My Brush With Greatness? 

or like Kate Nash would sing... why you being a dickhead for?  

Okay, so today we had a Super Bowl Playa on our little dog and pony show. He was scheduled to be interviewed in the first segment, then participate in the next three segments which were as follows--a display of a buttload of Steelers merchandise, a weather segment and a cooking segment. It's local TV, Dude... it's all drivel.

Let me say up front... I was never fond of this creep. I honestly think he's a criminal, but he was going to be our guest, so I had to play along. 

So Beets and I go into the green room beforehand to chat and ask for a photo op. This cat is all hunched down in the chair wearing his brash, big-ass bro hooded coat giving off his best ghetto tude. You know the one, the "I'm too cool for this joint and if you don't stop buggin' me I'll pop a cap in yo ass" vibe. We say hello and politely ask if we could take a photo. Get this... he says NO! and gives us the big brush off, look-away. 

Excuse me? WTF? What. A. DICK! (and I ain't talking about what's parked in his over sized pantaloons)

I go marching into the newsroom where I'm greeted by the director who proclaims "I think we might have problems with our 'guest'." Uh..Yeah. No shit Sherlock. Turns out he did the major stick-up-his-butt to our producer AND started to weasel out of his on-screen commitment. You're not making friends here, Bubba.

Did I mention he was a DICK? I think I did. 

Now granted Mr. Fame-and-Notoriety-Has-Made-Me-Think-I'm-All-That is only in his early 20s and he's been on the go for over three weeks and he hasn't been home or seen his multitudes of illegit progeny and he's tired and.. and.. and.. Waa Waa Waa   

MAN UP! 

This is what fame costs, Cleatus. You wanted this. And none of those excuses gives you the right to be a ... well, Dickhead. It's "losers" like us common folk who put you on the map, Junior. A lesson you would be wise to learn. But I'm not bitter or anything.

Anywho, so we all brace ourselves for the on-air gangsta tude and the inevitable brush off when, lo and behold, he becomes marginally more engaging as soon as the camera light goes on. Oh, NOW we're Mr. Approachable. Is this how we play? 

When the segment ends, I go into my little trained monkey act (that's part of the gig when you're a floor manager--always having to entertain and make nice-nice) and as pleasantly as possible ask if he'd like to join us for the next segment. 

Him: I'm here now. I might as well stick around.

Me: Don't do us any favors, Ass Face.  :0   Did I say that out loud?! 

That segment goes okay--surprise! Jethro's warming up and on board for the weather bit including adopt a pet. And by "pet" I mean a ginormous pit bull with interlocking jaws of death which tugs at his inner Michael Vick. Now he's all kissing on the pooch, being warm and fuzzy. Go figure. A killer dog brings out the soft underbelly of Mr. Jerk Wad.

Next stop, the kitchen and some crappy, tasteless, low-fat gruel prepared by one of our nicer guests. Along the way from Studio A to Studio B, Gomer starts acting like a human. Too late, Butt Munch. I dump his sorry ass on the other floor manager--he's her problem now. So long, sucker. Don't darken my door again.

This is why I'm hesitant to meet famous people I really admire and enjoy. None of us really liked this goober to begin with, but just imagine how disappointed we'd all have been if we HAD admired him. I tell ya, some people's kids... 

It makes me really appreciate people like "The Ghost Whisperer's" David Conrad who stops by often, is completely down to earth and even takes jump pictures with us. Now HE'S cool!

Friday Photo #15 

or viva la bar crawl!  

Two years ago we had a four-stop, farewell bar crawl for our weather chanteuse, Becca, who decided to chuck the whole television biz to be a stay-at-home Mom. This shot was taken at our last stop, Bar 11. It's a great, totally dive bar where they throw handfuls of plastic toy tchotchkes in your drink, including candy necklaces. It's loud, it's brash and it absolutely has to be THE last stop of the night. You just can't appreciate this place unless you are well lubed. It's where everyone cuts loose before staggering to the diner for huevos and java. 

I love this photo. It's one of my absolute favorites because it successfully captures a moment--you know what I mean? It's completely spontaneous and unguarded and sums up the blast we all had that night. (and yes, I realize there are too many "ands" in that sentence)

With all the crap happening at work these days, good thing it's almost time for the Third Annual Becca Farewell Bar Crawl. We need it. 

In Which I "Borrow" a Topic  From Isabel 

hey, don't judge me. I'm giving her credit so get off my ass already... 

Okay, so last night I read one of my favorite bloggers, HolaIsabel. She's pregnant and went on about how "they"- the mysterious experts- tell you pregnant women have better sex lives (which she denies) and are prone to more (as in number) sexually charged dreams (which she confirms). Having never been preggers meself, I cannot speak to the truth of either of these two claims. 

But what is apparently universally true, whether one is with child or not, is how these vivid sex dreams never seem to get to the "Happy Ending" (if you know what I mean. yeah. you do. I can tell by the way you're chewing that ice cube...) before waking. 

What's up with that?

I've had some pretty fabuloso, semi-carnal unconscious trysts with mystery, somewhat faceless guys and one truly spectacular make-out session with TV's Kyle Chandler from his Early Edition days. It was on a couch, and he was all soft and manly, shirtless and a GREAT kisser!! Oh la la. But again...I woke up right when the BVDs were coming off. So. Not. Fair!

Why is it you always seem to stir when the gutchies start to come off. And no matter how hard you try, you can never, EVER go back to sleep to pick up where you left off in your subconscious booty call. Never happens. NEVER. Double Not Fair. Isabel attributes it to being loyal to her husband even in slumber. I think it's just the cosmos dicking with us... figuratively, and kinda literally, too... you know, because the cosmos is a mean drunk and sort of pricky.

In all the 26 years I've known Geo, I think I dreamt of him maybe... three times. And even WE didn't do the nasty in dreamland. I don't get it? (that's what she said--okay that was a freebie) You'd think since it's your hubby your subconscious would do you that solid and let it all play out, but nooooo. 

However, if I ever had a sex dream about the King-of-all-my-things Rhett Miller, I think my ovaries would spontaneously kick out three eggs and I'd wake up pregnant in dire need of a cigarette. Yowza! THAT would be seriously hawt!!   Look at him... he's thinking how hot that would be, too. Yeah... He wants me.  :D

Who's Naming This Stuff? 

seriously... what the?!? 

Okay, so I love signage. Especially unintentionally inappropriate signage. I was in the Giant Eagle (an uber food mart prevalent here in town) waiting in the pharmacy line refilling my Valtrex (KIDDING!!) when I saw this...

I have no idea what this is even for, but who names a product...any product Sac Magique? How great would it have been to be in THAT brainstorming session, huh? And does the French make it more legit somehow?

Shelf placement is very important in retail. I think ye olde Sac Magique would go nicely next to this...

Ha Ha Ha... Sorry. This brings the 12-year-old boy in me great joy. I think le Sac Magique cast a spell on my defenseless phone photo's coloring. tsk tsk... Le Naughty, Naughty.  

In Which I Yield The Floor To Share A Friend's Tale 

Okay, so my friend and coworker, Kahones wrote a note on his Facebook page last week that had me absolutely crying from laughter. So naturally I asked him if I could bogart it for this here blog thingie, because really it is just too funny not to share. Seriously. Thankfully, he agreed. Enjoy!

Just Desserts... You Make The Call

Let me preface this little ditty with... I love kids. Love them. There's nothing as sweet and pure. Let me also say, there's no ONE way to parent. Everyone does it differently, but when personal spaces are invaded, either physically, by deafening screams or unidentified flying, slimy objects, something's just not working. 

 I finish my morning broadcast and pop into my favorite coffee shop for a piping hot java and crisp breakfast sandwich. It's 8:30 so it's busy. I pull open the door and hold it for a Mom, hand-in-hand with her little man (4-years-old I'm guessing). He's not really walking. He's kind of beebopping. You know that bounce, bounce, over striding, ants-in-his-pants walk. Of course, because we are an immediate and connected society, she's on her cell phone. As she passes my smiling face, I hear her in a snide and snotty tone: "oh I CAN'T STAND to do anything with that family. That child is an absolute monster. A total brat!" 

Remember these words folks.

Somehow I end up in front of Mom and Cameron (I'm guessing. She called him: Cammy). I'm digesting the comment I heard as she passed through the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Cammy still hand-in-hand, standing quietly, patiently. I think to myself: "Self, isn't that a picture. What a well-behaved boy". That thought was quickly erased... no, BEATEN out of my brain.

Cammy starts complaining. Mom tells him to be patient. Everyone else has to wait. Cammy starts doing the dead-weight-nearly-pulling-Mom-over-starting-to-scream lean. Heads are starting to turn. Mom relents and releases Cammy's hand. 

Mistake. 

Then the kid lets one rip. I mean, not a cute, little tot toot... I mean a 70-year-old Grandpa, asleep on the couch, clear a room boom. I bit my lip, cuz it was ffuuuunnnnyyy. Mom says "what do you say?" I was thinking... "uh, want to check my pants?"

Cammy's a wanderer. He marched over to the taster bagel stand, reaches up, grabs a bagel bit, smells it, then does his best center-field-to-home throw. he launches it over the people waiting in line, over the counter and into the food prep area. "Cammy! Stop that. Get over here", Mom snarls. 

Yeah, right. 

Cammy starts darting--I'm talking a dead sprint--from the front of the store to the back. It's reckless abandonment. He farts. Not so cute Cammy doesn't care who he runs into. Mom's barking at him to slow down. To stop. Too late. Cammy's at the age where his big melon is at the height of an average man's crotch. On a dead sprint, Cammy slams into some poor chap. Yep, Cammy's head hits him right in the ... well, "creamer". Guy spills his coffee. Mom let's out a big sigh, goes over, apologizes and scoops up a coffee soaked kid. The screaming begins. The entire shop is staring. Mom's jaw is clearly tight with tension. I'm starting to chuckle. The kid farts. 

By this point I've paid for my coffee and sandwich. Sipping my rich, black cup of joe, I wait for my sandwich order to come up. I know I'm in store for something good again, cuz Cammy is screaming--shrilling at the top of his lungs all the while doing the dead man lean. Mom again, let's go. 

Did I mention this is a mistake? 

The terror takes off again. Farts. Mom's trying to pay for her freu-freu-candy-coffee-in-a-cup. All is quiet. Not good, because Mom has NO IDEA where Cammy is. He's not in sight. He's in the back of the store. Suddenly out of nowhere... Suuuuper Caaaammmmyyyyy!!!!

I'm not sure what Mom is doing, but I assumed she would have cashed out and bailed out. Not before this. What is it about kids and spinning in circles at warp speed, I'll never know. Cammy is whipping around in circles faster than the Tea Cups at some crappy County Fair. He comes out of his spin--not on purpose--but that "Whoa, Whoa, Whoa" arms flailing kind of way. He darts forward headed for the counter. He slams, forehead first, into the side of the counter and drops like a stone. As Cammy slams on his back, he simultaneously farts AND burps. Suddenly I feel this really warm feeling in my sinuses. No, it's not a sneeze. Coffee damned near sailed out of my nose. I look around and everyone, EVERYONE, has that suppress-a-laugh smirk on their faces.

Mom runs over to Cammy. Not a scream... Not a cry... Not a whimper... Mom picks him up and that's when I notice a 2 1/2 inch, well defined, red indentation on Cammy's forehead. No blood. He'll feel that in the morning. Mom implores, "Are you ok?" FAAAARRRTTTTTTT.

Hey, great my order is ready!! I grab my sandwich and turn to see Cammy and Mom walking 

out, hand-in-hand. Cammy's now pulling on the seat of his pants. Wonder why? I guarantee it's going to be a smelly ride home. An employee picks up Cammy's tossle cap and hands it to Mom. Now we all understand why it wouldn't stay on his head... the horns kept pushing it off.

Thinking back to the phone call I overheard at the beginning of this story, I laugh to myself. As parents... our kid is  never the brat. It's always the other kid. 

tee hee

Thanks for the huge laugh, Kahones. My only question is...what the HELL is that woman feeding that kid?!? 

It Happened One Score and Four Years Ago... 

(okay...this is the last icky, mushy post for awhile, promise) 

On a sunny winter day in February, Geo and I tied the knot in a very traditional Ukranian Orthodox ceremony. We wore gold crowns, took three laps around the altar while our hands were tied together with colorfully embroidered cloth... and lost one or two guests to fainting. 

(In their defense, it was very hot in the church and people stood for nearly an hour. I know. It sounds lame, but that's what happened. *thud* "There goes Kenny".)

The reception was far less traditional and tons of fun. I can't believe 24 years has flown by so quickly. I mean, look at us. We were just kids then. I was a mere 120 pounds with baby fat and big, 80s hair and Geo had a full head of dark brown hair and a thick, yummy beard with not a grey hair in sight. 

When I look at this picture (which I do often since it's prominently placed on our mantle) I think to myself "who the HELL let these kids get married?" Seriously. We had absolutely no idea what we were doing. None. 

But we were in love and just wanted to be together. We never thought about the pitfalls and hardships ahead. We didn't give a shit. As long as we faced life's surprises together, we'd figure it out somehow, right? We did and we have. 

All these years later, I'm happy to say I dig Geo infinitely more now than that happiest of days. He rights my ship when I go astray. His love allows me the security to be who I am. He is my touchstone and true North. He is my best friend. He is my heart. 

Happy Valentine's Day To Me!

or where's my cocktail? I'm freaking dehydrated here...

Dear Penthouse Forum-

Last night I spent 120 gloriously sweaty minutes with five strapping black men, one Asian and three white guys, two of whom were my hubby, Geo and my go-to-date, Howard. This morning I woke up with burning thighs, a sore neck and my back crying out for the sweet release of a chiropractic crack.

I believe I also caught a fever... a fever from an infectious ska-beat of British origin. It was the English Beat!!

That's right. We spent two non-stop, high-energy, dance-a-thon, rhythmic hours in a grungy theater packed with a sea of fellow middle-aged English Beat followers having a ball grooving to one of the few 80s bands whose return is most welcomed. I haven't danced that much for probably a decade... hence the bad case of "dance neck" and burning quads this morning.

The evening started with a local ska band No Pressure comprised of five guys and a gal who kept chewing her gum while alternately singing on-key then off-key. I kept expecting the offending wad of chicle to spew forth into the crowd as she blurted one sour note after another. Apparently she had it tucked deep in her cheek like a squirrel on an eating binge... so crisis averted there.

But by far the most entertaining part of this band was the bass player. His fingers sailed up and down the neck of his bass, keeping a perfect ska beat with the rest of the band, but his body movements were distorted, twisted and completely out of step.

How is that even possible?

How can you keep one rhythm with your fingers and a totally unrelated I-think-I'm-having-a-seizure-ala-Elaine-Benis beat with your body?!? While everyone else was bopping and jumping in time, he was moving in some other time zone to a crazy-assed, awkward, atonal beat like the poster child for the whitest of white guy dancing.

Seriously!

It was hilarious to watch. Then to top it off, at the end of their set, Fred Astaire raised his bass guitar to reveal to the crowd he had split the front of his pants. I kid you not. Thank God he was wearing Underoos because nobody needed to see his Wee Willie winking out from his crotch. Endless entertainment, this lot. In spite of all that, the music was actually pretty good.

Then the English Beat took the stage and the energy level went into orbit--not to return to Earth until the End of the Party! Pounding bass lines, commanding drum beats, screaming sax solos and Dave Wakeling sounding like he did 30 years ago. At the stroke of the first note, all of us old farts were up and dancing for the rest of the evening. (here's Geo's favorite)

It was fucking brilliant!!

Apparently the promoters were less than hospitable to Dave and the gang, because he was relentlessly slamming them throughout the evening. Calling them out for not providing water, Gatorade, sandwiches or a nice cup a tea. Come on, people! They're English! You could have at least given them a pot of tea beforehand. Then to add insult to injury, the brain trust in charge insisted they only play 90 minutes.

They obviously had no idea who they were dealing with. Ole Dave flipped them ye olde "up yours" two-finger salute and proceeded to spend the next two hours electrifying the crowd with all the old favs and a couple new bits. Aaaaah... Good times. Good times.

(By the way, turns out all the chiding during the night worked... The management did a Mea Culpa and ponied up for Subway subs for the band. It was all love and kisses during the encore.)

I crawled into bed at 12:35am with the sound of a thousand cicadas ringing in my ear, more exhausted than I'd been in recent memory and the glow of a night well spent.

It was a Happy Valentine's Day, indeed.