blaugra

BlogHer

I'm going to BlogHer.

I can't wait to meet blogger girls. I love Chicago. I can't wait to party in Chicago. 

And I'm really looking forward to getting inspired to reinvent this space.

Movin' Out

My parents bought a house. They are moving from the home where I grew up.  That house has become my Suburban Horrorshow. 

I listen to each of my parents spill their guts to me about the other, separately.  "Your mother really wants to move."  "Your father is really pushing me to move."  "Your mother insisted we buy a new house."  "Your father needs a low-maintenance property."  They're both doing it for each other.  Is it like Gift of the Magi, though?  No, not really.  More like the blame game.

Along with deciding what to do with the piano, I'm also in on the decisions of what to do with the towels in the poolhouse.  Which towels do I want?  You'd better pick out the towels you want now.  And:

Mom:  What about these gardening books? 

Me:   Ummm.... I don't know.

Mom:  Well, if you don't want them, I'll give them to a friend.  I want you to have first dibs. I don't want you just giving them away, though.

Me:  Then give them to your friend.

Mom:  What?!  Why? They're really nice!

Me:  Yeah, but, I don't need any more gardening books. 

Mom:  *sigh* OK.

Dad:  What's this stack of books doing here?

Mom:  I asked HER if she wanted them, and she said 'no.'

Me:  Hi, I'm standing right here.

Mom: How about the bocce set? 

Me:  Sure. I'll take the bocce set. 

Dad:  How about that plastic white heron stuck in the flower bed?  We're taking that with us, right?

Mom:  No!  I'm not taking that stupid thing!

Me:  Why not? I thought you loved it.

Mom: They won't let us do that in the new place, too many rules.

Me: I'm sure if you join the owner's association you can change the rules.

Mom: I don't want it.  We'll just leave it here.

Dad:  What?  My heron?  Who will take care of it?  WHO WILL TAKE CARE OF THIS PLACE?

Me:  Ummmmm...you need to let go. 

Mom:  Stop it!  It's hard for HER too!  She's going to have a hard time with us moving!

Me:  No, I won't.

Mom:  No?

Me: It's just a box full of stuff. I'm ready for you to move to a new box with stuff in it. 

My mom is distressed.  She told me to stop talking.  Dad told me that I don't understand how they feel. I rolled my eyes.

Why is it that parents teach you everything they know, and then get pissed off when you use the skills and knowledge they have taught you?

But then later I thought, if Mom was a "homemaker" for most of her life, and I'm telling her that this old home is just a box of stuff, was she insulted?   Is she defined by the house, the flower beds, the custom-matched drapery in each room?   I asked her, "Do you think this house defines you?  Because it doesn't.  You are much more than a house." 

She waved me away and wiped her eyes.

Pre-flight checklist

It is the eve of the opening of the 6th annual SouthSide Film Festival.  Opening night  - of anything - is always exciting. 

When I worked at a theatre, opening nights were full of stress-eating and over-primping and lots of up-to-the-final-moment OCD-like double checking everything and then fretting that nobody would come and then fretting that we would have to turn people away.  The latter rarely happened.  Post-performance, I'd come down from the adrenaline shot at a bar with a few shots of vodka. 

This being the 6th festival, we all have the routine down.  I'm doing little more than being a liaison this year, which is a big step forward for me, me who used to plan parties and run mini-film series and facilitate press-filmmaker interactions and manage volunteers. I'm actually thinking I might be able to enjoy myself.

But because a festival doesn't always go as planned, I also have to plan accordingly for my personal comfort (I love that phrase- personal comfort.)

Here's my pre-opening checklist:

• Wash festival t-shirt.  I got an XXL this year thinking I could cinch it at the waist and wear it as a dress with leggings but...it's a small XXL.  Really, it is.  I'm not just bigger than I was last year. I swear.
• Instead of wearing a t-shirt dress, I'm wearing a cute black dress from Target.  Cut tags off of dress.

• Get forearms waxed for the first time. Check. At 41, I have developed gorilla arms and I like to feel slightly feminine during the festival to counteract the sweaty frizzy oily mess I usually turn into by the end of the week, and I can add to that description, "with arm stubble."  And bruises from the poor waxer.  I know, guys, you didn't need to know that.

• Drive to mom's house to pick up vintage beaded handbag of Grandma's to wear to opening night because it matches my shoes and I also feel like being slightly vintage due to the feature film being resurrected from 1927.  Reassure my mother the volunteer that everything will be wonderful.  Make a personalized list of movies and times for my dad, who says, "I like any films, as long as they're really, really good." And if he doesn't like the films I recommend, then I get an earful of film criticism from him.

• Stop by opening night caterer's house and look into the pot of simmering pineapple chutney on the stove that smells absolutely delish.

• Eat fried chicken and watermelon. This usually isn't the plan, in fact, I don't know why I had a sudden craving for it tonite.  But anyway, I have leftover melon and chicken for my pre-party snack so I don't drink on an empty stomach.

• Resolve not to drink at opening night party because the first few years I did so and then fell asleep in the theatre and/or said something stupid to our sponsors.

• Make sure my chosen footwear is appropriate for walking in a bagpipe-led procession, reminding myself that for the past 5 years, my opening-night-strutting-footwear which has ranged from sparkly flip-flops to high-wedged red vampy shoes has, without fail, caused me to have bloody stumps for feet. 

• Pack a bag with extra necessities in case I do happen to drink and then pass out somewhere, such as spare undies, Gatorade, toothbrush, ibuprofen, pillow and deoderant.  Ya never know.

• Use a Crest Strip. That is what ballroom dancers do just before they hit the floor.  The local media will be at the party taking photos and filming so if I happen to be caught on camera, I will nervously laugh and say something stupid, but at least my teeth will be gleaming white.

• Remind myself that I look and feel better than when I started going to all these theatre and film opening nights!  The years have flown but I'm feeling fine these days.  So let's roll with it.

Sesame Balls

I was hanging out at my friend Nittany's place.  Nittany's wife, the Lioness, had brought Chinese buffet food home for Nittany and their cub.  I was about to leave for my own Friday night dinner date when Nittany ran to one of the containers and grabbed a sesame ball.  "Oh my GOD, I love these!!!" He graciously, enthusiastically offered me one.

This other time a few months ago, I tried a sesame ball. It had the texture of one of those foamy squeezy stress balls, and a taste that sickened me.  I had expected like a savory fritter or something but I can't even describe the taste.  I liked sesame cookies, and sesame bagels, and sesame tahini, and I had heard so many wonderful reviews of the sesame ball that I popped it in my mouth whole. I instantly regretted it, doing the scrunch-up-the-face, try-not-to-gag thing that I also did when I tried to eat Gigantor, the raw oyster as big as my hand.

So when Nittany offered me the sesame ball, I politely declined.  No, wait, I wasn't polite.  I scrunched up my face and said, "Bleecch! No thank you!"

"WHAT is your problem?!  These things are DELICIOUS!"

"No, no, no they're not."

"How can you not like sesame balls?"

"Look," I said, "stop pushing them on me.  I like sesame, I like balls, but I don't like the two together."

We were both speechless for a minute.  "I gotta go.  Bye!"  I left.

the Recluse

Am I still allowed to go to BlogHer if I've taken a long hiatus from blogging?

(actually it's probably the best thing to do)

OK, back to my acupuncturist now!

Revitalize!

I'm so busy but so bored with what's keeping me busy.  So, step one in the revitalize-my-vitality plan is to first clean house, gradually.  That includes moving unnecessary shit out of my brain.

Step two toward revitalization is to eliminate unnecessary pain and suffering.  That's on a postcard I'm holding right now for an Acupuncture and Oriental Medicine service.  I'm going to call her and say, "I want to eliminate unnecessary pain and suffering please."

Step three toward revitalized vitality is to stop falling on my ass.  I fell on my ass this weekend by stupidly standing on a stadium seat and slipping off so I jammed the seat-back into my va-jay-jay and twisted my ankle and made half of my calf a pretty green bruisey color.  This kind of falling on my ass happens all the time and holds me back from being vital.

I have no idea what I'm talking about, but, I have to stop now and call this acupuncturist.

Have you ever had acupuncture? 

I was not born down by the river

Although Kiss is still being sewn into the same costumes to go on tour, the world is changing, my friends. 

A new Idol has been crowned.  There's a shiny big new casino down the street from me.  I can't keep up with Facebook anymore.  Nothing works quickly enough for me. I'm a Twitterholic. That's not even fast enough, though.  Patrick Swayze is dead.  No, he's not.  Yes he is.  No, it's a rumor.  Damn you, Twitter.  He's aliiiiiiiiive.  You know who I can't stand?  Celebrity-twitterers who blather on but don't follow anyone except other celebrity-twitterers.  Unfollow!   How many social media experts does the world need?  

I lay in bed at night, fantasizing before I fall asleep.....  awww yeah.  I fantasize about hiring a company to come to my house and take away allllll my junk.  All I need are a few pieces of furniture, kitchen stuff, clothes and a washing machine for them - what's with all this other crap that just orbits my life all the time?   When my fantasies have changed from career aspirations or Hawaiian vacations or Adam Lambert, to calling 1-800-Got-Junk, then I'd say that's a big neon sign pointing to the need for personal change, wouldn't you?

So here's the thing with the casino.  Now, I love Vegas, but I've only been there twice and both times were for spectacular wedding spectacle.  And Atlantic City, that's where I stop by on my way down the shore.  Both of these places are like little planets unto themselves.  Places where I can get drunk and act a foo and see super weird things and people and nobody knows me, then I can return to life on earth. Last night I prepared for the preview-to-opening-the-new-Sands by styling my hair like Chrissie Snow and donning a top that reminded me of Peggy Bundy, then I went to the slots parlor. I was all nervous with excitement after all the years of witnessing public battles over the land use.  The band was playing "Bad Girls," badly, really, really loudly.  I drank a few g&t's.  I glimpsed Emeril Lagasse in his new restaurant's kitchen, plating food while wiping the sweat from his forehead (using the same hand.) Then I saw dozens of people I knew, not just socially but also professionally.  I wouldn't normally dress up as a tacky sitcom character, drink, gamble, and then go talk to these professional acquaintances, and yet, there I was.   My interplanetary escape hatch is becoming my reality. 

I think I just hit my tipping point, or is that a camel with a broken back walking toward me? 

Sing it for me Madam:

a2 fin @ Yahoo! Video

Train off the track

Do you work in a restaurant?  God bless ya.  Yesterday at the coffeeshop/deli I spent hours making sandwiches and lattes for customers in town for the local university's graduation festivities.  With each passing hour my hair frizzed even more and my headache grew larger. It was probably the busiest day I've worked there in a while, consisting of me uttering the following:

• I can't BANTER while making a SANDWICH I'll get it all wrong and then that dad from Long Island will be all pissy on the day his daughter is graduating!
• Where's the FUCKING soy milk!?  Gawddammit shit hell motherfucker!  Oh.  Here it is. Never mind.
• Do you hear bagpipes?  I hear bagpipes.  WHAT THE FUCK!?
• I'm parched.  I'm so very thirsty.  I have no time to hydrate PIGFUCKERS!

And one of my favorite conversations with my co-worker:

Me, making a sandwich:  "Ham and swiss on bread - what?  No spread?  No mustard?  Who the hell ordered this lameass sandwich?"  (yes, I do judge you based on your sandwich choice.)

Co-worker, who took the order, whispers: "It's for 'grandma.' "

Me (whispering):  "Grandma?  Well, I guarantee you grandma's gonna want something to put on her bread.  I'll bet on French's yellow mustard."

Co-worker serves grandma the sandwich and comes back to the counter, reaching for the French's yellow mustard.  "Yeah, you're right.  Grandma wants yellow mustard."

This is all a preamble to my adventure of the evening, wherein I drag Salty D. to the ER. 

I get home, sit down, and I have a bastard behind the eyes headache that won't go away.  Salty D. looks at his leg and kind of freaks at the sight of some weird dot thing on his skin.  So I look at it and go online and it looks to match the photos of tick bites or a cancerous lesion.  Either way, I didn't want him to let it go untreated and I wasn't about to try to remove a tick on him, so I calmly said, "I'm taking you to the ER I think it's a tick."  Or cancer.  I didn't say the cancer part.

"Can we have dinner first?"  D. asks.  "No!" I demand, "We have to get it taken care of right away!  You have all the tick bite symptoms!"  or it could be the cancer.

THREE HOURS LATER and we learn it's not a tick, it's not cancer, it's just a weird inexplicable blister thing.  It's 10:00, we haven't eaten dinner, but I've managed to read my entire backlog of magazines which I can then leave in the ER's waiting room.  I'm sure the suffering people will appreciate new material.

So we go to a diner.  D. orders a sandwich - corned beef, with French's yellow mustard. I decide not to judge him on his sandwich choice.  He says what he always does when he orders corned beef at a Pennsylvania diner, "I keep forgetting that it's not going to be real corned beef."

I got a huge piece of chocolate Oreo cake to go and we headed home, talking in the car.

D:  "At least we spent some quality time together."

Me: "Yeah, and apparently I'm not cheap - that averaged out to about $50 an hour!" Gawdammed co-pay.

D:  "You thought it was a tick?"

Me: "It looked like the photos!  It looked like that or....CANCER!"

D:  "You thought it was cancer?  Awww...you DO care!"

Me: "It looked like the photos of Squalor!   The Basil Squalor Melon Carson Gina!"

D:  "What?!"

Me: "You know, the Basil Squalls Carcinogen...  oh whatever."

Clearly dementia is settling in early.

Too much pork for just one fork!

Poor Salty D.  He's in bed with the swine flu.  Nah, I think it's just a cold. But it got me thinking, what am I gonna do with this chunk of pork tenderloin I have to cook up?

Peachy Pork Picante

I grabbed this recipe from somewhere who knows- but I think it was credited to a Four Ingredient Recipe cookbook or site. 

I had a jar of Peach Velvet jam in the pantry, a souvenir from one of my mother's trips down south.  What the hell do I do with it?  So this recipe was perfect:

1. Pork cubes (about 1 pound), covered with
2. a packet of magical mystery taco seasoning, and

3. browned in a frying pan,

4. then mixed with a small jar of peach preserves and a cup or more of salsa.

Simmer for 10.  Really good.

Then I scoured the refrigerator and pantry for more things to throw at the other pound of pork. I came up with:

• a tiny little Barbie-sized bag of green chile seasoning (a souvenir from my parents' most recent trip to New Mexico)
• the last of a bag of frozen chopped onions which I bought by mistake, thinking they were peppers or peas, WTF
• a can of Ro-Tel diced tomatoes with green chiles
• an extra shmear of taco seasoning from above recipe
• a can of pink beans.  Frijoles Rosadas.  Sounds so pretty.
• a half-bottle of Bloody Mary mix, "Bold & Spicy" left in fridge after last month's visit from a bloody-mary-loving friend who apparently drank a few of them.

I think the Bloody Mary mixer was the key ingredient, for there's a touch of molasses in it to give the porky concoction a bit of sweetness.

This cooking was more fun than watching American Idol, even though I'm happy with the outcome.

Don't read this if you are a mom and/or sentimental about motherhood and especially if you are my mother.

I told you not to read this!

I have to bitch about Mother's Day. 

In my mind, now, every day is a day to be nice to mommies.  My mom has had one of the toughest jobs on earth.  I give her gifts spontaneously when I feel like it.  We hang out.  We don't always see eye-to-eye but I think we appreciate each other. 

And I hate - HATE - the Mother's Day pressure and guilt. 

Fully understanding that moms love the gifts from kids and the words of appreciation and being told by tollbooth workers on the highways (because they still don't have EZ Pass) to have a lovely mother's day.  I get that.  But when did Mother's Day become a major holiday?  If I have to choose between spending time with my parents on Easter or Christmas or Mother's Day - it has to be Mother's Day.  And it's really hard when a couple has two senior citizen mothers to please.  Imagine if I were a mother too - then it would get really complicated.  How do you do it?

I have come to the conclusion that whatever it is that I do for mother's day is never good enough.

My mom decided to go away for the weekend to the beach. So before she left last week, I gave her a gift. She loved it.  I think.  I gave her a big hug (meaning, I embraced her fully and she patted me on the back twice and pushed me away) and said, "I'll talk to you when you get back on Sunday night!"  She said, "Oh, I wish I weren't going to be away, I'm going to miss everything."

I'm like, what are you going to miss?

She said, "Mother's Day!"

Well, I offered, we'll go have lunch together sometime this week after you get back. 

Is she available for lunch this week ?  nooooooo.  So I'm lunching with my dad.

After she returned home from the shore, she and my dad went to a place to get takeout food.  But she didn't want takeout on MOTHER'S DAY.  So my dad said, "Do you want to go out instead?"  She said "NO. It's MOTHER'S DAY and you need reservations!"  So my dad was like, um, help me out here, what is it you want to eat?  Because that's all he really cared about.  He was hungry.

Meanwhile, I didn't expect them to be home before dinnertime. Did they call ?  Nope.

Forget what's logical here.  I will never be able to make this up to her.  EVER.

P.S.  Oh, and since my mom was out of town, we spent time with Salty D's mom.  We brought amazing Italian pastries and champagne to brunch.  Champagne was served, but not our bottle.  Ours remained in the cooler. The champagne that was popped open was apparently better than what we brought.  How is Moet dissed as if it were swill?   It's real French champagne, not sparkling domestic white wine (which I like anyway but I'm just clarifying.) 

Sheesh.