My Brush With Fame (ok - Tom Jones)

I've been asked to recount for all three of my faithful readers my meeting international music sensation, Tom Jones.

Remember him? "She's a Lady (woh, woh, woh.") "What's Up Pussycat." "Delilah."

It's 1982 - well past Tom's prime. Someone hears that Tom will be performing in a small theater in Denver. For some unknown reason, my mother, her friend, my sisters and I decide to go even though this will mean that we have to drive from Boulder to Denver (which for us was a big deal).

We arrive at the theater to learn that the show has been cancelled. The reason given was that Tom was sick. Ok. Now what. We're in Denver - we have to do something. Someone suggests the bar at the Fairmont Hotel (I'm 19 years old, but what the hell do I care).

We enter the lobby and head for the bar. Imagine our surprise when we see Tom with a small entourage walk right by us and into the restaurant. WTF! Not only did we drive from Boulder, but we didn't get our money back for the tickets.

So we go in the bar and have a couple drinks. My mother's friend, Trish, and I take a short walk to, um, powder our noses, me still bitching because Tom wasn't fricking sick. She comes up with an idea whereby we go into the restaurant and ask him why he cancelled the show. I say ok. Then she says, "You go first. You're younger."

The entrance to the restaurant is guarded by what appears to be tuxedo-wearing Gestapo. My thinking is that if you behave like you belong somewhere, people will often let you go there. I was nervous, but I stood up straight, looked straight past the Gestapo, and walked through the entrance quickly scanning for Tom's table. Score!

Curved booth on the right. Tom directly in the middle facing the aisle. Two people on each side. We stopped at the table. I looked directly at Tom and they all looked at me. I said, "I was just wondering why you cancelled your show tonight?" I knew he was expecting me to ask for his autograph, but I was waaaay to cool for that. I just wanted a fricking answer.

He said something about the theater cancelling it due to not enough ticket sales (boy, I wonder how that happened). I told him that we had driven all the way from Boulder and never got our money back. He said that they were going on to Texas and we should go there. I said, "Yeah, I don't think so."

He may have apologized. I don't really remember. So we walk out of the restaurant and my mother's pathological liar friend tells me that when we tell this story to our group, we need to add that Tom asked us to sit down for a glass of champagne. I personally thought that the story was good enough as it was, but I went along with her story. (Remember, she didn't say squat during this whole thing and now she not only wants to share the glory, but the glory isn't even good enough).

That's my brush with fame. (I never said it was impressive)!

In a wacky twist, we met a few "Argentine political leaders" who were in the US for something. My mother invited them to our house. They came. I don't know why. It was a weird night!

I can only dream that I saw this in person! Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sI5LWwC-cE8

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gvmyTZEqlo8&feature=related

Whatever Happened To Remington Steele?

I just watched the movie "Mamma Mia." I have one question for the casting director.

Were you on crack? Acid? I'm really trying to understand why you would cast actors who can't sing. Were you aware that this is a musical?

And to you actors - hasn't anyone told you that being a famous actor doesn't necessarily mean that you can sing? I was the most upset about Pierce Brosnan. He is a very bad singer.

During college, I had a huge crush on Pierce Brosnan. He's soooo handsome and suave. I always watched Remington Steele. I even lost a boyfriend to him once. (Bear with me. This is gonna take a while.)

It was 1985. I was in my last year of college. One night my friends and I went to Denver to go to a bar (we were in Boulder so that's quite a trip - 36 miles). We took a quick tour through the bar to just to see, umm, the scenery. Upon seeing a VERY cute guy, we looked at each other with the silent "he's cute" look.

While on our second tour (we just wanted to be thorough), the Cute Guy asked me to dance. I said no. Not because he wasn't cute. We've already established that he was VERY cute . But it was rock music. I can't dance to rock music. I can only do R&B and I didn't want to humiliate myself no matter how cute he was.

My friends would not take no for an answer. So I finally gave in and danced with this ridiculously cute guy that every girl in the bar wanted to dance with (Woe is me!)

Cute Guy asked for my number. I gave it to him. He called. And we set up a time for a date. Exciting, huh? (This is where it gets fun.)

It's 6 a.m. on the day of the aforementioned date. I get a call from my uncle in Chicago that my sister (not Charmaine - but the sister we don't speak of) had tried to commit suicide. She was in the hospital in Boulder and I needed to go get her. Since I didn't have a car, one of my roommates dropped me off at the hospital. I was instructed in no uncertain terms to take her home, clean up the blood so that she wouldn't see it, and never leave her alone.

(Did anyone there know that I was 20 years old - and I had classes to go to - and that my mother was in Chicago - and that my sister had physically attacked me the night before in my apartment tearing my robe into shreds and scaring the crap out of my roomates - and more importantly, I had a first date planned with Cute Guy?

Apparently not.

We get in the house and the first thing she does is make a bee-line to the bathroom - the scene of the attempt. Crap. I screwed up the first instruction. I tried to remain calm, but I was pretty sure my failure was going to result in her death. I set about to clean the bathroom as quickly as possible. There was a lot of blood. I don't like blood.

My mother, under the sage advice of her two psychiatrist brothers, decided not to come home early. Didn't she know that I didn't want to be responsible for my sister's life (especially since I didn't like her) and I had Cute Guy coming over our first date? And he was coming from Denver? And I didn't have his number?

My cousin came over so I wouldn't have to stand-up Cute Guy. He arrives. (Did I mention that he was VERY cute?) The first thing I had to say to him was that I couldn't stay out long, because my sister tried to kill herself and I had to get back so she wouldn't do it again.

He was unfazed so we headed out to the Pearl Street Mall, but, first, he had to stop at an ATM. He pulls into the entrance to the bank, but there is a car in front of us that is stopped. Then that car starts backing up and backs right into Cute Guy's car. A very large man gets out of the car (I forgot to mention that Cute Guy is on the short side.)

The man leaves the scene of the accident.

Again, unfazed, we continue on to a bar, where we had one drink. But duty calls. He drives me to my mother's house to supervise my sanity-challenged sister. He and I continue our first date in the kitchen.

My mother returns (from her planned flight). She walks in the door saying loudly, "Whose piece of shit car is in my driveway?" Cute Guy answers that it's his. I was a little embarrassed.

I expected my mother to immediately go upstairs and see my sister.

She didn't.

She was too concerned that this "piece of shit" car would leak oil on her driveway.

It didn't.

Cute Guy and I head back to my apartment. He walks me to my door (Did I mention that my apartment was two houses away from an adult book store?) He sweetly kisses me goodbye and walks.

I'm thinking I am never going to see this guy again. He called. No, I'm not kidding. Clearly he didn't pick up on the blatant insanity of my life.

He works full-time in Denver. I'm in school full-time and working 2 jobs in Boulder. So we talk on the phone a lot. (Here it comes.)

It was time for finals. I told him ahead of time that I get very stessed during finals and get a bit weird. Then, one night when he called, I told him I couldn't talk because I was watching Remington Steele.

I never heard from Cute Guy again.

One night my friends went back to that bar (I had to work). Cute Guy was there. He told my friend that he was mad that I wanted to watch Remington Steele rather than talk to him. I don't get it. He stuck around after that absurd first date, but he couldn't take that?

Thanks a lot Pierce. And now to add injury to insult, I find out you aren't anything like Remington Steele!

Resolution Check Up

It's January 4. Let's see how those resolutions are doing.


#1. I resolve to close my free legal service business and re-open as an elite law firm with no paying clients.

FAIL: On January 2nd, as I was walking out the door to go to dinner with friends, the phone rang. It was my former neighbor (at least 10 years ago). He is buying some property for his daughter and there is a little question regarding the property lines (survey here - fence there - you get the idea).

My husband is using sign language to, umm, politely request that I hang up the phone, but it's a pressing legal matter that is being presented to my free legal services business for Christ's sake. (Did I mention that my free legal services business is available 24/7? ) Old habits die hard!


#2. I resolve to tell my mother she is being a bitch when she is being a bitch (like when she asks me if I have gained weight).

Undetermined. She changes this up every once in a while. My husband was walking around without a shirt (he looks a bit like Buddha). She asks him "Have you lost weight?" Some might think that was a compliment. But, nooo. You don't know my mother. Any question about weight is an insult. There's either "Have you gained weight?" which means you look fat. Or "Have you lost weight?" which means you clearly haven't lost weight and you need to. It's no wonder I never know how to respond to these things.

#3. I resolve to stop yelling at my kids when they poke my increasingly flabby belly.

Hmmm. They don't poke anymore. Now my son pushes on my belly and says that it feels like a "waterbed." Kids. Gotta love em!

#4. I resolve to stop gloating about the election to my Republican friends (ok, this one might be hard to keep).

FAIL. I never really meant that anyway. I'm still planning to surreptitiously break into my Republican friend's house and plant my collection of liberal-minded books and see how long it takes him to discover them. (It's gonna be so fun)!

#5. I resolve to relearn Russian since I just found a bunch of my college books in the basement and I can't believe that I used to understand it (it's a Flowers for Algernon kind of thing).

Come on. It's still early in the year! Gimme a break!

#6. I resolve to limit my alcohol consumption to champagne.
FAIL. Upon arrival at the restaurant for the aforementioned dinner date, I asked the bartender if they had champagne by the glass. She said no, but that she had a split. Only $22. Uh. Really? The hell with that resolution - I'll have a Coor's Light. (Jeez. I'm unemployed. What do you want from me?)

#7. Though not mentioned in my earlier resolution post, my secret resolution was to exercise. Yawn. Yawn. So I bought a beginners Pilates DVD and a beginners Yoga DVD. First up - Pilates. 10 minutes in, my thighs are burning so much I have to stop. Next day, owwwwwww.

Ok, let's try yoga. 25 minutes in - stop. Now I can't turn my neck to the right. This exercise thing is really not working for me! I'll just chalk this one up as a FAIL.

This isn't going well!

Have You Ever Seen A Fox Copulate?

I have been lamenting the fact that my life is so boring and pathetic that I have had nothing to write about. Sure, there was the baklava disaster. Yeah, there was me at 11:30 p.m on Christmas Eve realizing that Santa had brought presents for the kids, but I had not.

Then, when you least expect it, material presents itself.

This morning, I strode into the living room in my half-awake disheveled sort of way to find my husband and 3 sons looking out the window. What could be so interesting? 2 foxes in the neighbor's driveway. Oh, ok. Woo hoo. Where's my diet coke?

Then my husband hands me my camera with the zoom lens on and says, "look what they are doing."

Oh.

Are you kidding me?

My kids are looking at this!

My 14 and 12-year olds cannot seem to squelch their laughter. Meanwhile, my 10-year old is innocently exclaiming, "Look, mom, their butts are stuck together."


2009. Things are looking up!

"Santa Isn't Black!"

When's the last time you heard THAT at a Christmas party?

I heard it last night. Uttered by a 7-year old girl, embroiled in an argument with, you guessed it, a black Santa. Santa tried, in vain, to explain to her (over the raucous laughter) that there were, in fact, black Santas. "Just go out to East Denver".

She wasn't buying it.

I can't really say I blame her. I had to convince black Santa himself (as I was delivering my Santa suit a few days earlier) that there ARE black Santas. As proof, I showed him my Christmas ornament of a black Santa sitting at a piano.

He didn't buy it either.

Of course, until recently, no one thought that there would be a black President in the near future either. Which would lead one to think that times are changing, right? But change is slow, and racists never change their spots. (They just blot on a little concealer). But every woman knows that concealer doesn't work for very long.

I discovered a heavily "made-up" man at Friday night's Christmas party (which had no black Santas). We were having an interesting conversation about the First Amendment. Some of you might think that those are mutually-exclusive terms, but they're really not. (Previous readers will remember that I took a class in First Amendment Law taught by Archibald Cox).

Anyhoo, there was a small hullabaloo a while ago when a kid wore a t-shirt to school that said something about Obama being friends with terrorists. The school decided that the t-shirt was disruptive. They gave the kid the option to turn the shirt inside out, change, or be suspended. He chose to be suspended. His father immediately alleged this was a violation of the First Amendment.

So this guy at the party brings this up with a very strong belief that the First Amendment was, indeed, violated. As someone who took First Amendment Law from the man who argued more First Amendment cases before the US Supreme Court than anyone else, and who had the most impact on how the First Amendment continues to be interpreted to this day, I explained to this man that kids in school do not enjoy the same First Amendment rights that the rest of us do.

This man was so annoyed that I felt I had to explain that this wasn't my idea. It's just the law. For a moment, I thought I had a real card-carrying member of the ACLU in my midst. But later, as he dismissed the notion of respecting others' religions, I realized that he was just another bigot.

I bet he would be surprised to know that Santa is black. (And God is a woman!

How To Drop A Baby

(I apologize if any of you were referred to this post and it was not here. In a moment of maternal guilt and panic, I deleted it. Then I figured what the hell.)

I gave birth to the most adorable child in the world. Now I know you are thinking that I am biased, but, seriously, he was the most adorable child ever born. That is, until I scarred him for life.

It wasn't entirely my fault. My mother was in town and she had me in a complete tizzy. At the very same time, Brody did something (I don't remember what) that warranted a time-out. I dragged him back to his bedroom. For some reason, he requested that he be put on the top bunk, rather then his bottom bunk. Not seeing any significance in this request, I agreed. The problem, though, was in the execution.

I am 5'2". Bunk beds are taller. Apparently, I didn't take the time to fully analyze the physics involved in lifting a 3 year old onto a bunk bed that was higher than myself combined with the relative weakness of my biceps.

Holding him, I took somewhat of a running start and stepped on the bottom bunk. My forward force suddenly stopped and we fell backwards. (This is the part I hate to admit). In a sort of innate self-preservation, on the way down, I dropped him. I didn't mean to drop him. I just did.

The cry was horrific. Worse since I knew it was my fault. He was lying face down over a plastic bin from Target. My first thought was "please don't let it be his eye, please don't let it be his eye." I picked him up and to my great relief, it wasn't his eye. There was, however, a huge gash on his cheek. Deep and wide.

Mommy emergency mode kicks in. Aidan (7) gets me a dish towel to hold over the gash. He also calls 911 and then hangs up, but that's a different matter. The police call me back and I explain that my son fell (no details) and has a cut and I am trying to decide whether I need an ambulance, but I think I can make it, so I'll drive to the hospital.

So I tell my mom to please hold Brody in the car with the towel over his face. She says, "Aidan can go with you. I'll stay here with Gunnar." With no time discuss the matter, we run out to the van. Aidan (remember he is 7) sits with Brody in the passenger seat (no one is buckled in) trying to hold the towel on his cheek. But he's a screaming, writhing, very annoyed little boy, so it didn't work out very well.

We get to the hospital. I try to explain what happened. They immediately take Aidan because, unlike my mother, they know that I can't deal with a 7-year old when I have an injured 3-year old. Person after person come in and ask me what happened. Each time, I have to say, outloud, that I dropped my child. Bad mom. Bad mom. Bad mom. They didn't say it. But I could hear it.

Eventually, someone came in and injected my poor child's face with what seemed like a ridiculous number of shots, and stitched him up. Crisis over, I started to feel light-headed and about to faint. The nurse gets me to lie down on the bed, puts a washcloth on my forehead, and takes Brody somewhere.

She calls my husband and tells him of my condition. We all wait for him to arrive. But. What? He doesn't. Finally, after their persistent calls, he shows up. Apparently, he didn't believe that I needed his help. I am a stud, but there are times when I really do need a little help.

So, every day since then (7 years), I look at Brody and see his scar. And every day, I think about the scars, both physical and emotional, that a mother leaves on a child. With any luck, the worst scar Brody will have will be the one on his face.

(I will provide a picture, I think, when I can scan one in. No promises, since the visual reminder is painful).

As an aside, Brody doesn't remember this incident. He has asked about the scar and his brothers have reported exactly what happened. So, I hear about it, all the time, especially around Christmas!

I Have Been Adopted

Ok, I'll admit it. There have been times when I wish I had a daughter. It's only natural since I have all boys. And I'll have to admit that the thought of adopting a girl (my eggs are old) has crossed my mind.

Instead, I have been adopted. By my neighbor's dog. (It's a girl).

My screen door doesn't shut completely without a little effort. So Sprocket comes over and nudges her nose into the opening until she gets in. If the main door is closed, she pushes on the screen door repeatedly until we let her in. She comes to the living room searching out fallen crumbs (of which there are many) and then takes a nap somewhere. Today she crawled up onto the couch with a snowman.

She's lonely. Her family is busy and she is left alone frequently. Apparently she has decided that she just wants someone to keep her company. And that's ok with me.

I have also been adopted by her 7-year old master, Brit. He has a 16 year old brother and 2 working parents. Brit learned long ago that he had a lot more in common with my 3 boys, than with his older brother. So he comes over alot to play (at least he knocks on the door). He is a sweet little boy and blends in well here. What's one more boy when you already have three!

I love that Brit and Sprocket feel as comfortable in my house as in their own. They add something to my life and I enjoy both of them - together or separately.