The Killer Vacuum

I have been looking for the perfect vacuum cleaner all of my life. I once had a cleaning lady quit because she said I had too much dog hair, and it was clogging up her vacuum.  I have become convinced that old vacuums work better than new ones.  That is not to say that I have not watched the entire length of the Dyson vacuum infomercial in awe.  

So my best friend did a bunch of research, and then I heeded the results, and we came up with the Royale, as the best choice in antiquated sweepers.  I, then, scoured Craig's List for one, and had Brad take me to their house for a looksee.  We were going to a pumpkin patch festival or something family oriented like that, that gives me hives, (as it never turns out the way you had imagined) and luckily, the vendor of the vacuum was right in the neighborhood.

So, here is the problem that I find with Craig's List transactions such as this.  You go to a complete stranger's house, they demonstrate (in my case) or show you the product, and then you have this awkward moment, where if you don't want it, then you have to somehow leave without (in this case) getting beaten up.

We have all three kids in the car, in what appears to be a low income neighborhood, near our goal destination requiring forced family fun.  I go up to the door, by myself, and a huge woman answers the door with a cigarrette hanging out of her mouth, and introduces me to her partner, another gigantic woman.  I realize at this point that I am buying the vacuum, whether it turns on or not.  The performance of the appliance is irrelevant.

"We'll go out here,"  she grunts as she leads me through what appears to be a replica of the basement in Silence of the Lambs.

"It puts the lotion on it's skin or else it gets the hose again, " I hear over and over in my head. 

The woman leads me out to what appears to be her "ciggie porch" with empty crumpled beer cans strewn all over it, accompanied by overflowing ashtrays.  For the first time in many decades I want my Mommy.

"We'll do this here." she says almost inaudibly.  I look down and suddenly notice that I am wearing something really girly and red, which I am sure will remind her of Little Red Riding Hood.  I could not have been a bigger target, if I had been hunting with Dick Cheney.

"This is an awesome sweeper.  My girlfriend and I use it to clean up construction sites.  We're just selling off some of our stuff because we are moving to start a new life." She then plugs in the vacuum, dumps one of the ashtrays on the floor and proceeds to vacuum it up.  It does not pick up all of the cigarettes.  I don't care.  All I can think about are my babies.

"Perfect.  I'll take it.  How much again?"  I take out my checkbook.

"Cash only," Life Partner says behind me.  I swivel around.

I am fumbling with my purse.  I drop it on the floor.  I find all the cash I had taken out for the Pumpkin Festival.  I hand it to her.  It is ten dollars more than asking price.  I tell her that is okay.  She can keep the change.  I pick up the enormous industrial vacuum cleaner that doesn't work properly because it has been picking up screws and broken glass all of it's life, and awkwardly run with it as fast as I can through her scary house and out the front door.

I mash it between my baby girls that I thought I would never see again, and tell Brad to  "get the hell out of here!"

"How much did you pay for that thing?" he asks, with that look he always has on his face whenever I buy something, even if it is for domestic chores.

"I don't wanna talk about it. Let's just enjoy the day."  The sweeper sat in my garage until we threw it out a year later.  I could have mowed the lawn with that thing, or swept it, at least.  I ended up getting an old Electrolux at a yard sale, not long after that.  It has worked like a charm, and I just got it serviced at Goodale Pro Hardware.  My only problem is, that I don't know where I am going to get the vacuum cleaner bags to fit it, once I run out, because the vacuum is over 15 years old.

I guess I'll go on Craig's List. That seemed to work out beautifully before.  

I am positively obsessed with Goodale Pro Hardware.  I love locally owned small businesses.  I think they are what make this country great.   Instead of increasing their prices to be competitive, Goodale  Pro Hardware is so reasonable.  They offer a lot of services, too.  They have this handy man in the back that will try and fix anything.  He serviced my Electrolux for $15.00!  I just recently brought him my broken 10-year-old copper fountain, and he is working on that as we speak.  They will service your lawn mower, sharpen knives, repair screens, rent lawn equipment - you name it.  Maybe this is what ALL hardware stores do, but it seems to me everytime I go into a Lowe's or a Home Depot, if I have a question about something in their store, they end up either passing me off to someone else, or they talk to me about everything BUT what I want to know.

When I go into Goodale Pro Hardware, the best thing about them is their customer service, which I am big on.  I have spoken with the girl working the desk several times.  She helps her uncle out at Springfield Extravaganza.  I have never been there, and she was explaining to me where to go and what to do, and not to buy from the front venders before I peruse the ones in the back, because the front venders price their stuff higher because they paid a premium for their spot. I guess some people find what they are looking for in the front, and then leave.

When I wanted to purchase concrete paint for this fabulous bird bath I purchased for Mother's Day, she directed me to two different kinds of spray paint and then instructed me to buy the cheaper one, because it was better.  I mean, if I had gone to Lowe's I would be hard pressed to find someone that could point me to the proper aisle, let alone advise me to buy the least expensive paint. 

I like the store so much I bought a t-shirt, because I like their logo, too.  Try it out and let me know what you think.

Gossip Girl

My friend just told me about this book that is coming out, that is entirely fiction, and the characters are based on real people (housewives, no less) in Upper Arlington.  Apparently, there is a book signing soon at Scioto, and the fish are jumping.  If this concept sounds vaguely familiar to you, you might have read The Help by Katheryne Stockett.  It is one of my all time favorite books.  The big difference being that this book, supposedly, is written from the prospective of another housewife, not "the help" of the housewives. 

As I was pondering the concept of the book, it raised a lot of issues with me.  For one, isn't the book just gossip, or payback for mistreatment of the protagonist?  Is it just me, or doesn't this reek of Wisteria Lane?  In The Help, it was very clear who the victim was, and who the aggressor was, because of society's standards at the time, and the culture that surrounded it.  But, if you are a housewife in a suburban neighborhood, you are going to come across crazy people, and mistreatment of people, and of course, people who feel justified in doing both, I suppose, if there really are two sides to everything, right?  It becomes about the perspective of the side you are on, really.  And that is why The Help worked, and I am not sure if this book will.  I have not read it, yet.  I will let you know.  Right now I just want to discuss the nature of the book, I guess.

On the flip side, this book will sell like wildfire around Arlington, at least, because people are afraid they are in there, and the disconnect between how they want to be perceived, versus the person they actually are, will be exposed.  SUPPOSEDLY, that is.  I mean, is it slander, if it is true?

Brad and I recently were having a conversation about the power of Facebook and how weird it was that he knew before I did, that my best friend let her daughter and her friends toilet paper (or TP) the inside of her house during her Birthday slumber party because it was raining outside.  This was all because Alissa posted it on Facebook, and he saw it before I did.  The funny thing is, that he probably would have never even known about this, (unless I brought it up) let alone seen a picture before I did!  Isn't that fascinating?

So we started fantasizing about how funny it would be if people posted their REAL status updates on Facebook, rather than the status updates of the way they choose to be perceived.  In a way, for adults, I see Facebook as a way for people to put their own "spin" on their lives.  It is a Public Relations vehicle, really.  What if we all got real, and we posted what was really going on in our lives.  Here are some examples Brad and I came up with.

(1)I don't know how I am going to pay my mortgage this month.  I am living way beyond my means.

(So then if you press Like, are you saying that you are living beyond your means as well, or are you just congratulating the person for being genuine?)

(2)  I just put my kid in time out and forgot about him.  He was in his room for an HOUR. LOL.

(3) I wish my wife would stop spending all my money.  I mean, it would be one thing if the house were clean...

(4) I just took my daughter's Ritalin and I am getting so much done!

and finally

(5)I was so hung over this morning and then my boss came in and wanted to do my review.  Yikes!

We went on and on, as you can imagine. Perception versus Reality is one of my favorite subjects.  What do you want people's perception of you to be?  Do you want to be perceived as smart? fit? funny? perfect? nice? humble? rich?involved?  Whatever you put out there on Facebook is what you want people to perceive about you, whether you realize it or not, but I assume most of you have.  When I ask myself this question, I think the perception I try to put out there is that I am harried and disorganized so that people's expectations of me are low and then they are pleasantly surprised if I pull something off.  I also believe that my perception mirrors my reality.  I am disorganized and harried.  I always have been and I assume I always will be.  So, I've got that going for me, which is nice.  I think you just get into trouble when your appearance doesn't match your true self.   And maybe that is what the women in this town allegedly portrayed in the book I mentioned above might be worried about.  Only time will tell, I guess.

My recommendation to you is to read The Help by Katheryne Stockett, if you haven't already.  It is a wonderful book and I used the expression "Oh Law" for a month. I need to pick that back up.  I miss it.

Aminal Kingdom Part II

Alright we left off where Brad and I should have gone home after the Derby was over and we had money in our pocket, but instead we decided to stay.  We called home to congratulate Mills, who already knew she had won, and it was burning a hole in her pocket already.  Brad stifled any dreams of going to Target and promptly told her that her winnings were to add to her college fund.  Mills, being the Drama Queen that she is, interpreted this as not having enough money to go to college in the first place, unless she had won the Derby, and immediately turned the moment into this hysterical nightmare where her Dad had to get back on the phone and explain that she was going to get to go to college, with or without her Derby winnings.  Classic.  Brad goes and gets another beer.  Honestly, if that man were to have one more ounce of estrogen in his life, his head would explode.

So we ask the girls who their pick is on the next race, and we ignore them all and win it, using my superior betting skills, where I use the name and the color of the racing silks to determine the winner.  We are elated.  We quickly lose the last race and then we realize we are on our own and have no ride home.  We decide to "wait out" the traffic by going to a bar.  There are people everywhere.  We don't even make it to a bar when we discover a house party with a live band and the dance floor is their driveway.  Peeeerrrrrrfffffeeeecccct.  We dance for several hours and make many friends.  No, not the kind of friends you make for life, just the kind of friends you make for the night.  It is by far, my favorite part of the day. 

At some point we decide we are hungry and Brad goes to get us a cab.  Now this is where it gets random.  I look up, mid-interpretive Sweet Home Alabama dance, and he is holding open a door to a dark sedan.  He is waving me over and yelling my name.  I get in.  I am in the back seat of a car owned by an African American couple who I soon learn, "decided to help some folks out by giving them rides around town."  I roll with it.  I have no choice.  Brad decides we are going to Porcini's (Rick Pitino's restaurant where he fornicated on one of the tables and was extorted for it, for all of you basketball enthusiasts).  The couple drive us around town for 45 minutes.  It was not intentional, as there was no meter running, they just couldn't get their GPS to work. 

Finally, we arrive at Porcini's. 

Brad says, "Thanks.  How much do we owe you?"

The lady says, "Umm, that'll be $60."

I say, "What?  That was a twenty dollar cab ride!"  The lady and man look at each other and give each other that look like "are we going to get away with this?" as they shrug their shoulders. 

Brad gives them the money.

"Oh, wait," the lady stops me as I worm my way out of her car.  "Here is our number for when you need a ride home."  I mean, are you serious?

I crumple the number up in my hand and say, "I think we'll just take a cab ride home from here.  It will be a lot cheaper.  Thanks."

The next day, Brad and I determine we got off pretty easy considering we could have been held at gun point and been cleaned out completely. 

So, the door to Porcini's is extremely heavy.  It makes a creaking sound, too, so the people at the bar who are perpendicular to the front entrance turn to look each time the door is opened.  The hostess stand is just to the right of the small foyer beyond the door.

Here is what happened next.  I open the heavy door, and everyone at the bar turns to look. Brad steps on the sole of my flip flop.  I lurch forward and bite it right there in the middle of the foyer in front of everyone.  My purse actually slides and hits the bottom of the hostess stand.  The young hostesses and several people from the bar rush over to help me up and see if I am okay.  One of the patrons say to me, "Wow.  That was a perfect Pete Rose."  and starts laughing.  So does Brad.  Classic. 

The rest of the night was not as exciting.  We ordered food and then decided to take a cab waiting outside.  We took the food to go and came home and went to bed. 

I will be honest, I usually embellish these blogs to make them funnier or more interesting but in this case I left a lot out because it is not suitable for family viewing.  Just kidding.  In reality, the night is a little "patchy". 

My recommendation to you is to have a random night every once in a while, just to keep your marriage interesting.  Stick to public transportation or use licensed companies for getting around town, though. 

Or I guess another, more interesting recommendation, would be for you and your loved one to wait outside of a busy nightlife district and pick up random couples and drive them to their next location.  When they ask you "how much?"  charge them double what the cost of a cab would be.  That might be fun, too, and you will make a little money on the side.  It's up to you.  You have two different scenarios here.  I guess it just depends on how hard up for cash you are. 

Aminal Kingdom

It is tradition that each of our children pick a horse in the Derby and then Brad and I bet $10 on it to win once we get inside.  Mills picked "Aminal Kingdom".  That is NOT one of my many typos, it is the way she pronounces the word, "animal".  I have not corrected it, because it is the last remaining mispronounced word from her "Speech Therapy" days and I guess in some way, I just want to keep her little.  Luckily, Eva, my four-year-old, has picked up on this, so I have a few more years (and probably will get to invest in more speech therapy) to enjoy it.

Anyway, I like that "Aminal Kingdom" won the Derby, because it is a clear metaphor for what the Derby is actually like.  People are hopped up on cheap bourbon and the prospect of winning money, which triggers testosterone, apparently, and the women preen around on their sky high stilleto heels and wedges in all of the colors of the Rainbow.  I imagine it is a little like Africa, only the "aminals" do not wear gigantic hats and seersucker and aren't quite as drunk.

It is no secret that the reason Churchill Downs has people walking around with trays of alcoholic drinks every five seconds is because it affects the decision-making ability of its patrons, and therefore their inhibitions, when it comes to who they bet on, and how much they bet.  Unfortunately, the alcohol also affects the other decisions they make throughout the day, as well.  This is something they do not advertise during Derby Week, and that no one talks about, until now, of course.

Okay.  So my Dad drops Brad and I off in front of a van at the Ford Truck Plant where he works.  The deal was that Johnson Controls, a supplier for Ford, was going to host us for the day.  This included seats, drinks and food, and (my favorite) the promise of a random adventure - and it did not disappoint.   

I may have to do a three part series, because I want to do the day justice and it turned out to be a long one.  We'll see how it goes.  So my Dad, assuming that the woman standing next to the van was Tho's (his supplier contact) wife and begins regurgitating the story he had rehearsed about why Brad is going in his place to Derby.  My Dad went on and on about how he wasn't feeling well and that he may come back later, and that he would just buy his own ticket, Blah, Blah, Double Blah.  The woman turns to him after the monologue, and says I have no idea what you are talking about.  I am also a "client," and well, I hope you feel better," as she is backs away.  Tho has not even shown up yet.

So for an hour, we stand around the van, and engage in awkward, sober, conversation as we get to know the people we are about to embark on our adventure with.  Everyone was LOVELY.  The person in charge of hosting us, Jimmy, brought his adorable son, Robbie, who was also a stand up comedian.  Jenny, the woman my Dad made an ass of himself to, was so sweet and fun and we were instant friends.  Tho brought his wife and four-year-old daughter, who were equally adorable. 

Then, there was Kenny.  He is the one in the crowd that was out until the wee hours the night before and you can just tell that that first drink is going to put him right back where he was six hours before.  I can only speak for myself, but I was looking more forward to his first drink, more than my own, and that is saying a lot.

Kenny is hilarious, right from the start.  Brad instantly gravitates toward him, as Ken is apparently channeling the personality of one of Brad's best friends.  Now if you do not know Brad, he has a very dry sense of humor, and he just LOVES being around outgoing people who's main goal is to have a good time.  Hummmmmm, who does that sound like?

Everywhere I turned, Jimmy was offering to buy me a drink or a meal or asking if I needed anything.  I felt self-conscious, but his son explained to me that this was Jimmy's job - " a glorified bitch".  Anyway, Kenny sucks down his first Mint Julip in record time.  He is badgering Jimmy to buy him another before we have even bet our first race.  He does disappearing acts throughout the day where there is much talk of "Where's Kenny?" and "I hope Kenny's okay.".

He then would show back up, more hammered than ever, put his arm around you and tell you about his trip to the Infield by himself where he met some very nice people he will not remember in the morning.  He then tells you he loves you and that he is glad that you are married to your spouse.  If you are divorced, he asks the date of the final paper signing and congratulates you on that.  He is just HAPPY FOR YOU, no matter what your stage in life is - and that is a beautiful thing.

So I tell Jenny that I want to show her the Derby race up close.  I do this every year and I love to show people who have never been to the Derby before, what it sounds like when the team of Thoroughbreds rounds the third turn and thunder past you.  The dirt is being kicked up and the jockeys are poised on top of their horses, and it is just an amazing sight to behold.  Again, I do this EVERY year.  A lot of people do this every year.  That is why it is twenty deep at the railing at post time.

So we get up front and the couple on the rail who own the seats tell us that they don't mind if we stand on them to see the race.  We are all excited and I am telling Jenny what to expect and all of the sudden a drunk guy right behind us starts badgering us.  He is pissed that we are standing on the seats in front of him and I explain that we were invited to stand there.  He doesn't care.  We take our enormous hats off.  He keeps at us.  He tries to get security who laugh in his face.  He will not let up.  His wife starts apologizing for him.  Jenny offers for him to stand where we are.  We separate to allow him room and he shoves me as he steps up on the seat.  I tell him to keep his hands off of me and I am shaking now and I step down behind the railing as tears start to stream down my face.  I just wanted to show her what it was like to watch the Derby up close.  I felt disappointed and humiliated and mostly drunk. That would explain crying at a major sporting event.  I mean, let's be real, I would not have done that if I had been drinking ice tea all day.

So the race is over and Jenny explains to me that she had a great time and that she works in Truck plants for a living and that dealing with raging assholes are part of her job everyday.  I feel better.  The Johnson Control guys (including Jimmy) discover me crying and rally to my defense.  I know in my heart that if I point out the douchebag that put his hands on me, he will we pulverized in about 5 minutes.

Brad finds me and tells me not to worry about it that "Aminal Kingdom" just won the Derby and we are RICH, RICH, RICH!  The Johnson Control guys invite us to eat at Morton's with them, all expenses paid, natch, and we decline so we can stay for the last two races, which is another custom.  We exchange "thank you's" and pleasantries and business cards, and the last thing I glimpse is Jimmy with his enormous hand around Kenny's neck to stabilize him as they file out into the crowd and head to the Steak House.

Well, hindsight is twenty/twenty as they say, and even though I had a great time the rest of the night, we should have gone home right then.  But we didn't.......to be continued.

Pic above was when Kenny grabbed my hat and put it on.  Couldn't have described him better than this picture does, if I tried.

The Derby Surprise

My Dad called me today with the biggest news.  My mom lost her annual Derby tickets, finally, she has been missing the deadline and hanging on by a thread for a few years now.  It's funny.  The way it works is that you have to write in, that's right, I said write in each year to receive your tickets.  Then, they decided to make you pay licensing fees and a bunch of other bullshit to keep your tickets and then finally my mom became obsessed with selling stuff on Ebay and went on dialysis and good ol' Churchill Downs fell by the wayside.  My Aunt and Uncle still have their tickets, though, as she is a regular at the track, which is Churchill's target audience, so she was gracious enough to let Brad and I use hers this year.

Let me back up.  I have not finished telling you what a "traditional" Derby entails for Brad and I.  We usually go to the track around the third race.  Because we are cool, you see, and we do not want to appear too anxious.  Truth be told, we are a little foggy from going to Mr. G's the night before and my parents' enable us to sleep in and it is wonderful.

So on the way to the track, we pick up our box lunches at Heitzman's we ordered the day before, and then get all the makings for mimosas and a six pack of Tallboys - every year, like clockwork.  We park in this yard that is about as far away from our seats as you can get while still being right across from the track.  We might want to revisit that one day, but whatever, we know the people and it always makes for good stories.  I am in so good with the residents there that they allow me to use their bathroom which I usually share with one of their cats, while it goes to the bathroom in its litter box, in tandem with me. 

So we tailgate a little and then one of us usually does something like drop our phone in our beer (me, one year, him the next) and that is what signals to us that it is time to go into the track.  We hand our keys to the semi-strangers we see once a year so they can move our car as other people who have parked in their yard, come out of the Derby.  I know this seems weird to you, but it is one of those situations where you just have to trust people.

Another thing you need to realize is that Churchill Downs, (the part they don't show you, natch), is surrounded by ghetto.  It is one of the poorest areas of the city.  The people around there count on their proximity to Churchill Downs on Oaks and Derby Day, as a major source of income.  Therefore, they would only be hurting themselves if they stole from you, but people from out of town just see a Redneck in a wife beater with a cig hanging out of his mouth, ask you for the keys to your car as he takes your $50 for parking.  Valid observation, but this is the situation you are in, and you have to just roll with it, while you unplug your GPS and place it in your wife's clutch.

Now, it is interesting to note that last year, Brad and I broke from tradition, and he hired a driver off of Craig's List.  It was awesome.  He picked us up at my parents' house (My mom kept pretending to cry in case she never saw me again.  I mean, that woman!) and deposited us right at the appropriate gate nearest to our seats.  At the end of the day, he picked us up a little ways from the track, so as to avoid all of the traffic, and we were safely home in no time.

My childhood friend, Barry, rents his house out, cooks all meals, and provides transportation along with really good Derby tickets for the entire weekend for $18,000  for 6 people on Ebay. He is literally at your beck and call.  Brad and I were sitting at Mr. G's bar with him the night before Derby and one of the girls staying at his house called him on his cell phone because she needed a pack of cigarettes.  Brad and I were rolling.  But, I guess at $18,000, who really gets the last laugh?

So we go into the track, oh, vital tip, bring flip flops for walking to and from the track and for inclement weather - oh and if your feet hurt and you have had enough Mint Juleps that you don't care anymore.  I usually make it to the Derby and then I am done.  I also pack cash, hand sanitizer (which becomes like crack cocaine to those around you) and mints.

So, once in the track, we go immediately to the first window inside, and bet whatever race is next.  The rule is that you cannot get a Mint Julep, until you win a race.  This first bet sets the tone for the entire day, in my mind.  I think that first race determines whether you are going to lose or win for the day, therefore, knowing this, Brad wheels every horse in the race with the favorite, giving us the best shot at being "winners" for the day, and my greatest chance at getting my first Mint Julep.  That's right.  That's MY man.  We usually lose $10 on the race, while still managing to WIN that race and I am stirring my bourbon surrounded by crushed ice and a mint sprig in no time.

So my Dad calls last night and tells me that a supplier at work has offered him two tickets to the Derby with transportation and all of the free food and drinks you can handle.  Apparently, there is 3rd Floor Clubhouse access and the makings of a great adventure!  There is some sort of tent and all we have to do is show up at the Ford plant at 9am Derby morning.

My Dad tells him that I have three kids and that I probably can't make it that early (subtext I will be tired from Mr. G's the night before - I mean, that man KNOWS me).  The supplier says he will bring him the tickets for us on Thursday, after his trip to "DEE-troit" - my Dad's pronunciation, LOVE IT. 

"Dad, Oh My God, just tell him that we will be there at 9!  He is providing us with everything!  The least we can do is show up.  We'll take it easy the night before, I swear."

"Um hum."  This is my Dad's version of the word "bullshit".  My kids even imitate him doing it when they tell him they have a tummy ache in the morning and the only thing that will soothe it is a bowl of Oreos.

Oh!  And I almost forgot...the supplier dude is Japanese!  Yea!  I just loves me some Japanese!  So, SURPRISE BRAD.  We are about to embark on yet another Derby together!  This one seems ripe for many inside jokes and material for this blog.

Although, with our luck, we'll probably end up on a blanket in the infield, eating cold fried chicken with hooch stains around our mouths.  Been there.  Done that.  In high school AND college.  It's gotta be just as fun at 41!

This entire week's recommendation is to go to The Derby at least once in your lifetime.  Put it on your bucket list NOW people!  I'll give you Barry's number for next year!

Hat is from Cheesecake Boutique on Lane Avenue.  Wore it last year and my dress this year is from there.

Osama Bin Laden

I was going to do a week of Derby posts, but I feel that I have to address the execution of Bin Laden, first.  I think everyone could tell you what they were doing when that first plane hit the towers on September 11th.  I was one week away from having my first baby, sitting in my robe, riveted.  I know it happened well into the morning, but I was very pregnant and not too motivated to walk around and discuss the benefits of Claritin to a bunch of bored doctors for the 100th time. 

I stayed in my robe all day.  We were getting voice mails from our Director telling us that it was "business as usual" and that "today is not a National Holiday."  I don't know about you, but on September 11th, I wanted to be around my family, not offices full of ungrateful medical office personnel that asked me if I had any donuts before they greeted me in the morning.

I called everyone I loved, and made sure they were safe, although at first, no one felt safe.  It felt like you could get attacked at any time - anywhere.  If you remember, there were reports of attacks and missing planes all over the country.  It was frightening.  I just sat there and watched footage of New York City and the Pentagon, and cried until I couldn't cry anymore.

They held the telethon while I was in the hospital, after I had Hallie.  That is all I watched.  That is all that was on.  It didn't matter.  That  is all I wanted to watch.  I watched people hold up pictures of their loved ones, as they described them while they wept.  I watched the recovery workers sob after work each day.  This was all right after I had brought a child into this world.  It was bittersweet, as is this assassination to me.

Brad called me on the way to work and exclaimed, "We got Bin Laden.  It happened last night and we shut the t.v. off too early when we went to bed and we missed it."  My immediate reaction was sadness and the recurring thought "too little too late."  

But, like any intense emotional reaction to something.  I had to sit on it and figure out why I was being so cynical.  Why was it that the one person on this Earth who, in my mind,  should not have had the opportunity to take a breath in a decade (longer, really) - why was his demise not satisfying to me?

I am so happy for the Military and I want Bin Laden's death to somehow bring peace to the families of the victims of the families that died on 9/11.  That being said, I did not personally feel the relief that other people were feeling.  There are several reasons why.  One, I feel like Bin Laden is one in a long line of terrorists from all over the country that hate America.  Two, there is something dissatisfying about killing someone for something that they believe will immediately ascend them into the Afterlife.  Three, I feel like there are so many other shitty things going on internally in the country right now, that Bin Laden's death is just a blip on the radar of things that we need to do to make things right again in the World. 

I participated in the 9/11 Exhibit in Washington D.C., when I visited there with my parents and Hallie.  It had a huge piece of what was left of one of the towers along with partially burned computers, various personal effects of victims, and recordings people had left on loved ones' answering machines, some victims of 9/11, some not. We spent hours there. 

In order to participate, you filled out a questionnaire with two questions.  The first question was "What were you doing on 9/11?"  And the second question was "How has this changed you?"  I was hyperventilating by the time I finished writing.  My Mom and Dad were crying too, as we watched Hallie run around the exhibit - the child I was so anxious about bringing into this World because of Osama Bin Laden. 

My answer to the second question (among many run on sentences, of course) was that "It made me a better American."  I think the thing I hate most about Bin Laden's death is that we are all forced to relive what he did to us.  He does not deserve that privilege, but we are in control of how we internalize the experience.  The way I chose to view 9/11, is not to recall how insecure or depressed or hopeless I felt at the time, but I am going to try and remember how it made me a "better American" and how it made us "United" again.  That is how we can kill him over and over again - in our attitudes and our minds - because no matter what measures we have taken to ensure that he is not immortalized or considered a marter, he will be - to a lot of people.

The picture above is of the Memorial at Ohio Stadium.  That is what I choose to remember - all of us together again.  This way, no matter what happens, this forever puts ME in the power position.

The Mint Julip and the Blackout

http://www.kentuckyderby.info/



Today is the beginning of Derby Week in Louisville, Kentucky.  The city literally shines this week and it is absolutely a blast to be living there during this time.  The energy is so great and there are a ton of parties and festivities and I just miss being there so much right now.

There are certain quintessential elements to a successful Derby.  I have talked about tradition a lot lately, and Brad and I have a few that we have perfected over the years, when it comes to Derby.  Here is how our weekend goes, every year.

First there is the ham and the potato salad.  My Dad gets a Honey Baked Ham every Derby and he makes potato salad and baked beans, and of course, a Derby pie.  There are these really good buns you can only get in Louisville at Heitzmann's Bakery, and this is also where we order our boxed lunches every year - without fail.  Anyway, my Dad's ham meal is yummy THE FIRST TIME.  This is the only meal that is offered to you, breakfast, lunch and dinner.  It is like that scene in Mommy Dearest, where she keeps serving up that same raw steak, only my Dad is not mad at you, he's just frugal and a leftover lover.  That man will forcefeed you that meal until you gag at the site of it.  Anyway, I can't eat ham anymore, and I tell him that I am observing Jewish holiday, when I go home for Derby now. 


We used to go to the Oaks, which is the day before the Derby, and is kind of a local version of Derby.  Many Louisvillians (pronounced Lul-vil-yens, my Mom can do it for you, and she will over and over again, until you want to shoot yourself) will just attend the Oaks, because the tickets are cheaper and they are just there to hang with their friends, anyway. Then, on Derby Day, they just hit the parties and stay away from the rif raf - meaning Brad and I.  Brad and I cannot do both days, both financially and physically.  He is obsessed with bettin' the ponies, and I am obsessed with Mint Juleps.

"The Company,"  (which is what Brad and I call it when we are betting together), has a rule, and that is that you can only have a Mint Julep if you win a race.  Which brings me to the Mint Julep Derby story.  Frankly, a lot of Derby stories could be labeled that, but this is the best one.

OK.  One year, Brad invites his friend to Derby without really clearing it with me.  He's all, "I invited "Dan", (we'll call him that because that is what we call him), and his girlfriend, but they'll never come.  I mean, it's three and a half hours from Columbus."

Well, there they were in my parents' half circle driveway on Derby morning.  So I don't know her at all and they do not have seats, so we stand in the Paddock the entire Derby instead of being "rude" and sitting in our seats.  It's fine.  I let it go, because whattaya gonna do and I was foggy from having gone to the Oaks the day before.

So we park, and we are walking into the Derby, (and this is important), and Gurlfriend X undoes her white halter cotton sweater top, sans bra, and asks me to tie it behind her back so as to make it into a strapless top, so she can "get some sun".  She is brown as a berry, but whatever.  I do what she asks because she is my guest.

She gets her first Mint Julep.  She tells me it is really strong.  I tell her the first one is, but then the second one tastes good and the third puts you in a blackout.  She says she does not care as she downs the first, gets a second, and on the third starts talking to me about her "ticking biological clock".  Am I in some sort of nightmare?  I want to wake up, but I can't, so I just roll with it, as I've learned to do in these situations Brad puts me in (i.e. Karaoke in Japan, random house guests, etc. - you get the idea).  So she drinks 5 Mint Juleps and then wants to take pictures.  Her voice is at a fever pitch now - a squeal, if you will. It is the end of the day and she grabs a Churchill Downs employee who has to set down her tray of drinks.  I catch an eye roll.  Don't blame her a bit.

So, the four of us get in a bunch and we are smiling for the camera, and the woman is preparing to take the picture, and then she lowers it, smiles, and looks down and bites her lip.  She composes herself, again, and then says, "Uh, honey, you may want to pull up your shirt..your tit is hanging out."

Girlfriend X yanks her makeshift halter/strapless sweater up, resumes her smile and poses for the camera again.  The day turns into night and we go out to dinner and then it is the next day and Brad and I are driving back to Columbus.

"Hey, you remember Gurlfriend X's boob falling out of her shirt when we were taking that picture?"  We both DIED laughing.  "I wonder if she remembers it today?"

Two days later, a thank you note and some photos arrive in the mail to answer our question.  On top is a photo of Gurlfriend X smiling her best smile, surrounded by the remaining three of us, who had not just exposed ourselves, with our eyes squinted closed and our mouths wide open.  We are howling with laughter as the photo is being taken.  She has no recollection or she would never have sent that photo.

Can't you imagine her thumbing through the pictures and saying aloud to her boyfriend, "Oh, this one is cute of me.  What is everyone laughing so hard at?  Oh, well, I'll just slip this in with the thank you card and put the duplicate in my "When Dan Was My Boyfriend Photo Book".

One of my favorite "mammaries", or is it memories?  My advice to you today,  is if someone tells you a drink is going to kick your ass, believe them.  I wish I had taken my own advice, when Megan, my neighbor, introduced me to the "Mind Eraser" at the last Fourth of July street party.  It would have saved me a lot of embarrassment and questions the next day, like "Really, how bad was it?" when I was reenacting the entire scene of Trading Places where Eddie Murphy has the party and gets mad at his guests because they were not respecting his stuff?"

"It would've been fine," Brad says, "if you had just stopped at the party scene.  It just went on a little too long.  Your last line should've been "It was a stone groove, my man" but it wasn't.  That's okay.  You'll never see those people again."

If you are interested in more information about The Kentucky Derby, click the link above.  Or just stay tuned.  I will be doing a series this week.