B-ry received the Harry Potter DVD box set for Christmas from my mom. This pleased both of us a great deal. As a result, we've been having Harry Potter marathons. I have to say, my two absolute favorite characters are Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom (also, Mrs. Weasley is THE SHIZZ). Therefore, the following conversation during a viewing of The Order of the Phoenix should have come as no surprise to me. Still, it brought the LOLs...
Me: "Squeee!!! Luna! I love Luna!!!"
B-Ry: (Pausing & chuckling to himself) "That's probably because you are Luna. The non-wizardy version anyway."
I previously shared my work-Thanksgiving-luncheon-horror in this post. Sometimes I still have to take a Silkwood shower to try and wash the Janie-memories off. It doesn't help though. Nothing helps... *shudder*
Now the Christmas party, well, that was a completely different debacle. It was held one afternoon down in our food court area (which, on a normal day is pretty good). There were tables set up with elaborate fruit and cheese displays, lovely ice sculptures, tables with breads, crackers, veggies and dips, tables with hot appetizers, a carving station and a vast dessert buffet. None of that, however, could hold a candle to the main attraction. I instantly wondered, what was on that table that was hardest to get to, the one that created a huge road block to the other buffets? What exotic treats rested therein? Foie gras? Baked Alaska? Petit fours made out of gold and garnished with Asscher-cut diamonds? Pfft. No, no, my friends. I have two words for you: boiled shrimp. Boiled. Shrimp. And cocktail sauce. People were throwing elbows and stepping on each other to pile their plates as high as the laws of physics allowed. With boiled shrimp. Here’s the bitch of it: this is Houston. As in, the Houston that sits smack-ass on the Gulf of Mexico. You can pretty much hop in your car, drive to the coast, stick your hand in the water and BOOM! You have shrimp. They’re like freakin’ pigeons around here.
Soon after all shrimp-hell broke loose, the food service staff caught on and instituted a lockdown that included mandatory “shrimp bouncers.” Tiny women in hairnets and long aprons armed with tongs were standing guard, steadfastly monitoring the shrimp output. Two shrimp per person, and GOD HELP YOU if you asked for more or tried to sneak back through with a different plate (oddly, they didn’t seem concerned with the people schlepping 5 or 6 cans of Diet Coke back to their offices- naturally, I found this to be the far more heinous act of depravity).
I headed for the dessert bar, since it appeared to be the least crowded (and least dangerous) aspect of the festivities. A couple of cookies and a gorgeous slice of cake later, I was settled back in a corner, watching the shrimp shenanigans, fork poised ready to dig into my cake. It was still frozen! That's when I decided it was time for my exit (though I thoroughly enjoyed watching what I’m guessing would have been an anthropologist’s dream). I remembered I had a Diet Coke in the fridge in the break room and some Jelly Bellies at my desk. Hark! 'Twas truly a Festivus miracle!
Whether or not you actually get along with your co-workers and supervisors many times dictates the level of gleeful anticipation and/or horrified dread in the approaching days, minutes, and hours leading up to a workplace holiday party. Another deciding factor is the location- will the festivities be held at the gorgeous country club where, under normal circumstances you’d be hauled away for merely giving it a sideways glance? A fabulous restaurant? The office janitor’s closet? The parking lot? Finally, the main reason people come: the possibility of free food and sometimes, free booze.
Many, many years ago, I worked at a place that could be described as "klassy" at best. The office Thanksgiving party was decidedly on the lower rungs of awesomeness. The festivities occurred in our break room- not bad (not great, either). The problem was a lack of real estate. Everyone had a rough time comfortably and easily navigating with plates (wasn't really enough room to navigate sans plates, either).
After the lines died down, I made my way to the chafing dishes. What culinary excitement awaited me? Hmm. Green salad? Okay! Lumpy sweet potatoes? No thanks. Rolls? Why not? (Because they turned out to be like little rocks, that’s why not. Damn near chipped a tooth…) Unidentifiable weird casserole? Aughhh! Someone kill it with fire! Turkey? Um, I guess. (I discovered too late it was going to be drowned in salty gravy) The best part, though, was being called out for not having a filled-enough plate by the in-charge-type-person. Nothing says holiday fun like management loudly berating you about your lunch choices in front of all your colleagues! Especially if you have a long and storied history of food issues! WHEEEEEE!
The best part, though- the marshmallows on my lumpy sweet potato casserole of a lunch, if you will- was what happened next. As I was standing around chatting, a manager from a nearby department (we'll call her "Janie") was commenting on how many new people had joined the staff in recent weeks. The following exchange is what took place shortly thereafter:
Janie: “I see lots of new faces!” Staring intently at me, “You’re a new face!”
Me (looking around thinking she can’t possibly be talking to me): “I am?”
Janie: “Yes! How long have you been with us now?!”
Me (yep, she’s definitely talking to me): “Three years.”
Janie: “Three years?! Here? Really?! You have not been working here three years! Really?!”
Me (wow…this is getting uncomfortable): “Yes, really.”
Janie (did I mention we had a sizeable audience?): “Well, your face is new to me! I must not have ever run into you until now!”
Me: “Apparently not."
The thing about this conversation that made it so uncomfortable was not the fact that this woman didn’t recognize me. What made this so uncomfortable- irritating, really- was the fact that I'd had basically the exact same conversation with this woman a year ago almost to the day. Word for word. A year ago. The only real differences were a.) previously she asked me in the middle of a huge meeting as she was doing a presentation and b.) my response was two years. I felt like this was becoming a holiday tradition for the two of us, Janie and me. It also didn't help that she and I exchanged quite a few emails and I visited her in her office on numerous occasions over the previous three years to discuss/drop off paperwork. So, yeah.
The final insult? I paid $2.00 for that. I decided that the following year I was going to keep my two bucks and head over to Chick-Fil-A. See, they knew me there (and couldn't care less what I was or wasn't eating).
The following conversation took place in our living room as we were catching up on season 1 of "The Walking Dead" in anticipation of the season 2 premiere:
Me: "When the zombies come, if for whatever weird reason they happen to get me- pfft, which they totally won't- you can sit around in the dark crying and looking at pictures of me all you want. As long as you do that after you've pumped my skull full of hot lead."
B-Ry: "Deal."
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is one of the many reasons why I married him.
In true "me" fashion, I fell in love with old movies at a very early age. My grandfather LOVED movies and could remember every detail of every movie he ever saw (seriously, he was like the Rainman of movie-watching). He would also watch pretty much anything. So perhaps this affinity of mine is genetic? No idea. All that to say, while I did enjoy the same "new" movies that kids my age were raving about, I also liked watching movies that were new when my parents and even (gasp!) grandparents were kids. To Kill A Mockingbird, the original Cape Fear, any and all Bond films, Splendor in the Grass (or, as it was known to certain people I am related to, Splinter in the Ass), Gone With the Wind, Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte, The Million Dollar Mermaid, Cleopatra, The Wings of Eagles, Casablanca, An Affair to Remember, Giant, Cat On A Hot Tin Roof...all total awesomesauce in my book and just a small sampling of the "old" movies I love. Some are considered classics, some are not. I would happily sit down and watch any one of them right now (and thanks to Netflix, I pretty much can!)
There is a small collection of films, however, that I fell head-over-heels for as a wee lass. That's right- I'm referring to those gloriously ridiculous Doris Day/Rock Hudson romantic comedies. There was Send Me No Flowers, Lover Come Back, and (my ALL-TIME-FAVORITE!) Pillow Talk. Pillow Talk- if for some strange reason you have never seen it- features Doris as a successful but looking-for-Mr-Right decorator and Rock as jingle-writing pah-laya who has a revolving door of hotties in and out of his apartment. As there is apparently a shortage of phone lines in NYC, these two are somehow forced to share a party line. After listening in on each other's calls, they form rather negative opinions of each other: he finds her to be a frigid asshat, she thinks he's an arrogant douche canoe (spoiler: they're both right). One night they somehow end up at the same supper club, he discovers her identity and is instantly a smitten kitten. Realizing if she knew who he was, she wouldn't give him the time of day (but would possibly have a one-finger salute at the ready for him), he gives up and goes home. JUST KIDDING! HA! That's only what a sane person would do! No, Rock decides to win the heart of fair Doris by pretending to be a tourist in from Texas named- get ready- Rex Stetson. Hilarity ensues. He even stays in a hotel and adopts a "Texan accent" (to be fair, it's more stroke-y than Texan, but that's what makes it so great). Their dates revolve around Tour Guide Doris escorting Rock around "the big 'ol city" where he proceeds to "aww shucks" all over himself.
One of my all-time favorite scenes EVER is in this movie. They are on a date at a night club. Doris magically produces a freaking giant fishbowl of dip that she then offers Rock (Where are these clubs and why have I never been to one?! I've been to my share of clubs in my day and never, not once, have I sat at a piano and been offered a vat of dip. *sigh* Now I haz a sad.) What happens next...ahhhh...it...I just...he...well, fast forward to the 2:00 mark and see for yourself:
Yeah. That happens.
Now you just try and tell me that's not awesome. I heart those two. They had great chemistry on screen and I adore the fact that in real life they were very close friends. I think I love these movies so much because she was glamorous (seriously, I'd sell my grandmother to the gypsies for Doris Day's late 50's/early 60's wardrobe) and he was charismatic and oh-so-VERY easy on the eyes (please refer to Giant for further evidence). Rock's last public appearance was as the first guest on Doris's talk show in 1985. As painful as that was (and still is) to watch, they helped put a face on what was the growing and hugely misunderstood AIDS epidemic. As Rock's dear friend and my idol, the late Dame Elizabeth Rosemond Taylor Hilton Wilding Todd Fisher Burton Burton Warner Fortenskysaid, "It is bad enough people are dying of AIDS, but no one shoulddie of ignorance." Preach!
Mom, Auntie Kathy, Auntie Cheryl, let's all grab some dip and watch Pillow Talk, shall we?!
I had really hoped to avoid this topic but I just can't seem to help myself. Like many people, I have followed this trial since the beginning. It almost seemed unreal at times, something that could have only been dreamed up by Hollywood or one of the great masters of Gothic literature. There was a varied and eccentric cast of characters: a beautiful young woman who appeared overwhelmed by the responsibilities of motherhood, her parents who struggled between wanting justice for their granddaughter and wanting to protect their only daughter, Casey's brother who (it seemed) felt she was capable of pretty much anything, the "is-he-crazy-or-isn't-he-crazy" guy who found the little girl's body, Zenaida Gonzalez- the woman who Casey told police had "kidnapped" her daughter despite having never met any of the Anthony family. And at the heart of the story, a little girl whose sweet face and squeaky little toddler voice singing in home videos tugged at the heartstrings of people all over the world.
Then there were all of the startling revelations and twists and turns that came to light as the case unfolded. Cindy Anthony telling police Casey's trunk "smelled like death," the pictures of Casey partying as Caylee was "missing," allegations made by the defense that Casey's father, George, molested her, the fact that Casey had been lying for a year about her employment at Universal Studios (she had been fired but never told her parents), those internet searches on the family's home computer for "neck breaking" and "chloroform," Caylee's body found near the Anthony home with duct tape and stickers over her mouth, and George Anthony's failed suicide attempt following the discovery of Caylee's remains.
To say I'm repulsed by what's happened today would be an understatement. I'm not sure what more the jury could have done with the first degree murder charge. Perhaps had a lesser charge been placed in front of them we would have had a very different outcome. I found it fascinating that, as Casey was "crying" tears of "joy" listening as the verdict was read, her parents quietly and unceremoniously slipped out of courtroom. They did not return.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am an obnoxiously proud aunt. We have 3 nieces who I firmly believe are the sweetest, smartest and most beautiful little things ever born. Our oldest niece, Bella, just turned 5- if Caylee were alive today, they would be the same age. Our middle niece, Peanut, is 2. She is the same age Caylee was when she was murdered. SweetPea, the youngest, is 4 months old. I am not their mother. I did not birth any of them. Yet, I can say definitively and without hesitation, I would take a bullet in a hot second if it meant they would be kept safe. It would never dawn on me to put my own safety or needs ahead of theirs. And I'm just their aunt. I supposed I have a very hard time wrapping my mind around the thought of a mother putting her own wants and needs ahead of her own little girl's and not doing everything in her power to make absolutely certain she was kept safe and happy.
So, now that this is all over, Casey can move on to the inevitable book deals, movie deals, interviews, public speaking engagements, etc, etc. Perhaps we will gain some new insight, perhaps she'll begin telling the truth. Doubtful, though.
At the end of the day, a little girl is still dead. Someone killed her. Someone put tape over her mouth. Someone decorated the tape over her mouth with stickers. Someone put her remains in trash bags. Someone threw her away like she was garbage.
Truth be told, I might be going into a little wedding withdrawal. As any hands-on bride will tell you, when you pour blood, sweat, tears, vodka, and wine into something for nearly a year when it finally comes and goes there's a touch of the bittersweet left behind.
BUT.
When all is said and done, I am now a smug married. A ball-and-chain. A missus. I am Mrs. B-ry and I couldn't be happier about that.
As I'm wrapping up thank-you notes, sorting through photos for our album, organizing and putting away gifts while simultaneously looking for a job, I'll also be working on paying this sweet little bloggity-blog the attention it deserves and posting more often. After all, some details of the Griswold Family Wedding are just too good not to share!
Being that I am rather clumsy and just generally awkward, I tend to hurt myself fairly often. I'm usually peppered with bruises of varying size, shape and pretty shade of purple, blue, yellow, etc. That being said, I didn't think much of it when I was playing with my awesome two-year-old niece, Peanut, last week and felt my back scream, "OWIE!"
No big deal, I thought. I've dealt with all kinds of injuries, ailments, malaise, what have yous. I tried ice, heat, laying down, sitting up, hot shower, yoga, ibuprofen, acetaminophen...pretty much everything short of Santeria (the religion, not the Sublime song) (though I do totally dig that song!) (hold please- pulling it up on my iTunes). However, as the days wore on the screaming became louder. So very loud, in fact, that Dara took herself to the doctor this afternoon (and apparently began referring to herself in the third person). I was told to take it easy and given a prescription for some muscle relaxers. Now, I haven't taken muscle relaxers since high school so who knows how this might play out. My only request is that if you see a short, pale brunette roaming the streets doing this (and who is not Elaine- I'm not the boss of her) please send help.
My thoughts on last night's version of the Star Spangled Banner as sung (?) by Christina Aguilera, let me share them:
Frank Drebin coulda done it better.
Anyone who has ever taken any kind of music/choir class or has been to school at all in these United States of ours knows that our beloved national anthem is pretty freakin' difficult to sing. I guess that's what happens when you set a poem written by a young patriot whose heart was bursting with pride amid the turmoil of war to the tune of an old British drinking song.
You might be thinking, "Hey, singing at the Superbowl is a lot of pressure!" And I'm sure you're right, it is. However, when singing is your job, you bragged in interviews leading up to the performance about how, yes you are honored, but you've, ya know, been singing the national anthem publicly since you were seven, and you generally just sorta stroll around with a case of the smugs because you are XTINA and you once ROCKED ASSLESS CHAPS DAMMIT, well...you might ruffle a few feathers.
Granted, she's not the first to screw up the most sacred and beloved of American tunes. Robert Goulet famously jacked up the lyrics when he sang the Star Spangled Banner prior to Muhammed Ali fighting Sonny Liston in '65. In my opinion, The Goulet (may you and your sweet, sweet mustache rest in peace) deserves a bit more leeway due to the fact that a.) he had never performed the song in public before and b.) dude was Canadian! He didn't grow up singing it at every. school. program. and. sporting. event. ever.
I would also like to add that no one will ever surpass Whitney Houston's rendition at Superbowl XXV back in 1991. Had she not eaten (or smoked) (or snorted) (whatever) a giant bowl of crazy a few years back I would adamantly lobby for her to sing it every time.
That's how it's done, y'all.
Now at this point you may be asking, "Hey, Dara! You think you could do better?!" And the answer would be: nope. Sure don't. The only people who enjoy my singing voice are my 2 year old niece and my nearly 89-year-old grandmother (who lacks some street cred because she's known me for all of my nearly 32 years and suddenly decided this past Thanksgiving that my eyes are brown then argued with me about it at the dinner table) (hint: they're green...very green). But singing and performing and having to buy giant yachts constructed from sheets of money to carry around all the money you make from singing and performing comes with certain responsibilities. Like, I don't know, remembering the lyrics to our national anthem when you are performing it at one of -if not the- most anticipated, attended and viewed sporting events of the year. Scaling back on the smug might help, too.
Also, the halftime show blew. Slash, you are now dead to me.
