If someone would have told me five years ago that Ken would be bringing a date to our child's elementary school graduation ceremony, I would not have believed them.
It was a very big week at work for me, so i hadn't made many plans for J's sixth grade graduation other than to be there on time. It was on a Wednesday evening in late May, a day which the boys are normally with their father. That made it easy for me to just show up, straight from work, after a challenging day of technical processes that just didn't work right. It was as if the mercury retrograde really did effect these things.
The graduation started promptly at 6:30 pm and I of course arrived at 6:35 pm. The problem with that isn't so much that you missed the beginning, it's that everyone is already seated and aware of your presence.
Once, me and Traci went down to the Taft Theatre to see Cats, and Roger Grooms, whom is a local media critic, was sitting in our third row, center, seats. As we stood in the aisle, trying to make him get out of our seats, the show started. If you've seen Cats, you know that it starts with the cats entering for all entrances in the theater, through the audience, to the stage. Therefore, Traci and I became part of the show, and the entire audience was acutely aware of our existence, and that's just ugly. I hate Roger Grooms.
Then there was the time during the Nutcracker at Music Hall that I had to get up in the middle of "The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies", muttering 'excuse me, excuse me' from our second row seats because if I held it any longer I was going to faint. I hate pre-show champagne. I could go on, but I think you get my phobia.
Anyqueenoftangent, I'm very sensitive about walking into anywhere late. As soon as I got into the gym, where the ceremony was held, I saw that there was nowhere to sit, neither in the bleachers or on the floor. Next, I noticed that Ken was sitting with one of the J's up in the bleachers, along with the live in girlfriend, her daughters, who are the same age as the two J's, along with Kens parents, and a woman that looked suspiciously like Ken's girlfriends mom (the mom being a part I may have created in my head). They were like the Brady Brunch, and there I was, old and worn out, with bad feet and nowhere to sit.
I tried to find a place to stand on the floor inconspicuously, and it just wasn't happening. It seemed like (granted, it may have all been in my head which is nine-tenths of reality as far as I'm concerned) their eyes were on me for the next hour. I felt like a bug in a pink skirt.
I was so self-conscious that when they called J's name I tried to hoot and holler for him, which is just what I do at these things, and it came out sounding just like the the scream that killed Howard Dean's run for the presidency. No, it was worse than Howard Dean, it was horrendous!
Then, I'm standing there, and I get to thinking about how J had just been in kindergarten yesterday and our hopes and dreams where all so different then, but then again, maybe they hadn't changed so much after all. These thoughts, so romantic and simple, are often not the best things for me to ponder at such events as this, and, oh lord, there came the tears, and after a minute, they were too many for my bare hands to absorb. I said "girl, you've got to breath". and pulled myself together.
Then it was over and the graduates came walking down the aisle in the center of the gym, right where I was standing. When J saw me, he lit up. I hugged him as long and as tight as you can an eleven year old boy in front of his peers.
I took his boudinar for my keep sake box, hugged him again, and told him that I was so proud of him, and that I was going to get out of there and let him be with his dad. Then, before I boo-hoo'd some more, I slipped out through a back door that couldn't have been placed in a more dramatically strategic location if I had planned it, into the night, and in my head I was Mildred Pearce.
Sometimes,things are so painful, I'm in awe of my ability to stomach it, and it almost knocks the wind out of me. Then I spend a week or two looking for the humor, and, damn, I always find it. So, there you have it.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Andy aka Movie Boy
Some of the most glamorous things that have happened in my life were when I was with my good friend Laura B. She worked as a scenic artist on the movie sets that began springing up in the Tri-State area in the mid-eighties.
One of the movies that filmed here was an exact remake of "Pretty in Pink" with all the same actors and what seemed like an identical script. It was called "Wild Horses" and filmed in Northern Kentucky, and in the Clifton area of Cincinnati. Both movies starred eighties movie princess Molly Ringwald and, shit, I'm having trouble remembering his name. He always reminded me of Perry Como without the singing...just the dull, no, not John Cryer...oh yeah, ......poo, let me google it.....got it! Andrew McCarthy, and my inability to remember his name pretty much sums up his screen presence.
Anythathurtmybrain, Laura would always take me as her date to work parties if she didn't have a boyfriend at the moment. This particular party was a pre-production party for "Wild Horses" at this restaurant in Northern Kentucky. We had a terrible time finding the place, because neither Laura nor myself knew nothing about no Northern Kentucky.
Since I was always in doubt of what to wear to these functions, I just always wore black. One of my few fashion tips: when in doubt, wear black. We arrived fashionably late, as we always did, not because we were fashionable, more like irresponsible.
When we got there, it was like another planet, Planet Hollywood actually. Lot's of beautiful people, including the stars of the movie. The only thing I remember about them was chatting with Anne Archer, who I don't think was even in the movie. For some reason, I got the impression that she was having a romantic affair with Perry, uh, I mean, Andrew.
Laura, with me in tow, headed straight for all the set technicians. They consisted of light people, scenic artists, set builders, and the like. It was actually a very cliquish group looking back on it. Most of them were dudes, and Laura introduced me to all of them as they sat around a table in a back corner. Last, but certainly not least, she introduced me to Andy.
Andy was from Chicago, living in town for the duration of the movie shoot. He was very friendly and I could tell he was interested in me, very interested. Unfortunately, I would rather die than be some out-of-town guys local squeeze, no matter how nice and handsome, so I pretty much ignored him. He spent the evening trying to impress me and win me over but didn't get very far.
A couple of days after the party, Laura called and said that Andy was still asking about me. It turns out that he doesn't just work for the set company, he owns it. He was Laura's boss, which makes no difference to the story, but I thought I would mention it. At any rate, she asked if she could give him my phone number. After getting three yes's and a no on my pre-acknowledge your existence dating quiz, (Do you have a job, Do you own a car?, Do you have your own place to live?, and, Are you married?) I agreed.
The next day, Andy started his campaign for my affection. He called and asked me to dinner. It actually turned out to be a great date. We went to Dee Felice, had dinner and listened to the jazz band. I ordered Jambalaya and remember being surprised by how spicy it was. Hanging out with Andy was really fun because he had great stories. He had worked with Paul Newman on "The Color of Money" and a bunch of other stuff that I can't remember. To this day, I still look for his name in movie credits under "construction coordinator".
At the time, I was living in Clifton in my little Mary Richards apartment, across the hall from Patrick. Andy would show up at my little ghetto apartment, and just looked so out of place in it. He was very wealthy, and wasn't used to such living conditions. It was summertime, and it was really hot, and my third floor walk up had no air conditioning. The TV had a hanger for an antennae, and you had to use a pair of pliers to change the channel. I loved every bit of it because it was all mine, bought, earned and delivered.
The other Laura, Laura C. had moved to Atlanta earlier in the year. She kept inviting me to visit and I could never afford to do it. I must of mentioned it to Andy, because the next time we were at dinner, he casually slid a thick wad of cash across the table. I, of course, was highly insulted.
After recovering from me almost slapping the shit out of him, Andy went on to explain that the money meant absolutely nothing to him, and so much more to me, why couldn't he give it to me. He said that his per Diem for the movie was more than I made in a week, and he wanted to be good to me. For the first time in my life, I said to myself "fuck this shit, I'm taking the cash". The next thing I knew, I was on my way to see Laura C. for a week.
When I got back, Andy was waiting for me. The movie was filming a scene at the bar down the street from my apartment. He wanted me to come and hang around, which I was weary of, because I felt like he wanted to parade me around for all his friends. So after much convincing, we went down to the bar, hung out in the movie trailers, where I drank way too much, mostly because I felt uncomfortable. We came back to my apartment, where Andy tucked me in, and left for the night.
The next morning, I had a hang-over like none I've ever had, except for the one I got in Cancun drinking too much tequila with Laura C. Once again, a whole other post. Anyway, on this particular early afternoon, I was sick as a dog. Afternoon turned in to evening and I was still sick. Andy called and wanted to go out, and I told him I was far too busy throwing up to do any such thing.
Two hours later, there was a knock at my door. When I opened the door, there was Andy with a dozen red roses, Gatorade, and a 32 inch color television. I still have the petals from the roses in a mason jar to this day. It was like I was dating the "Wheel-of-Fortune". He set up the new television, handed me the remote, and went into the kitchen and started making me chicken soup.
His gifts weren't just extravagant, they were also very thoughtful and sentimental. When I ruined my favorite pink sweater by spilling printer ink on it at work, a cashmere sweater would take it's place. At one point, after noticing I never wore much jewelry, he gave me an emerald and diamond necklace. I drew the line on that one, and wouldn't accept it, because I knew I didn't feel the same way about him that he felt about me. There would be other gifts I wouldn't accept, like a car because I didn't own one, and a better apartment.
At Christmas time, he gave me a silver key chain with a silver heart on it from Tiffany's. He had them engrave "always my love, Andy" on the back of the heart. I still suspect my ex-husband of throwing it away because, years later, my keys, that had been on the counter, mysteriously disappeared never to be seen again.
After we had been seeing each other for four or five months, the movie wrapped and Andy headed back to Chicago and on to the next movie. He still visited me on the weekends, either flying me there or him coming here. It's not that hard to live in different cities if you have money.
I know that he was very sincere, and probably would have changed my life completely, but here's the thing. Have you noticed that the entire post has been about material things as opposed to how much I loved him? Well, I noticed that too, and that really bothered me. I argued with myself that people love people for different reasons and theirs nothing wrong with that. Andy was a handsome, talented, smart and funny man, and I should have loved him. But I just didn't, who knows why? Maybe not having to struggle in life seemed like cheating to me.
Andy and I still chat with each other from time to time. I think he likes to check periodically to see if I've changed my mind. His birthday is in the middle of April, so he's on my mind this time of year, so it was a good time to tell you about him. Ahhh, April, taxes, cherry blossoms, and Andy.
One of the movies that filmed here was an exact remake of "Pretty in Pink" with all the same actors and what seemed like an identical script. It was called "Wild Horses" and filmed in Northern Kentucky, and in the Clifton area of Cincinnati. Both movies starred eighties movie princess Molly Ringwald and, shit, I'm having trouble remembering his name. He always reminded me of Perry Como without the singing...just the dull, no, not John Cryer...oh yeah, ......poo, let me google it.....got it! Andrew McCarthy, and my inability to remember his name pretty much sums up his screen presence.
Anythathurtmybrain, Laura would always take me as her date to work parties if she didn't have a boyfriend at the moment. This particular party was a pre-production party for "Wild Horses" at this restaurant in Northern Kentucky. We had a terrible time finding the place, because neither Laura nor myself knew nothing about no Northern Kentucky.
Since I was always in doubt of what to wear to these functions, I just always wore black. One of my few fashion tips: when in doubt, wear black. We arrived fashionably late, as we always did, not because we were fashionable, more like irresponsible.
When we got there, it was like another planet, Planet Hollywood actually. Lot's of beautiful people, including the stars of the movie. The only thing I remember about them was chatting with Anne Archer, who I don't think was even in the movie. For some reason, I got the impression that she was having a romantic affair with Perry, uh, I mean, Andrew.
Laura, with me in tow, headed straight for all the set technicians. They consisted of light people, scenic artists, set builders, and the like. It was actually a very cliquish group looking back on it. Most of them were dudes, and Laura introduced me to all of them as they sat around a table in a back corner. Last, but certainly not least, she introduced me to Andy.
Andy was from Chicago, living in town for the duration of the movie shoot. He was very friendly and I could tell he was interested in me, very interested. Unfortunately, I would rather die than be some out-of-town guys local squeeze, no matter how nice and handsome, so I pretty much ignored him. He spent the evening trying to impress me and win me over but didn't get very far.
A couple of days after the party, Laura called and said that Andy was still asking about me. It turns out that he doesn't just work for the set company, he owns it. He was Laura's boss, which makes no difference to the story, but I thought I would mention it. At any rate, she asked if she could give him my phone number. After getting three yes's and a no on my pre-acknowledge your existence dating quiz, (Do you have a job, Do you own a car?, Do you have your own place to live?, and, Are you married?) I agreed.
The next day, Andy started his campaign for my affection. He called and asked me to dinner. It actually turned out to be a great date. We went to Dee Felice, had dinner and listened to the jazz band. I ordered Jambalaya and remember being surprised by how spicy it was. Hanging out with Andy was really fun because he had great stories. He had worked with Paul Newman on "The Color of Money" and a bunch of other stuff that I can't remember. To this day, I still look for his name in movie credits under "construction coordinator".
At the time, I was living in Clifton in my little Mary Richards apartment, across the hall from Patrick. Andy would show up at my little ghetto apartment, and just looked so out of place in it. He was very wealthy, and wasn't used to such living conditions. It was summertime, and it was really hot, and my third floor walk up had no air conditioning. The TV had a hanger for an antennae, and you had to use a pair of pliers to change the channel. I loved every bit of it because it was all mine, bought, earned and delivered.
The other Laura, Laura C. had moved to Atlanta earlier in the year. She kept inviting me to visit and I could never afford to do it. I must of mentioned it to Andy, because the next time we were at dinner, he casually slid a thick wad of cash across the table. I, of course, was highly insulted.
After recovering from me almost slapping the shit out of him, Andy went on to explain that the money meant absolutely nothing to him, and so much more to me, why couldn't he give it to me. He said that his per Diem for the movie was more than I made in a week, and he wanted to be good to me. For the first time in my life, I said to myself "fuck this shit, I'm taking the cash". The next thing I knew, I was on my way to see Laura C. for a week.
When I got back, Andy was waiting for me. The movie was filming a scene at the bar down the street from my apartment. He wanted me to come and hang around, which I was weary of, because I felt like he wanted to parade me around for all his friends. So after much convincing, we went down to the bar, hung out in the movie trailers, where I drank way too much, mostly because I felt uncomfortable. We came back to my apartment, where Andy tucked me in, and left for the night.
The next morning, I had a hang-over like none I've ever had, except for the one I got in Cancun drinking too much tequila with Laura C. Once again, a whole other post. Anyway, on this particular early afternoon, I was sick as a dog. Afternoon turned in to evening and I was still sick. Andy called and wanted to go out, and I told him I was far too busy throwing up to do any such thing.
Two hours later, there was a knock at my door. When I opened the door, there was Andy with a dozen red roses, Gatorade, and a 32 inch color television. I still have the petals from the roses in a mason jar to this day. It was like I was dating the "Wheel-of-Fortune". He set up the new television, handed me the remote, and went into the kitchen and started making me chicken soup.
His gifts weren't just extravagant, they were also very thoughtful and sentimental. When I ruined my favorite pink sweater by spilling printer ink on it at work, a cashmere sweater would take it's place. At one point, after noticing I never wore much jewelry, he gave me an emerald and diamond necklace. I drew the line on that one, and wouldn't accept it, because I knew I didn't feel the same way about him that he felt about me. There would be other gifts I wouldn't accept, like a car because I didn't own one, and a better apartment.
At Christmas time, he gave me a silver key chain with a silver heart on it from Tiffany's. He had them engrave "always my love, Andy" on the back of the heart. I still suspect my ex-husband of throwing it away because, years later, my keys, that had been on the counter, mysteriously disappeared never to be seen again.
After we had been seeing each other for four or five months, the movie wrapped and Andy headed back to Chicago and on to the next movie. He still visited me on the weekends, either flying me there or him coming here. It's not that hard to live in different cities if you have money.
I know that he was very sincere, and probably would have changed my life completely, but here's the thing. Have you noticed that the entire post has been about material things as opposed to how much I loved him? Well, I noticed that too, and that really bothered me. I argued with myself that people love people for different reasons and theirs nothing wrong with that. Andy was a handsome, talented, smart and funny man, and I should have loved him. But I just didn't, who knows why? Maybe not having to struggle in life seemed like cheating to me.
Andy and I still chat with each other from time to time. I think he likes to check periodically to see if I've changed my mind. His birthday is in the middle of April, so he's on my mind this time of year, so it was a good time to tell you about him. Ahhh, April, taxes, cherry blossoms, and Andy.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The Baptism
I have a secret, one of those secrets that you can never tell my mother. It's a religious secret, and up till now, I've never told my family. The time has come to confess, which is very much in line with the secret.
My ex-husband, my babies daddy, is Catholic, and he was considered a little bit of a rebel when he married a Jew. He is the youngest son of six brothers and sisters, and his parents have been married for almost sixty years. I know this because I was at their fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration, along with Ken's 102 year old grandfather. How often does a father get to go to his son's fiftieth wedding party?
Anyoldasdirt, they are a huge, devout, go to mass on Sunday Catholic family. They are also a very close family, and socialize mostly with each other. They're part of the reason I married Ken, I loved his family, and wanted that relationship for my kids. I wanted that for me.
There's a certain amount of romance that accompanies the birth of your first child. Ken and I were thick as thieves, like two vagabonds that had been mistaken for responsible adults. We were two best friends going to boot camp, baby boot camp. Everything we did, including naming the baby, had to be a joint decision.
During this time of romantic democracy, we agreed that we would raise our children with the utmost sensitivity towards each others cultural backgrounds. Being Catholic and Jewish is a lot more alike than you would think, just opposite ends of the same spectrum. Both are as much cultures as they are religions.
For his family, that meant having the baby baptized. "Look at it this way," I rationalized to myself "if it turns out that the Christians were right, the baby would have his bases covered." What's not to love? So I went with Ken to "get your baby baptized" school at our local Catholic church, St. James of the Valley, which happens to be almost right next store to our local Jewish temple, Valley Temple.
It was an odd experience. We had to go to three one hour sessions, and it was like religious therapy. They wanted to know exactly what my commitment was to raising my children Catholic. Frankly, my commitment was very little, I just wanted to fit in with the in-laws. To this day I'm wondering if anyone has ever flunked and been denied. Would the Catholics allow the soul of an innocent baby to burn in hell just because his parents were a mess? Let's just say I did my best to say all the right things.
When the big Sunday arrived, the entire Ken dynasty met us at the church for the baby's big dip. He wore a beautiful little dress that every family member before him had worn. As we walked up to the alter, holding the baby, I prayed to God not to strike me dead or ever let my mother find out that I did this.
Unfortunately, the priest at the "get your baby baptized" school didn't tell me exactly what happens in a Baptism, and I was too ignorant to ask. We get up to the alter, and all I can think of is the Baptism scene at the end of "The Godfather".
The priest looks at me and says "What is it that you want for this child?", and I have no idea what the correct answer is.
So, I'm standing there, thinking, "What would Don Corleone say?" and I tell the priest "That he always be happy and healthy?" sort of more of a question than an answer.
The priest says "Well, while all that's very nice, how about a Baptism?" Like a deer frozen in headlights, still waiting for God's wrath for even agreeing to this in the first place, I manage to say "Why, yes, a baptism." Somehow, I got out of there alive.
By the time the second baby arrived, the romance was completely gone. I unilaterally named that baby, with no input from the peanut gallery. Then, I informed Ken that while I would be happy to attend a baptism, I couldn't possibly be the driving force behind it.
Needless to say, that second baby never did get baptized, because you can't expect a Jewish girl to make that happen for you twice. So there you have it, and please don't tell my mother.
My ex-husband, my babies daddy, is Catholic, and he was considered a little bit of a rebel when he married a Jew. He is the youngest son of six brothers and sisters, and his parents have been married for almost sixty years. I know this because I was at their fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration, along with Ken's 102 year old grandfather. How often does a father get to go to his son's fiftieth wedding party?
Anyoldasdirt, they are a huge, devout, go to mass on Sunday Catholic family. They are also a very close family, and socialize mostly with each other. They're part of the reason I married Ken, I loved his family, and wanted that relationship for my kids. I wanted that for me.
There's a certain amount of romance that accompanies the birth of your first child. Ken and I were thick as thieves, like two vagabonds that had been mistaken for responsible adults. We were two best friends going to boot camp, baby boot camp. Everything we did, including naming the baby, had to be a joint decision.
During this time of romantic democracy, we agreed that we would raise our children with the utmost sensitivity towards each others cultural backgrounds. Being Catholic and Jewish is a lot more alike than you would think, just opposite ends of the same spectrum. Both are as much cultures as they are religions.
For his family, that meant having the baby baptized. "Look at it this way," I rationalized to myself "if it turns out that the Christians were right, the baby would have his bases covered." What's not to love? So I went with Ken to "get your baby baptized" school at our local Catholic church, St. James of the Valley, which happens to be almost right next store to our local Jewish temple, Valley Temple.
It was an odd experience. We had to go to three one hour sessions, and it was like religious therapy. They wanted to know exactly what my commitment was to raising my children Catholic. Frankly, my commitment was very little, I just wanted to fit in with the in-laws. To this day I'm wondering if anyone has ever flunked and been denied. Would the Catholics allow the soul of an innocent baby to burn in hell just because his parents were a mess? Let's just say I did my best to say all the right things.
When the big Sunday arrived, the entire Ken dynasty met us at the church for the baby's big dip. He wore a beautiful little dress that every family member before him had worn. As we walked up to the alter, holding the baby, I prayed to God not to strike me dead or ever let my mother find out that I did this.
Unfortunately, the priest at the "get your baby baptized" school didn't tell me exactly what happens in a Baptism, and I was too ignorant to ask. We get up to the alter, and all I can think of is the Baptism scene at the end of "The Godfather".
The priest looks at me and says "What is it that you want for this child?", and I have no idea what the correct answer is.
So, I'm standing there, thinking, "What would Don Corleone say?" and I tell the priest "That he always be happy and healthy?" sort of more of a question than an answer.
The priest says "Well, while all that's very nice, how about a Baptism?" Like a deer frozen in headlights, still waiting for God's wrath for even agreeing to this in the first place, I manage to say "Why, yes, a baptism." Somehow, I got out of there alive.
By the time the second baby arrived, the romance was completely gone. I unilaterally named that baby, with no input from the peanut gallery. Then, I informed Ken that while I would be happy to attend a baptism, I couldn't possibly be the driving force behind it.
Needless to say, that second baby never did get baptized, because you can't expect a Jewish girl to make that happen for you twice. So there you have it, and please don't tell my mother.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)