult Beverages. She said, "Hey, I never noticed before...but you don't have any eyebrows." After a few more AB's I didn't really care. Later, we called the UT designated driver hotline (see, parents? I was responsible!) and I yelled into the phone, "Come quick! I don't have any eyebrows!" Their response time was unprecedented. I think they thought I was involved in some sort of terrible fire.

2. My first date with Frank: We ran into some friends of his and Frank later told me that one pulled him aside and said, "Hey, man. She's cute. But she doesn't have any eyebrows." Luckily, this friend's opinion didn't mean too much to Frank. Plus Frank is oblivious as long as the girl has blonde hair.

Do you know what life is like without eyebrows? When girls talk about going to get their eyebrows waxed, I can't relate! And tweezers? Never needed 'em. Wouldn't even know what to do with 'em. Can I make a menacing face? Nah. Can I look really surprised? Not really. And if I get sunburned, people are apt to start singing, "Santa Claus is coming to town."

Last night Frank and I were having our weekly post Laguna Beach recap (I'm not ashamed). He was saying how he thought Taylor was so cute and I said, "There's something weird about her. I can't put my finger on it." And he said, "Really? Because I think she kind of looks like you." Then I realized what it was. The chick was eyebrowless too! And I thought she looked weird! That means I look weird too but I'm so used to it I don't notice.

So today I have a plan. I'm going to Clinique and I'm going to have them show me how to properly draw on my eyebrows. I'll let you know how it goes. If it doesn't work out I'll just go back to being no-eyebrows-girl. And when people ask what happened, I'll tell them there was a terrible fire and I don't wanna talk about it.

A Slippery Slope

Hello. Let's have more fun with pictures! Below is a picture of the last time I skied. It's also the first time.

I mean, I knew I wouldn't be good at it. I was 26 at the time and we all know only 3-year-olds can learn to ski. I'm highly uncoordinated and not particularly fond of layering. But Frank sold me on the idea because he said after we skied I could sit in a hot tub and drink hot cocoa. Or wine. Or better yet, a shot of tequila.

I also knew that we were staying with his brother in Durango--about 30 minutes from the slopes. I was fully aware that we weren't staying at some fancy ski resort with a log cabin and a warm fireplace with easy access to a hot tub from the slopes. But for some reason I kept imagining it that way.

Another false daydream I had was that the bunny slope would be much like a North Texas driveway. I thought perhaps I would try that a little while and then move on to a more challenging hill--like a Central Texas driveway.

But when we got there I saw that no bunny could survive this slope. I took a lesson and at first I seemed to be the star pupil. "Maybe I'm a natural skier!" I thought. But after about an hour one of the two teachers, Liam, had to separate me from the class and help me privately. And no, it's not because he was hitting on me. I'm not that hot. I really just sucked. I was that kid.

I tried skiing for at least an hour with private instructor Liam. I couldn't get off the lift--fell every time. I couldn't make it down the hill--crashed into several other bunny slopers. I hated it. I couldn't wait for the day to be over. And where was my tequila?

But then Frank showed up to watch me. I think he had been skiing on a yellow or purple or whatever they call those other hills. I don't understand their complicated color-coding system.

He waited for me at the bottom of the hill and I started skiing towards him. As usual I started to lose control of my skis but for some reason, I stayed upright. And I think I was turning too. There might have even been some "swoosh, swoosh" noises. I was getting closer and closer to Frank and I yelled for him to get out of the way--Liam and I hadn't gone over stopping yet! But then I was at the bottom of the hill and I just stopped. "Wow!" Frank said, "You learned a lot in one lesson!" I was so thrilled--I had skied down quite a challenging hill all by myself! Then Frank said, "Now we can ride the lift and ski down the hill together."

What? Didn't he see? I had already skied. Done. Check it off the list of "things to do before I die" or at least before I turn 30.

So I didn't ski again. And I don't plan to. You can call me a quitter. You can call me a loser. But I say I'm just someone who quits while I'm ahead. I go out on out a high note. And then I get into the hot tub. But not with Liam.




I don't care if I'm miserable. I still gotta try to look cute.

Take back your dignity. Take back your cart.

Imagine you were an executive at let's say, Kroger, and you and your team were faced with a challenge:

Customers at your stores are too lazy to bring their carts back inside. That means there are grocery carts scattered all over the parking lot. This is even happening at the upscale, more expensive Signature stores! Kroger employees are spending time gathering the carts rather than bagging groceries or swatting flies out of the organic section. You're losing productivity! What do you do?

You probably would have said, "Hey, where's that damn Jason's Deli tray we ordered for this meeting?"

And then you would have said, "I've got it. What if we replace a few of our parking spots with "cart corrals" so that customers don't have to go all the way back into the store? They can just walk a few steps and leave their carts in these designated areas! Surely they're not too lazy to do that!"

Yes, Ms. Kroger Executive, your customers are indeed too lazy. And it's not just at Kroger. It's at Tom Thumb (Randall's for you Austin/Houston readers), Albertson's, H.E.B., Piggly Wiggly (hey, it's a national blog) and Wal-Mart. Poor Wal-Mart. They may just have the laziest shoppers of all.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?? What goes through your head when you unpack your groceries and then just casually push your cart to the side? Do you know the grief you're causing? First of all, it will likely scratch a fellow customer's car (because of course you pushed it just far enough away from your own car). Also, it just makes the parking lot look ghetto. And do you want your grocery store to look ghetto? Then there's the lost productivity we discussed earlier. And to give you a reason that may actually resonate with you: If the grocery store has to hire more people to shepherd the carts, they have to increase their prices.

How do ya like them pricey apples?

So save our grocery store prices! Save our cars! Save our parking lots! Save our humanity! Walk a few extra steps and place your cart nicely in the designated cart corral. Sometimes, when I'm feeling especially saintly, I walk my cart all the way back to the store. Right back up to the elderly greeter. He gets a little confused but that's okay.

And if you don't care about any of my compelling reasons, at least you'll get a little exercise.

Now I'm sure most of my blog readers are good, cart corralling people. But if you're not, I beg you not to confess this in my comments section. I'll have to assume that if you're blasé with your buggies, you're also that person who leaves their trash in the movie theater. And then all the Jason's Deli trays in the world couldn't save our friendship.

Battle of the Call Girls

Ring Ring.

Call girl: Welcome to Medco. I am an automated assistant here to take your call. Please tell me the reason for your call today.

Elsa: What? Just tell you the reason? How am I supposed to say "You sent me back a note saying I can't get reimbursed for my claim because I didn't have the pharmacist sign my claim form but I really did?" Isn't there a list of options? Preferably one that will get me away from you?

CG: I'm sorry. I don't understand. Could you repeat that?

Elsa: Uh...Claim.

CG: Okay, would you like us to mail you a claim form?

Elsa: No.

CG: Would you like us to mail you a brochure of our services?

Elsa: What? NO! (to self: Does anybody EVER want that?)

CG: Would you like us to mail you a list of our pharmacy partners?

Elsa (screaming): NO! N.O.!! Can I just talk to someone please??

CG: Okay, let me just verify your address.

Elsa: NO!! DON'T YOU DARE MAIL ME ANYTHING, CALL GIRL! I JUST WANT MY $20 YOU OWE ME! LET ME TALK TO A HUMAN!! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOOOOOOUUUUUUU!

CG (still irritatingly cheery): I don't understand.

Click. (There would be banging here but you can't slam down cell phones. Sucks, doesn't it?)

_________________________________________________________________

Ring Ring.

Call Girl: This is American Airlines flight information system. To get you up to date on departure and arrival info, I'm going to ask you a few questions. By the way, if you've already used this system, you can say the answer before I finish the question. I don't mind interruptions.

Elsa (to self): I love the FliFo girl. Her voice is so soothing and conversational. Plus, she doesn't mind if I interrupt her!

Call Girl: First, what's the flight #? It's okay to say "I don't know."

Elsa (to self): How awesome. It's okay if I'm totally unprepared and stupid--which I am! (to FliFo girl): I don't know.

Call Girl: Okay, let's find out which flight you want. What's the departure city?

Elsa (to self): She's so sweet. Like a second grade teacher. It's like she's holding my hand through this whole traumatic experience. (to FF girl): Dallas.

Call Girl: Now is that for departure or arrival info?

Elsa: I just love your closed-ended questions, FliFo girl! It's so much better than that Maniac Medco girl who's just like, "So whaddya want?"

Call Girl: I'm sorry. I don't think I understand. Could you repeat that please?

Elsa: That's okay. I didn't really need flight information. I just think you're cool and wanted someone to chat with. Hey, do you like margaritas? With salt or without? If we go to happy hour and you start chatting about flights and I get bored, can I just interrupt you? I love it. You and me are gonna be the best of friends.

Friends are Calling "Yoo-hoo!"

It's that time of year again. Time to start thinking about your holiday letter. Oh, you think it's too soon to start an outline or a rough draft? Well, my procrastinating pal, that is why your letter will have the same fate as roasted chestnuts this holiday season.

Preparation is key. And I should know. My holiday letters are legendary. Well, I've only written two but I think I've got a little cult following. Why just last week Will Fagan told me that he really looks forward to getting my letter every year. Poor guy. I might need to send his a little early to lift his spirits.

So what's so great about my letter and so lame about everyone else's? It's very simple. Mine is written in the first person and it's clearly from me. Many letters aren't sure who their author is. I'll show you some examples:

Dear Friends and Family-

This year Sheila and Mark traveled to Iceland to visit some distant family members. We loved learning their quirky Icelandic traditions. Mark is still working on turning our garage into a boxing ring (will he ever finish?!! Just kidding, honey) and I'm continuing to scrapbook. Mark and Sheila also dance in a German folk group on the weekends.

Who's writing this letter? Pick a voice and stick with it. Although first person is preferable. I think it's quite spooky when it's all in third person:

Dear Loved Ones-

A soft sheet of snow lays patiently on Debra and Donnie's house. Donnie shovels it every morning so he can get to his new job as District Manager over all the Marble Slab Creameries in Southwest Ohio. Debra is also enjoying Donnie's promotion as it means she can focus on her dream of being a Pampered Chef consultant and stay at home with daughter Kailee Grace.

Is there some omnipotent perv peeping in on their activities all year long? It's okay if the letter is from one of you. In fact, it's better. Oh, and that was also an example of too much nature in a holiday letter. We don't care about your snow, your leaves that change color or how the air smells. I mean, the paper's not scratch-and-sniff, is it?

Now I don't personally own a dog or a cat so I've never understood the temptation to have a non-human pen my holiday letter. But some people go for that. That's cool but just remember: you're not the first person to think of this idea and you should try to be clear from the beginning that it's from Miss Mittens. Or Bailey. Or the Rileys. Some people like to put paw prints all over the letter. Got any better ideas?

But back to the basics: If you can stick with the first person throughout your letter, you're halfway there. Now all you need is a good-looking photo and some exciting things to talk about. You're on your own with that.

Ah, Christmas is in the air. Can't you just smell it?

I now pronounce thee husband and...husband?

Gay marriage. What a controversial issue for writinggal to cover. We go from discussing the hotness of Huey Lewis to a hot political topic. You just never know what you're going to get at writinggal's blog. I'm like a box of those darn chocolates. Mmmm....chocolate...

Okay, but back to the issue. California lawmakers have approved a bill allowing same-sex marriages. Now they're just waiting to see what the Terminator will do. That made me think of a theory of mine that I've shared with many people and it's sweeping the nation. Well, it's just sweeping the few people I've told about it but now that it's practically in print, it will surely sweep my blog audience.

I call it the "11 point system." It's a device, really, to help you determine if a guy you're dating (or your friend is dating) is gay--not that there's anything wrong with that. Only time I'll say it. Promise. Here's how it started:

A friend of mine in college was dating a guy who was clearly gay. Except it wasn't clear to her or even to him. So a few of us sat down with her and made our case:

He loves to sing.
He only has female friends.
He loves to shop.
He's obsessed with his hair.
He's got more clothes than you.
He takes longer to get ready than you.
He thinks driving around and looking at houses is fun.
He gets jealous of his female friends because they're so pretty. They make him feel ugly.
His voice sounds feminine.
He's very interested in moving to San Francisco.
He'd rather help you with your make-up than make-out.

We were keeping count and when we got to #11 I said, "Now, come on. Do we need to go on? That's ELEVEN points. I say, once you have eleven, that's a pretty fair assumption."

So if you were just reading through the list I'm sure you were thinking, "But my boyfriend loves to sing! My boyfriend has always liked San Francisco! Is he gay?" No. That's only two points. See, most guys (and even girls) have a few points. Take Frank, for instance: He's not into a lot of boyish activities like sports, hunting or fixing cars. And my friend Scott Womack. He has a lot of female friends. And so what if he chooses a swirl margarita over a beer? He doesn't have nine more points so he's still in the straight-zone. And hey, I actually BOUGHT the Brooke Burke calendar to hang on my wall. Totally have a girl crush on her. But I don't have eleven girl crushes. Well, maybe I do but that's still one point, don't you think?

When I explain the system I also get a lot of, "So what ARE the eleven points?" No, no. There isn't a pre-determined list. This isn't a bitch hunt. There are probably hundreds of qualities out there. You just have to determine if you or the potentially gay person have eleven. That's the magic number.

And my results are full-proof. My friend's college boyfriend who inspired the system has since come out. Good for him. He's now able to get $300 hair cuts without having to worry about what some girlfriend (or her sorority sisters) will say. I hear his hair is fabulous by the way.

So if you've read this and determined that you or your loved one may have eleven points, that's cool. You may soon have a lot more options: the Disney wedding, the Napa wedding or even the Alcatraz wedding.

Oh, and just like a good politician I somehow distracted you and avoided saying what I think about gay marriage. Well, let me see. We heteros don't seem to be getting it right with our divorce rate at 50%. So why not give someone else a shot at it? I'll just leave it up to the Terminator (who has at least eight points himself). If it's okay with you, Arnie, it's okay with me.

Did you have a good Memorial Day?

I actually know that yesterday was Labor Day but I'm one of the few. I'm amazed at how many people confuse Memorial Day and Labor Day. Even my own husband who has more degrees on the wall than me said yesterday, "Oh, I guess Costco is closed because of Memorial Day." Labor Day, you idiot, LABOR DAY!!

Sure, they're both Monday holidays. They're both observed during hot months. They both call for burgers, beer and extra police enforcement on the highways. But do you know why I'm able to keep them straight? Because I've been through this 29 times! To be fair, Frank was born after Memorial Day '77 so he's only seen 28 of those.

Here's a little trick to help you keep it straight: Memorial = May (see that nice alliteration of the M's?) Labor = September (it practically rhymes).

But why should you even try to distinguish between the two besides the fact that it annoys me? Because we celebrate them for very different reasons: Memorial Day is to honor lost veterans and Labor Day is to honor workers.

Here's the scoop:
Memorial Day used to be called "Decoration Day" (but don't start thinking it falls in December). Some women in the South went around decorating graves before the end of the Civil War. Anyway, we observe the day now as a tribute to those who died in war--any war. But the Memorial Day PR team (if that exists), needs to do a better job of getting the word out. Some people think it's to honor all dead people (and we all know that's Groundhog Day). But my family in North Carolina is perhaps the most confused. We use Memorial Day as an excuse for a pig pickin'. We eat some pig, some deviled eggs, all kinds of desserts and get snockered. At least we put up an American flag (if we're not too snockered).


The Labor unions started the whole concept of Labor Day. Why the first Monday in September? Because it was halfway between Independence Day (you know when that is, right?) and Thanksgiving. It was President Grover Cleveland who signed a law designating the first Monday in September as Labor Day nationwide. Funny because Cleveland wasn't a fan of labor unions. But you know those politicians.

Just because only 14% of workers are part of labor unions today doesn't mean people don't labor just as hard. You're just stuck in cubes instead of coal mines, that's all. Still a good reason to have too many Natty Lights.

Let's clear up one more thing about Labor Day. On your calendar it will say "Labor Day" in May also. But next to it in parenthesis it says "UK." Ah! I actually knew someone (who may or may not be a blog reader) who planned a vacation because she thought we had the day off from work. I know, we can't help everybody.

Hopefully I've helped you to understand the two holidays and to look smart at parties. Oh, and the one we had yesterday also means you shouldn't be wearing those white pants today. Better go change.

Now, could someone please explain Daylight Savings Time to me?

Why Huey Lewis and the News Rock

You know that Huey Lewis plays a mean harmonica. And you also know that he's pretty cute. But did you know that his real name is Hugh Anthony Cregg III and that he called himself "Huey Louie" after Donald Duck's nephews and that evolved into Huey Lewis? And that the band's original name was "Huey Lewis and the American Express?"

Did you also know that he's brilliant? Yep, he scored a perfect 800 on his Math SATs. And that was before all this scoring inflation:

"I can't even spell SAT but I got a 1400!"
"Really?"
"Yeah, we get 1300 points for using a #2 pencil."

Huey went to Cornell and majored in Engineering. But in typical rock star fashion he dropped out and that's when he met the news. And that, my friends, is when Huey Lewis and the News began to rock.

In 1984 Huey Lewis and the News (or HLN as fans call them) were like the Monkees in the '60's, like the Backstreet Boys of the 90's. And I should know. I was there. Some of you younger blog readers (sis-in-law Julie and special needs friend Liz) were barely alive when we would turn our radio dials to a station playing "the Heart of Rock and Roll" and then turn it again and hear them playing "If this is it." Okay, I was only seven but I remember it very clearly. I even remember the video for "If this is it" with the lady in the white one piece. Or was that "Happy to be Stuck with you?" Maybe it's not so clear.

But what is clear is that HLN kept going in 1985 with the "Power of Love." This little diddy was featured in Back to the Future and got HLN an Oscar nomination, thank you very much. And they didn't stop in 1986, belting out everybody's favorite "Hip to be Square." And then in 1987...okay, they did kinda fade out by then but we've kept them alive in a couple of ways:

--Frank and his friend Dave have these matching lime green koozies that we always take when we go tubing. They say "Budweiser Huey Lewis and the News Hard at Play." What? That album is from 1991. I thought it was a collectable from 1984! There goes my meal ticket.

--Huey paired up with Gwyneth Paltrow in 2000 for the movie "Duets." Movie was kinda lame but I love the song "Cruisin'" that Gwen and Huey sing. I mean it doesn't rock obviously because it's slow and it's News-less but still...

HLN may be a bunch of old guys who would probably be willing to play at your wedding or bah mitzvah but all I know is when I hear "Heart of Rock and Roll," I totally turn it up and dance in my car. I think HLN really sums it up best: Now the old boy may be barely breathing,
but the heart of rock and roll, the heart of rock and roll is still beating.

______________________________________________________________

Let Huey Lewis and the News rock your next event (or maybe he could just help your kid with the SATs)
http://www.grabow.biz/Contemporary/HueyLewisTheNews.htm

A picture's worth about 300 words

I figured out how to post pictures to my blog and as you can see, I'm really excited about it. I thought that every now and then (or as long as I'm still hyped about it), I could post a picture and tell you the story behind it.

So please take a look at the picture below. No, it's not a picture of me trying to use my professional dancing skills to help out at a camp for special needs children. This is just me (an amateur dancer, believe it or not) and my friend, Liz (who has no special needs--well, none that could get her into camp).

When Liz and I worked together we interviewed a girl for a position at our ad agency. The girl diligently sent an email thank-you note to us the following day. Not only did she send the exact same note to both of us and our HR person (duh, like we're not going to show them to each other), she wrote a description of her work ethic that is now legendary:

In my previous experience I've had to juggle many balls while hopping on one foot. And I've learned to sweat with a smile while juggling those balls.

Little did she know that she launched the dance of the year. And it's not an easy thing to do. You have to hop on one foot (and spin around for good measure), juggle balls in the air, wipe the sweat off your body and on top of all that--SMILE! Go ahead, try it at home or in your place of business. And once you get it down, you'll want to do it at all the clubs too. This thing is gonna be bigger than the Macarana!

We're calling it "The Working Girl." I can't promise that it will get you the job you want or even a promotion. But if you do it in public, it will get you noticed...and possibly a free ticket to camp.




Don't forget to sweat under your armpits too!