Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

We've all played the 5 people you'd like to have a dinner party with game.  You've probably played a few variations - living and dead, just living, just local - it's a game, the rules can be whatever you want to make them.

Recently - when I was expressing not entirely guarded excitement over the next upcoming Johnny Depp/Tim Burton collaboration - I realized that four of the people involved in that little extravaganza would be in my top five people I'd like to have dinner with.  They are, of course, the aforementioned Johnny Depp and Tim Burton, Helena Bonham Carter, and Alice Cooper.  Can you frickin' imagine?  I said as much to Tom, then added, "Throw in Elvis Costello and that there is a dinner party."

Tom laughed.

"You don't think that's an awesome dinner party?"

"Oh, no doubt.  But what are WE doing there?"

"Being awesome?"

"How did we even get there?"

"Radio contest?"

"Seriously.  You're sitting at a table with Johnny Depp to your left, Elvis Costello to your right, Tim Burton and Helena Bonham Carter across from you and Alice Cooper at the head of the table.  What exactly is your contribution?"

"Potato salad?"

"In the face of that much cool, we would be reduced to blithering idiots."

"Reduced?"

"This is my point."

"I'll hold off on the invitations."

"Good call."

It's still a good list, though.  And I DO make a pretty passable potato salad.

Now, the dinner party list invariably leads to the 'Free Pass' list.  I posted mine a couple years ago - but as I've changed in a few years, so has my list - most notably to include one Mr. Benedict Cumberbatch.

I know what you're thinking - I hear you - "Tammy, you're old enough to be his mother." - I know.  The thing is, you never know what the heart craves in it's private moments.  Maybe he had an encounter with big fat Fannie (she was such a naughty nanny) and he's played out an older, heavier woman script in his head - secretly - ever since.  You don't know.

Besides - how cool would it be to lean over the table at Cracker Barrel and whisper conspiratorially to your bestie, "Of late I have been engaged in a dalliance with one Benedict Cumberbatch."?  I'll venture to say that would be very cool indeed.  Don't you just like to imagine that if your last name was Cumberbatch, you'd have the good sense to name your son Benedict?  Maybe I should invite his parents to dinner.  Do British people like potato salad?  (For what it's worth - I realize that this may indeed be a stage name - but I prefer to think that it is not.  It's a game of fantasies, for Pete's sake.) eta:  Liv - currently obsessed with all things British - informs me that his actual name is Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch.  Mr. and Mrs. Cumberbatch?  I'm boiling potatoes as I type...

Thinking about the two lists, though, I find it interesting how little overlap there is.  People we'd want to have dinner with but not necessarily have an affair with - well - that makes sense.  But people we'd want to have an affair with but not necessarily have dinner with?  Aw, what does that make us, people?  My Venn Diagram looks like this:

If I were hipper, I would have done it on a post-it note.  

And for what it's worth - I'd have dinner with any of those men.  Even Joe Perry.  

What does your Venn Diagram look like?

picture source:http://www.digitalspy.com/celebrities/benedict-cumberbatch/

It's Not You, It's Me (Okay, It's Mostly You)

Familiarity breeds contempt, and I fear that this squealy fangirl just may have become too familiar.  But breaking up is hard to do, no?  I'm a sensitive chickadee - I can't just send a quick text and say, "this isn't working out for me anymore - have a nice life".  It hasn't been working for some time, but I haven't been able to admit it - even to myself.  Loving you is too easy - too familiar - as natural as breathing - I've loved you forever - how could I just - not?

Lea asked me in the car last week, "Who's your favorite band in the world?"

"The easiest answer would be Aerosmith.  That's the reflex answer.  But I'm not sure it's the true answer."

"I know what you mean.  I don't think I love My Chemical Romance anymore.  I try to keep loving them.  I want to keep loving them.  But I don't think I do."

"I don't think I love Aerosmith anymore, either."

"Their last album - I tried so hard to like it - but I just - don't."

"Chin up, sweet child of mine.  There will be other bands.  Lots of them.  MCR will always be special - but it's ok to move on."

"I know.  But it's weird."

"I know.  But you'll be ok."

I'll be ok, too.

For me - it wasn't the release of a new album that I spent months trying to like and couldn't.  My squealy fangirl history goes back far enough that I know you can forgive one or two albums (or books, or movies...).  Artists have a right to stretch and grow.  Sometimes we grow with them, sometimes they grow away from us, sometimes we grow away from them - it's a gamble.  Sometimes (Billy Joel and Steven King come to mind...) I hang in there long past the point where I've lost interest.  They grew away from me and I didn't like it - I tried to pretend it wasn't happening - I clung to every hint of what had made me love them in the first place - I started 'waiting for the paperback'... then getting it from the library... then forgetting all about it... it was slow and gradual and almost painless. (With Billy Joel I knew it was over when a new album came out and I'd only listened to the last one once.)  With Howard Stern?  I grew away from him.  One day I thought he was hilarious and the next day I thought he was insufferable.  He hadn't changed, I had.  I broke that one off clean.  I've never looked back.  I'm pretty sure his feelings weren't hurt.  

I feel bad for performing artists, sometimes.  If they never stray from their original style, they're accused of being stagnant - but if they play with their style too much, they're accused of trying to be someone that they're not.  (Van Halen?  I am glancing in your general direction... Kudos for returning to the form so many of us love, by the way...  Good boys.  Good band.  Sit.  Stay.)  We fans expect our idols to walk a pretty fine line.

Did I say idol?

That would be as good a place as any to start, I guess.

I know American Idol helped a lot of people fall in love with Steven Tyler - people who may not have thought that they would or could.  I don't want to play the hipster card and say that once the masses start liking something it can't possibly be cool anymore.  I don't want to say it stinks of sellout.  I don't want to say those things...  But when this becomes the primary public identity, well, it's difficult not to allow the thoughts to cross ones mind.  A few months back, I posted something on Facebook about seeing a magazine headline that mentioned Idol's Steven Tyler.  Idol's Steven Tyler?  He does still have that other little gig, doesn't he?  The band thingy?

Hey - I don't begrudge boyfriend mainstream success.  He's got to put food on the table like everyone else. But it's just - not for me.  

I stepped back a little bit.

But Steven Tyler wasn't the only Toxic Twin, now, was he?

No, ladies and gentlemen, Steven may have the voice, but Joe Perry has the face... Oh, what a face... You could cut a steak with those cheek bones.  (And why the hell can't my gray hairs have the good sense, discipline, and general awesomeness to corral themselves into one dead sexy shock?  Stupid my gray hairs.  Awesome Joe Perry gray hairs.)

Pardon me.

I was thinking about the face and I became distracted from my point.

Let me put it to you as succinctly as possible:  That awkward moment when you realize that the man you had a crush on before you even met your husband is a certifiable wackadoo.

Let me backtrack.

I follow Joe Perry on Twitter.  I don't follow a lot of celebrities, even though I'm a self-proclaimed squealy fangirl, but I do follow a few.  Since he has always been my number one favorite celebrity, he was number one on my list.

Oh my God, you guys.

First of all, grammar is not his friend.  I can forgive that.  Grudgingly.  You know - for that face.  Plus, many people get creative with grammar on Twitter.  It doesn't mean anything. Until he announced recently that he was working on his biography and when someone corrected him, telling him that if he was writing it about himself it was an autobiography and he responded with 'whatever' - yeah, I had a little problem with that.  I bet it will have pictures though.  As the J. Geils Band once said, "Oh no, I can't deny it.  Oh yeah - I guess I gotta buy it."  (I'm not proud of that, but it's probably true.)

Grammar - and general knowledge - aside, though - he subscribes to conspiracy theories and - oh yeah - is a staunch supporter of Ron Paul.  Also - I like a good sexual innuendo as much as the next guy, but his are without nuance.  Ok - I'll admit it.  Now I'm picking nits.  But that's what we do when we're gearing up for a break-up, isn't it? 

Aerosmith has a new album coming out and a tour to promote it.  Will I buy the tunes?  Probably.  Will I see the show?  Maybe.  But it won't be the same.  It will be like meeting an ex-lover for coffee when you know there's no possibility of things ever starting up again.  You reminisce about the good times - and there were some good times - the best - and you enjoy your time with them - genuinely - but when it's over you return to your life and they become just a tiny little warm spot in your heart.

Where will Aerosmith be premiering the first single from their new album, you ask?

On American Idol.

Don't you love it when they do something that makes breaking up with them just a little bit easier?

Like many women after a break-up, though, I do plan to retain their name.  

Cheeseburger in Paradise

In the days immediately following Dad's death I got to hear a lot of musings about what his life must be like in heaven.  It is certainly one of the great comforts that religion offers - to be able to imagine our loved ones - and eventually ourselves - in a better place.

When people talked about Dad, they invariably pictured him on a golf course.  Sometimes he was driving a cart.  Usually he was walking - fast - in a body that didn't hurt anymore.  The foursome varied - to include his brothers and other buddies who had gone before him.  The sky was always blue, the grass was always green, and the pars and birdies were always plentiful.  I don't even golf and that sounds pretty good to me.  I could see how it might sound like paradise to an aficionado.

My favorite sentiment, though, was expressed by one of dad's golf buddies.  "I picture Tut", he said, looking off at a point far in the distance, "in the clubhouse after a perfect game.  He has just eaten a huge cheeseburger and a plate of fries as big as his head.  Crispy on the outside, soft on the inside.  Perfect fries. A perfect burger.  And a perfect game.  There is a huge mustard stain on the front of his shirt and - and this is the best part - no one is going to say a damn word to him about it."

Oh, how that made me smile.

Dad was indeed inclined towards wearing a little bit of a good meal on his shirt like a badge of honor.

Now I've said it here before, so there's no need to draw it out, but my dad was a really really good guy.   Honest to a fault, kind, gentle, patient and smart - and not one to suffer fools, gladly or otherwise.  There are many ways I would like to emulate my dad.  I come up short in most of them.  But wearing food?  Oh, hell.  I've been known to wear enough food home from dinner to make a nice frock for Lady Gaga.

I can't help it.  I have a little problem with shaky hands.  Oh - and there's also the issue of the auxiliary table  I sport beneath my chin.  If something's going to fall - it's going to hit me long before it hits the table or the floor.  Soup in public is practically out of the question.  Gravies and sauces of all sorts should be as well, but come on!  So many restaurants make such good gravies and sauces...

Maybe I need to start frequenting restaurants where those little lobster bibs are acceptable...

Before my mom lost so much weight, she had a similar problem.  If I recall correctly, she wore wildly patterned shirts in an attempt at camouflage.  I suppose it's a thought...

My family, by the way, thinks this is hilarious.  A typical dinner table conversation:

"Did you drop something on your shirt?"

"Am I eating?"

"Good point."

They particularly like it if I drop the first bite or - better yet - the last bite.

"Almost made it, Mom!"

"Nice try!  Valiant effort!"

Or, as I dip my napkin into my club soda and try to dab at my shirt surreptitiously,  "I just figured it out!  That's why you always order club soda .  It's not because you like it.  It's because it's better at stain removal than regular water."

"How did I raise such a smartass?  Don't answer that.  It was intended to be rhetorical."

Oh well.

Food stains on my shirt today.  Honest, kind, gentle, patient and smart?  Maybe tomorrow.  Working it out one trait at a time.

For Your Chance to Win, Be the Fourth Caller

Indulge me in a little nostalgia - just for a moment.

Remember when you'd call someone - maybe from your party line - and if they were talking to somebody else, you got a busy signal?  If it was important, you'd hang up and try again.  If it wasn't, you'd make a mental note to try a little later.  If it was urgent, you'd click the receiver with one finger and frantically begin to redial with another.  And when I say redial - I mean putting your finger in the little hole and drawing it 'round till it stopped, then letting go of it until it returned to it's original position, at which point you could repeat the process for the next number.  When one was feeling a sense of urgency, it was excruciating.

Little provoked that sense of urgency like a radio contest.  Usually the prize on the line was concert tickets - and we convinced ourselves that winning them would require a combination of luck and skill.  There have been more than a couple movies, made for TV movies, and episodes of TV shows built around the premise.  In a pre-cellphone era, there was a lot of humor to be found in scrambling for pay phones or waiting impatiently for gossiping mothers or sisters to free the line or - well - the list of possibilities is only limited by your imagination.

I remember being livid when technology began to move along - push button phones and automatic redial and speed dial gave the people able to afford such advanced technology a distinct advantage in the ticket-winning arena.  Man!  If they could afford such fancy gadgets, surely they could afford to buy their own damn tickets!  It was grossly unfair.  It didn't stop me from trying though.  

But I never won.

Today, while listening to our local NPR station streaming through my laptop while going about my daily goings on, they announced tickets to a play I remembered having heard about (though, to be honest, I couldn't entirely remember what I'd heard).  On a whim I dialed - and was a little surprised not to hear that old busy signal.  I believe the last time I called a radio station, it was to request something by Elton John from Rock of the Westies.

Ahem.

So it rang - a couple times - and then I heard a friendly man's voice saying, "You wanna see that play?"

"Yeah!  Really?  Yeah."

"Ok.  What's your name?"

I told him.  It, along with a daytime phone number, was all the information he needed.  Tickets would be waiting for me at the door.

I asked him what time the show was.

"Hmmm.  Not sure.  You could probably google it.  Oh - wait - it says here 8:00.  I don't know if that's when it starts or that's when the doors open.  You better google it."

I agreed that I would.

He wished me a good day and I returned the pleasantry.

Then I hung up.

An easy-peasy-nothing-to-it-casual-happens-every-day sort of conversation.

I always thought actually winning tickets to something would provoke a slightly more - well - squealy - response.

But apparently that's all there is to it.

Who knew?

Maybe you knew!  If you've ever won tickets to anything, tell me your story!

Death and the Squealy Fangirl

This has been a rough year for me.

People I know have died.

People I love have died.

People my age have died.

It has taken a toll.

It has been, what Alexander might call, a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year.

Real people - people in my life.  Real tragedy.

And yet...

And yet...

And yet, when I heard that Davy Jones had died - well, ok, I didn't cry.  But I was genuinely sad.

I've often wondered why we do this - actively mourn our heroes and idols - people we've never met.

Facebook sort of answered that for me today.

It's the shared experience.

I never met Davy Jones.

To the best of my knowledge, neither have any of my friends.

But...

Within a half hour of his death being announced my Facebook wall was alive with videos and remembrances and wishes.  People of various ages (although not too various - mostly mid 30's to mid 50's - but that's still a little span) all feeling the same loss.

I turned on the radio instead of a CD when I got into the car, hoping to hear some Monkees.  I was not disappointed.

It's not like losing someone real.

It's nothing like that.

It doesn't compare to it in any way.

But it is definitely a shared moment.

Where were you when John Lennon died?  (I bet you didn't have to think about that too long...)

I can't remember not loving Davy Jones.  Oh, sure, that love ebbed and waned.  There were years, decades, even, when I sort of forgot all about him.  But then he'd show up in the mass consciousness again and I'd say, "Oh, I love him."  Not squealing like a fangirl - just a matter of fact.  You too?  I'm not surprised.  He never bit the hand that fed him by denying his teen idol bubblegum roots - he embraced it.  He was in on it.  I adore him for that.

He was the cute Monkee.  The safest one for a little girl, new to crushes, to dream about.  I went through  stages of my life when I crushed on each Monkee for situationally appropriate reasons - Davy was cute and huggable, Mike was smart and dry, Peter was goofy and sweet (and I always had a feeling that there was more to him under that shallow exterior), and Micky was funny and sharp.

Of course that was all very calculated.

But you know what?

It doesn't matter.

They shouldn't have flown flags at half-mast for Whitney Houston.  They shouldn't do it for Davy either.  But I don't see anything wrong with clogging up the airwaves with a little bubblegum for the next day or two.

RIP, you sweet, sweet daydream believer.

Nothin' Ain't Worth Nothin' But it's Free

I'm as free as a bird now - and this bird you cannot chain. 

~ Lynyrd Skynyrd

I'm free to do what I want, any old time. 

~The Soup Dragons

I'm free!  I'm free!  And freedom tastes of reality. 

~ The Who

I could go on.

Really, ask anyone.

It's my favorite game.

But playing the themed lyric game isn't really what I wanted to do today.

I wanted to talk about freedom.

The other day, in response to something that was posted on Pinterest, someone commented:  I'm all for freedom of speech, as long as it doesn't offend anybody.

I don't think this commenter had a particularly good grasp on the concept of freedom of speech.

Her objection was that someone had posted something that used the f word on Pinterest and she was concerned about the children.  (I don't know that Pinterest holds a whole lot of appeal for the children, but I guess I don't have my finger on the pulse of the wee ones anymore.)

At any rate.

Freedom of speech was exercised and objected to.

I generally fall into the if you don't like it, don't watch/listen to/read/look at it camp.  If you don't want your kids to watch/listen to/read/ or look at it, don't let them.  It's pretty easy.

I recall a time that doesn't seem like all that long ago when our Lea was a baby.  Tom came home from work one day to find her playing with the flimsy cardboard tube from a roll of wrapping paper.  He was angry at me - how could I let her play with that?  He was sure that I had provided her with the means by which to put her eye out.  He was demonstrating first time parent paranoia in a spectacular way - but I respected it and didn't let her play with paper tubes after that.

Don't let the heart shaped basket fool you.  These things are pure evil.

In an effort to keep things fair and balanced, I would be remiss if I didn't give my own parental paranoia equal time.

I asked him not to watch Star Trek until she was in bed because I thought she might find Klingons and other aliens too scary.

Also scary?  What appear to be futuristic Shake Weights.

I'm sharing those two anecdotes for a reason.

They're both silly arguments, of course, from a parenting perspective, but they underline a couple points

• We respected each other's rules - even when we thought they were silly.
• We didn't try to impose our silly rules on the world.

Tom didn't start a campaign to eliminate cardboard tubes from wrapping paper, paper towels and toilet paper and I didn't try to get Star Trek taken off the air.  We just kept those things away from our baby, because for whatever misguided reasons, we had decided that they were not good for her.  We did not try to impose our self-inflicted rules on anyone else or on society in general.  Our house - our rules.  

It didn't matter that they made very little sense in the grand scheme of things.

For anyone who might be concerned - she has since developed a healthy appreciation of Star Trek.  Not the obsession level appreciation enjoyed by her father and her sister - but she doesn't seem to have suffered any psychological harm from being deprived of it in her formative years.  She is also able to function in a world of wrapping paper, paper towels and toilet paper.

No harm, no foul.

So.

Set rules and standards for yourself.

Set rules and standards for your kids.

But for Pete's sake - don't impose those rules and standards on everyone else.

And just because it's a free world and I can?

Fuck.

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Such Beautiful Hair

As I walked through the lobby, I noticed an older gentleman perched on the arm of a chair.  I probably would have walked right past without even registering his presence if it hadn't been for his beautiful snow white hair.  My dad had hair like that.  I literally shook my head, trying to dislodge the notion.  Nothing to be gained by boarding that particular thought train.

A woman walked behind him - she appeared to be around my age.  She stroked his back casually, then tousled his hair as she passed.  My innards clenched into a painful knot.  I wanted to pass behind my dad and touch his back or his hair.  He had such beautiful hair.  Not a huge hug - just a tiny touch.  A passing touch.  Nothing.  Everything.  I missed him so much in that moment that I wasn't sure if I could remember how to walk - how to breathe.

But I breathed.

And I walked.

And I functioned.  My day went on.  Life went on.  I thought about other things.  I pushed the man in the lobby to the back of my mind.

Later, though, alone in my room, I allowed my thoughts to wander back to him.  Not the man in the lobby - the man he conjured up for me.  My dad.

He wasn't  terribly demonstrative with his affections - not physically, at least.  As an adult - I could count on a hug hello and goodbye when I visited with him and not much more.  It didn't matter.  It was who he was.

When he was sick, though - when he had his stroke - I think I touched him more then than I did in my entire adult life combined.  I held his hand and he allowed it - encouraged it, even.  I stroked his hair - something I'd always wanted to do but rarely if ever did because I thought it would have made him uncomfortable.  He offered no protest.  Perhaps it was disrespectful to treat him in sickness in a way that I never would have presumed to in health.  Maybe he knew there would be no more chances.  Maybe... maybe...

I was glad the woman in the lobby had touched that man's hair.  I projected father/daughter roles onto them.  It was a hotel lobby in DC - I could have been wrong - but I like to think I'm right.  

I wish I'd tousled my dad's hair more  - just in passing.  Maybe he wouldn't have minded.

I'm going to go touch my husband's hair now.  He has such beautiful hair.