The Show Must Go On
I came up with the name for my blog right there on the spot when creating the account. It was something my mother used to say all the time. She was the manager for a movie theatre for many years and whether rain or shine, sleet, snow, hurricanes, tornadoes, she had to open up the show.
I didn’t realize that Pink Floyd had a song called “The Show Must Go On” until I wrote that post about my brother, “Comfortably Numb.” I listened to that song while writing that post and that was when I saw that the “Show” song immediately followed it (on “The Wall” CD). Strange.
So, as promised, I have the special story on that built in DVD case we just had built.
First, here is the media room:
I’d like to say we watch a million movies in there, but honestly, this is where my husband plays his XBox 360 while I am banging out script pages (I call the game thing a husband sitter.)
Recently, he got a carpenter to make this built in DVD shelf in there. It’s still a little rough, needs touch up paint and all that, but a promise is a promise… the show must go on.
My husband is an engineer, he is creative and inventive and thinks up some pretty fun stuff. This is no ordinary built in DVD case:
It is a secret door that goes into a secret room built out of extra attic space. It opens all the way, I just don’t have a good shot of that.
Oh, did I tell you the carpenter skipped town with the money and didn’t finish the job? My husband was in there last night on a ladder hanging sheetrock.
So he is in this room without windows and this brown butterfly keeps flying around his face. He thought of Shane right away. A lot of people think spirits come in the form of a butterfly. He does. I’m not sure, but I think it’s possible. That was last night.
This morning at about 9AM, Shane’s daughter Candace, 19, my Godchild, was killed in a car accident. She was alone, no other car was involved that we know of.
The secret room, I wish it were a padded cell right now. I don’t understand, I will never understand how in just two months my brother and his daughter, both young, died so fucking tragically.
Candace was smart, she just finished a semester of college despite losing her dad and the fact that she had an infant and was a single mother very much on her own. It was rough, but she didn’t give up, was determined to keep going.
Here is a photo of her from a couple of months ago.
Candace used to read this blog, especially the things about her dad. She was too shy to leave comments and would email some to me instead.
Please drive carefully during the New Year’s holiday.
Edited Note: Parts of this original post have been edited for security reasons.
Back to Blak
I’m still looking all over the place for Blak, that new fusion crazy soda drink. This chick, a real clown, Bozoette tried it after reading about it here and she posted a hilarious review of her first Blak experience in this post.
It was this chick, though who left a comment on my “Where’s The New Blak” post with her bright idea to just make it at home. Well I am a DIY type, had thought of it before, but there’s just something about being egged on that made me actually try it.
Should be easy enough, get some Coke, a shot of espresso with a pinch of artificial sweetner, and a glass:
Pour in a decent amount of Coke:
Now a little espresso:
A violent reaction, like those volcano science projects we all do for school. Quick, run, get some towels!
Oh, would I drink this botched experimental liquid? You bet. It was the nastiest thing I have ever tasted and I’m pretty sure it is what made me turn into a little green monster. True, I’m tap dancing out this post with my tiny little feet.
And little green monsters can make a mean creme brulee:
That’s it for today’s kitchen experiments. Tomorrow I will tell you all about our wicked bookcase/DVD shelf in that room upstairs.
Calling All Dogs
I am on a neighborhood email list and got this today from a frustrated neighbor:
I have seen a small dog with a tag wandering about in the neighborhood but don’t know who owns that.
I would like to bring this into everyone’s notice that there are some dog owners who walk their dogs in the neighborhood and don’t cleanup after their dogs in other peoples yards, This is very bad and I believe its against the law as well. I have noticed this on many occasions when I don’t see an owner without anything(plastic bags etc) to cleanup after their dogs. This problem has become worse in the last few weeks with dog poops lying everywhere in the front yards.
Lately I have noticed a small white dog with black ears and a black spot on the back wandering around un-accompanied pooping in front yards. He had a tag, but I could not get the name.
I am requesting everyone to pass this on to the dog owners to be a little considerate and cleanup after their dogs.
I’m not sure exactly where in the neighborhood this guy lives, but I have to find out. I had no idea us dog owners were being staked out for possession of plastic bags. I keep them in my pocket. And what if my dog already shat and I’ve thrown it away in someone’s (maybe his) trash can?
It’s time for that shit-in-the-bag-on-fire and ring-the-doorbell prank. We’ll find him. I printed out the email and had my dogs sniff out his scent. We’ll find him alright.
Here’s my posse:
The two black ones are Blane and Angela’s, the light ones are mine, and the one with the fangs is Pablo, Shane’s dog.
Hell, I’m sure I can get all of the dogs at DogsAgainstBush to help us out.
Etch-A-Sketch Mentality
The tv commercials are pumping up the New Year’s resolution thing like mad. Nicotine patches and gums, health clubs, exercise machine thingys, all that stuff to make you feel the guilt and hop on the band wagon.
I always hated it when someone would ask what is my New Year’s resolution, “What, do I look like I need one?” The truth is, I have never made one. Sure there is always something in my life that could use some change, and it would be nice to roll with everyone else in the world who is making a major correction at the same time. It just doesn’t work like that for me.
My father was a raging alcoholic. My mom, who never ever drank started going to Al Anon meetings early on. They taught her a lot of things which she’d in turn teach us. One of my favorites was her alcoholic translator. If my dad would say something mean or stupid, she’d say, “That’s the alcohol talking.” She’d often talk about “One day at a time,” also.
Somehow that stuff and my Catholic upbringing turned into this Etch-A-Sketch mentality where yesterdays are shaken and today starts out with a clean new board.
Any day is a good day for a resolution. Speaking of, time to hit the treadmill.
From Google images
Those Pants
Believe it or not, this is my favorite article of clothing.
It’s a pair of Calvin Klein pants I got about 10 years ago for five bucks at Ross. Best fi-dollas ever spent. Depending on your perspective, they either always look dirty or always look clean. They have been on every trip.
The huge side pockets are great for the camera, passports, iteneraries. Not very jetset, but that’s part of the reason too. I’ve never been pickpocketed. I have on occassion sewn one pocket shut if we’re hanging in a risky area like a crowded rock festival where the ATM machines have run out of cash.
The drawstring waist means they always fit. Too much baguette and creme brulee? No worries. Too much castle step-climbing and not enough duty-free Toblerone? Same deal. The drawstring is so torn up I’ve had to tie knots in them to keep from losing the ends. Both sides.
They’re perfect for sleeping on night trains. I can sleepwalk during the night (I do that) but best of all, I’m already dressed on arrival. That’s how these pants got the nickname, “filthy train pants.”
First Photo
Here is the first photo with the new camera.
It’s a closeup of my angel topper’s basket. The star in the basket is from Shane’s tree.
I’m loving this camera, it shoots much faster than the old one and has 10x optical zoom. I’ve only read about two pages of the book, so I’m not sure yet what this thing can do. I just got the memory today from my son, he was too sick from food poisoning to come over on Christmas. Yeah, on their way back from their honeymoon, a stewardess offered he and his wife some rice pudding she had made at home. They both got sick but are better now.
I am so glad Christmas is over and everyone is safely back home. I am so behind on the workshop, workouts, everything…
Peace On You
My father-in-law is such a rascal. During Mass at the part when we shake hands and tell everyone near us, “Peace be with you,” he’d grin like a kid and say, “Peace on you.”
I wish I’d thought of it first.
So. For Christmas everyone decided they wanted gumbo but we couldn’t agree on whether it would be seafood or chicken and sausage gumbo. I made both. If you know me and know where I live, drop in, there’s enough for everybody.
Now, I want to give everyone a present. Or two.
The first present is a photograph I took in a museum, the Aya Sophia, this past summer in Istanbul, Turkey. This is a mosaic of the Madonna and Child.
Before it was a museum, it was a mosque. Yes, with Baby Jesus mosaics. And Allah things hanging in there. The Christian things were left as they were when they converted it about 500 years ago. Before that, it was a Cathedral, and it was the greatest church in Christiandom for about 900 years. If Allah and Baby Jesus can get along for 500 years under the same roof…
The biggest thing I’ve learned while travelling is something from the very first trip. Pack light. Everything you bring has to be carried around by you from place to place. Think hard on whether you really need all that stuff because it gets heavy, really heavy.
That was the second gift, that advice, to pack light. You don’t have to go anywhere to appreciate this. Life is a journey that is better travelled with a lighter load on your back. You’ll live longer and better.
Peace out.
Two Wrongs To Make It Right
Okay, so I done Max wrong, suggested she listen to a rock Christmas song in which I was unfamiliar with the lyrics. Well, the song still rocks, but if I could decorate the dog house, this is what it would look like:
Go ahead and click that thing, it is a cool light show.
I can’t believe I’m still doing this Holidailies thing, posting every day for the month of December. I knew I could do it or I wouldn’t have committed, but it seemed like it would be difficult to come up with ideas. It hasn’t. It’s been fun, I’ve found a lot of cool blogs in the process, learned a lot of new things about blogging, and have already decided to do it again next year.
Scary Christmas
Years back when my son was a teen, he put a knife in my mechanical waving santa’s hand and waited for us to come home from shopping. I’d written about it in this post but didn’t have a photo of it.
(this is the same santa, I recreated what he did and just took this photo)
Of course I had to return the gag. This is the Christmas card I gave him that same year. It started out as a nice card someone had sent to us. I scratched off their name and changed it up a little. See that tiny knife in his hand? It is a real miniature knife I happened to find in the junk drawer that day.
And this is what the inside read:
“May your scary dreams come true this Christmas”
He liked it so much he kept it on display in his room for years.
Really Strange Guys
Okay, in the record section of the store, and I’m not telling which store because I am supposed to be boycotting them and refuse to advertise for them. Yeah, the music department, fumbling with a CD by that barcode preview thing… The clerk, a big-bellied guy with a handlebar mustache insists on helping me get it to work. Then he hangs around to see (and hear) what I was previewing. The music video pops up, AFI’s “Miss Murder.”
Mr. Handlebar Mustache looks at the weird guy singing, looks at me, looks back at the weird guy. He asks, “You don’t listen to that hard rock?
I pause for a while, hey, is he trying to sell this stuff or not? Finally I tell him, “Yep, I do.”
He rolls his eyes and walks off.
Yeah I listen to this punkass crap. That and techno is about the only thing with the right beat for my workouts. It’s brutal, my exercise routine which keeps me sane. And this music, it chases off the really strange guys.
I got hooked on this music after MTV got all trashed up with rap and reality shows. I had to go to Fuse TV to watch some rock.
Here’s AFI’s “Miss Murder.” Don’t be afraid.
Slicker Than Slick
I can be pretty slick sometimes. I convinced my husband that I had to have my Christmas present (a digital camera) early so that I can know how to use it on Chirstmas day. To take photos of all the joy on everyone’s face as they opened their gifts. Need to charge the battery, too. So I got it today. I opened the box, “Just for the book,” I said. Didn’t touch the camera. Not while he was around.
He’s slicker than me. I’m getting the memory from someone else. So yeah, I got my camera but can’t take any photos to show you. Sorry, we’ll all have to suffer the grainy photos for a little longer.
Not Even
One of the most important things to do when raising kids is to know where they are at all times. My 16 year old’s school let out a few hours early today and she didn’t ride the bus. Or call. I didn’t know where she was for hours.
When I finally did track her down, I took her phone and her iPod. I hate doing this, punishing her. She needs to know how it feels to not know where her stuff is at all times. Her stuff is coming with me shopping. She’s not. She’ll be lost without her list of contacts. She’ll probably worry that I’m going to read her text messages (I won’t). Still, she won’t worry like I did. There is no way to reinvent or recreate that feeling in her.
Reminds me of something my mom used to say when I would tear up her stuff. She’d say, “When you grow up, I’m going to your house and break all of your furniture.” She was just here and she didn’t break a thing. Well, maybe her promise to break all my stuff.
Mamma!
It was a beautiful day and it was the most beautiful wedding we’ve ever been to. Nothing went wrong.
We gave him a big fat kiss.
That’s my big blurry bubble…
Somebody dropped them off at the airport hotel for their honeymoon flight in the morning. Okay. Since we had a big dinner later that evening with all of our out-of-town family members, we had to pick up the newlyweds for dinner, then bring them back to the hotel again. (do we ever stop driving these kids around?).
Okay. I get a call at 2 AM.
Son: Mom, you busy?
Me: No. What you doing up?
Son: Can you come and bring us to CVS pharmacy?
Me: Sure.
The airport hotel is an hour from my house. But I went. Brought them to the pharmacy. The bride somehow lost almost all of her bags. If I would have really really wanted, I could have had myself a grandchild next year.
They could have called a cab. They called me instead. I told them they really just wanted me to bring them to get some candy.
I remember that first night I was married. I cried like a baby for my mamma.
During my one hour drive home, it felt good. Really good that my son feels he can call me in the middle of the night to do something for them and that things like this never make me mad. And that I had them all to myself for a little while. The three of us who just hours earler were dressed like kings and queens were riding around dressed like bums, looking for a pharmacy in the middle of the night.
That Skirt
I’d found the perfect blouse for the wedding and was going to wear it with a skirt I already had. But there was this gorgeous skirt that would have looked better, and I really wanted it. It was too expensive and it would have caused too much guilt.
On the other hand, I had guilt about not splurging on it since it is for my son’s wedding. How could I cheap out like that? So I went back to the store last night with all of my fingers and toes crossed in hope that it would be on sale. It wasn’t. Looking at the price tag to make damn sure, it turns out I was wrong. That skirt was half the price I thought it was. By now, they had sold my size. Luckily, the clerk said they could alter it and have it back to me that same evening.
It’s mine now. Another funny thing, I’d written about a skirt exactly like this in my script a couple of months ago and didn’t realize this until I tried it on last night. It was a strange moment looking in the mirror, thinking about my character. It’s important to the story, that skirt, and she buys it at the last minute. Do we write what we are, or become what we write? Or both?
It is a silk skirt with tulle underlayers.
Walking
I took my mother over to my son’s new apartment last night so she could see what it looked like. He met us out at the car and escorted Mom up the stairs. I reached the top first and watched him walk up, his head bobbing higher and higher until he was level with me. As he walked closer, I had a flashback. His first steps on his first birthday. His feet spread wide apart for balance. Like it was yesterday.
I wondered if I would have this same memory on Saturday. If I would be thinking of those first steps as he walked down the aisle to get married. I will, I know it. Things like this probably make parents cry like little girls at their children’s weddings.
My mother-in-law cried for my entire wedding. It was upsetting. I wondered if it meant she really did not want her son to marry me. She cried like it was a funeral. I had never seen her cry before. And never saw her cry like that again.
Now, in her shoes, I finally understand.
The whole time my son was growing up, he was such a good kid. Never told a lie. Never said a cuss word in front of me. Never came home with alcohol on his breath. Never made me feel like I had to raise my voice to him. Unbelievable, I know. But it is true. So, my thoughts while he was growing up were, I pity the poor girl who ever tries to marry him. She’ll never be good enough.
Her parents were probably thinking the same thing while she was growing up. I hope so.
So here’s wishing the very best for this perfect young couple. And here is the advice I will give them on Saturday.
Always respect each other.
That’s it. You have respect, everything else falls into place.
Here’s a photo of Baby Blane and I on the day he was born.
Shane’s Christmas
Since we’re usually travelling for the holidays, I don’t always put up the tree. This year there’s no excuse since we’re staying in town. So I’m feeling a little guilty about not dragging it out. Maybe I’ll do it.
Halfway through my childhood, my mom had stopped putting up the tree. She’d thrown it away maybe thinking we were too old for it, or maybe our house was too small, there were too many of us, and we were getting bigger. Not enough room?
One Christmas season after my mom left for work my brother Shane (about 14 at the time) said, “I’ll be goddamned if we’re gonna do without a tree again this year.” He grabbed a saw and asked, “Who’s coming?”
A couple of hours later, he came back with a six foot evergreen he and my little brothers had cut from the woods nearby. We made chains from construction paper, all sorts of glittery decorations and put that sucker in the living room. We surprised my mom to tears. The next day she took us to the store for some icicles and spray snow. We all thought the icicles made that tree look “store-bought”. Spray snow was newish and since we had never really seen much real snow in Louisiana, we went crazy with that stuff. Kept going back to the store for more and more snow. We sprayed everything. The tree. The windows of the house, the car windows, each other…
I have to admit. That was my favorite Christmas ever because of Shane’s damn tree and all the fuss we made over it. It was the first time I ever saw my mom get the Christmas spirit. Years later around Christmas time I had an appendectomy and Shane brought me a gift, a little potted Christmas tree. It was about 8 inches tall with little tiny decorations on it. It was so special to me I saved all the little ornaments, still have them. This was about 20 years ago.
This will be our first Christmas without Shane, he died a couple of months ago. I think I will put up my tree and dig out those tiny ornaments.
Edited Note: Toward the end of writing this, I had some big shiny tears splashing down into my lap. They looked like melting icicles.
Two Happy Meals for Fitty Cents
My sixteen year old daughter is a natural at bargaining. I noticed it mostly this past summer at markets we went to in Istanbul. I’ve never been good at getting people to go too far down on price, but her dad is. She picked it up from him. It’s such a cool skill and it’s pretty hilarious to watch this kid “work it.”
We’ll go into a pizza place to pick up a pizza and she’ll just look at the pizza guy and say, “Don’t you think I should get some free bread sticks?” She gets free bread sticks. Every time.
One day she was telling her 13 year old sister and I how she and a friend went to McDonald’s after school and got two Happy Meals for fifty cents. She said she put two quarters on the counter and said, “I’m hungry, but all I have is fitty cents. What can I get?”
The guy looked at the two girls and said, “Pick what you want.”
Her siser says, “I know how she did it. Un hum…Push-up bra.”
It’s funny but not true.
This old shopkeeper in Istanbul was catching a headache while my daughter was working him over for a genie lamp. She walked out of the shop and he chased after her saying, “Okay, okay, two Turkish Lira.” He was wanting ten.
Espresso Nirvana
I had my first cup years ago somewhere in Europe. I fell in love with it even though at the time I was not a coffee drinker and had never been to Starbucks.
After getting back, I tried Starbucks but the quality just wasn’t there. So I did a little research and bought this Italian machine, a Pavoni.
It’s not a machine for beginners. It took about six months before I could pull a perfect shot.
There are so many factors in making it just right. The bean, some people roast their own. Illy is just perfect although I often make do with Starbuck’s Italian roast beans. A lot of people swear by Lavazza, but I don’t like it.
The grind must be of the texture between sugar and flour. I’ve bought a ton of grinders and never was satisfied with any until I splurged on a Mazzer grinder.
The amout of coffee grinds has to be perfect. Some people weigh it in grams; I can tell the right amount by eye. The Mazzer has a doser, but it has to be set. The grind and the amount. Next, the tamp has to be done at about 30 pounds of pressure.
Still, even with all this prep, I could only pull a perfect shot 25% of the time. The bars of pressure has to be just right, and even with the guage, it doesn’t always come out right. The water tank needs to be 3/4 full. The time of the pull and the amount of pressure on the pull handle, that has to be the same every time. So after years of this, I moved up to the next level.
I got this semi-automatic Expobar Athena (in copper, the silver thing is the Mazzer grinder).
The machine is made in Spain, much of it hammered by hand. I’ve had to take it apart to work on it (it weighs 70 lbs, forget shipping it off and who the hell around here works on these things, anyway?)
Parts of the inside were made of old metal signs. I like that.
I still have to grind, dose and tamp the coffee, and that is good, it allows more control over the process than the fully automatic machines. It pulls a pretty good shot consistently, but never the sort of best shot as with the Pavoni. I don’t use the auto frother for the milk, I do that by hand with the wand attached to the machine. Again, more control.
So here is what a good cup of espresso looks like coming out, see that crema?
Why go through all this trouble for a cup of coffee? It’s a picky methodical process with too many extraneous factors. Keeping things simple is my usual motto. But this is how I start my day.
It’s a reminder that some things, special things, they do not happen easily. Human touch and even the stars have to line up just right for it all to work. Like making movies. It’s amazing that they happen, but they do. I hope to be a part of that magical process with my writing. Someday.
Ass Kicking in the Kitchen
My husband was out of town this past weekend so we did the usual and slopped the house. By Saturday evening we were just sitting around slacking, watching videos. It looked like the Cat and the Hat dude had come by and did a number on the place. It was bad.
I told the kids we were in some serious trouble. That relatives would start coming in this week and we can’t let them see the place like this. We all decided “tomorrow” was the day. Which was Sunday.
We did it. There were stacks of mail, stacks of papers, books, you name it. Things that didn’t belong in the kitchen. It’s never messed up with dishes and things like that. It’s just that the kitchen here is like a junk drawer, a magnet for things that no one has a place for. Buttons. Sewing needles, spools of thread. Junk. I told everyone to get their stuff or it would get thrown away. Half a day later, here’s what it looked like.
I cleaned out the fridge, boy is it empty now. The micro. The oven. All that. Tackled the laundry room too. I don’t know how people with kids keep their houses so clean all the time.
I do have to give some credit to Pooks, not that she came over and cleaned for me, but she’s always got some good posts on her blog about organizing things. Couldn’t help but think about her as I filed all those papers away and threw away the things we don’t use or need.
The guy that was supposed to do this “secret room” addition with the hidden door that looks like a bookcase did about 1/4 of the job and skipped town. Left a hole in the wall and that’s about it. I told my husband I had this strange hunch about him, that as I wrote the check (we had to pay for half the job when we hired him) I got this feeling he would buy some crack with it. He was clean, had references, but there was something about him.
At least the house is clean. Now to hide that hole… And yes, we did look for him in there.
Big Junk
I got this piano years ago at an antique auction for about $150. It was painted black and in pretty bad shape, so I refinished it. It took about six months and came out nice, but when I got the piano man to come over and tune it, he had some very bad news. He said no child should ever play the thing because it did not keep a tune and it sounded horrible. It did, it sounded like an old saloon piano. How stupid of me to think this man could actually fix the sound.
So my daughter plays on an electronic keyboard and it is time to buy her a real piano. I need to get rid of this thing. Yes, it hurts like hell to have spent so much time on something and have to junk it. But how?
I’d like to take an ax to it, but maybe someone would like to have it. There was a shop I went in one time while travelling that made aquariums out of old upright pianos. That’s about all this thing is good for.
