My life in Pure Romance

So the other night, I'm doing a party in Bessemer City, NC. And it is Country. And as I'm driving there, I'm marveling at the subtle little twists and turns that my life has taken which have led me to be driving through the backwoods of NC with a car full of "marital aides."

Anyhow, the party wasn't all that well attended, but the people were nice and it was a decent take at the end of the night. There were two hostesses who are Pure Romance veterans and so they knew exactly what they wanted to purchase. The first hostess had just finished placing her order and was writing me a check while the second hostess was telling me her order. Suddenly, she stopped talking and she whispered to hostess #1, 'I think Ray's Grandma just came in.' I had no idea who this was, but from the horrified looks on both womens' faces, I assumed it was not a good thing she was there.

The first hostess, who owned the home we were in, walked out of the bedroom and tried to shut the door behind her to keep our new visitor from seeing inside. (Keep in mind, this was about 10:45 PM and Grandma Crazy just walked in and shouted hello without a knock or anything!) She said to Hostess #1 with mounting alarm in her voice "What are you ladies doing?" To which #1 delicately replied "We're having a ladies' party Mom." And all hell, literally, broke loose. Outside the bedroom door, I could hear Grandma Crazy going on and on about how we were bringing the devil into the house and how we were going to have to pay someday and did we think it was worthwhile to spend eternity in hell?

While this was going on outside, Hostess #2 was telling me that Grandma Crazy is actually #1's Grandmother-in-Law, but raised #1's husband because his mother died from complications of childbirth. And apparently she is quite the burr in her daughter-in-law's side, calling the police because she thinks her son is being poisoned by her daughter-in-law, accusing her of practicing witchcraft, etc. So I am hoping against hope that she will not come into the bedroom and am trying to hurry through #2's order.

AND... the door flew open. Grandma Crazy walked in, her 5 foot 3 inch body full of righteous (literally) indignation and accusation. She takes in the product sitting on her son's bed. She saw my bins full of lotions and lubricant and the like. She saw money changing hands. And she was horrified. She began her lecture. It's pretty amusing, so I was keeping my lips pressed together as tightly as possible.

"Ladies" G'Ma Crazy intoned, addressing all three of us. "You are beautiful, intelligent women. Do you know that what you are doing right now is putting your immortal soul in great peril? You have two places to go when you die. One of them is heaven and one is hell. And right now, all of you are headed to hell!"

Then she turned to address me directly. "Ma'am. How many places do YOU think there are to go when you die?" Inside my head I'm saying, 'Do I want to tell her I'm Jewish and I don't believe in any afterlife at all?' And as I hesitated, she prompted me. "Do you think there are three or four different options you can choose from? How many do you think there are?" Well, I have made the very smart decision at this point to play along to get her out of there faster because I want to collect my money, throw stuff in the car and begin the very long 45 min. drive back to my house so I can get some dinner and get to sleep sometime this evening. So, for the very first time in my little Northerner life, I invoke the "M" word. "No Ma'am," I said politely, "You're right. There are two." I was having a hard time keeping the amusement off my face, but I made a valiant effort. I think she sensed my inner struggle, but assumed that I know the path to righteousness regardless because she was pleased with my answer. "That's right," says Crazy. "There are two places. And there ain't nothin in this whole world, in this whole life, worth spending an eternity roasting in hell for!"

She turned to me again. "Who are you" she demanded. I was desperate to say, "I'm the Northern Headonistic Jewish Pure Romance consultant who is instructing your daughter-in-law on how to have a better orgasm ma'am." But instead, I stuck with, "My name is Sheri, ma'am." "Sheri," she responded, "You look like a smart girl. Do you read?" "Yes ma'am," I answered. (HONESTLY, I have never called anyone ma'am in my life! And suddenly it's coming out every other word!) "And I bet you understand what you read, don't you?" I had no idea where this was going, of course, but my strategy seemed to be working because she is talking quieter and looking triumphant. "Yes ma'am." "Well, Sheri, I suggest you go home and pick up your King James' bible..." (Sure, I keep it on the shelf next to my Stephen King books!) "...and you need to read it cover to cover and see if you can't find your way back to God."

She continued on in that way for what seemed like a very long time, although it was probably only about 5 min., while internally I struggled with the decision of whether or not to continue putting together #2's order while she talked. I didn't. Instead, I just kept repeating, "Thank you for thinking of me ma'am. I appreciate your opinion." And eventually she gave up and went away.

#1 apologized quite a bit after she left and we all laughed about it. And I finished taking their orders, packed up my five million pounds of stuff and started the drive back to Charlotte. And along the way, I thought about what she said.

I don't mind her belief that my soul is doomed to hell. It might bother me if I believed in hell at all, but I don't and so I don't mind. And frankly, I gave advice to a woman that night whose marriage is in real trouble because of their sex life. So if the advice I give manages to make her marriage better, I'm confident God will be pretty pleased. At least, the God I believe in will be.

I think, as usual, what bothered me the most was the assumption. The assumption that I am a Christian. And I know I was in the country and I'm in the south and the assumption is pretty logical down here. But it still frustrates me that people think everyone is exactly like them. That there is this automatic assumption when someone is bagging my groceries at the Harris Teeter that they need to tell me to have a Happy Easter. And that I feel guilty if I don't say it back, when all I want to say is, why do you assume I celebrate Easter? But I wouldn't say that cause it makes people uncomfortable.

When we were kids, I used to tease my sister and tell her she had Gentile-envy. She used to bug the hell out of my mother begging for a Chanukah bush. I never cared. Honestly, I thought the whole tree thing was cool, but I was just as happy to light the menorah. Either way, I got presents. And that's the end game for most kids anyway. Dad used to make us march around the house singing Chanukah songs before we could get our gifts and he would invariably make up extra verses to the songs to keep us marching longer while we whined and pleaded for our gifts, which he cleverly hid all around the house. After singing we would take off looking for the presents which, 6 nights out of 7, were boring things like socks, or a new jacket that I didn't care about at all. But the real joy is in the unwrapping for me, so I was happy. Seemed just as fun to me as sitting around a giant tree opening gifts. And I still have no Christmas envy. And I don't have a problem with Christmas either. But sometimes, when the woman filling my prescription at Walgreens wishes me a Merry Christmas, I wish that people would maybe step outside of their own comfort zone and stop assuming that the whole world thinks how they think and believes what they believe. And every year I tell myself I am not going to be bothered by it because people are just saying Have a Nice Day with different words. Maybe after a few more years here, I'll be immune to it.

One can hope.And so... tonight let me share yet another chapter in the ongoing saga of "Are you SURE this is my life?"

Sometime in 2007, I did a party for a woman who got my name through the corporate office. She was nice and everything, but all of her guests showed up an HOUR late and by "all of her guests" I mean all FOUR of her guests. Anyhow, one of the woman there was African. Let's call her "A". She didn't wind up buying anything, but she came into the order room for a while to talk to me about some issues she was having physically with her sex life. It wasn't an easy conversation to have because her accent was very thick and her English... not so great. But got the point across eventually.

She said to me that night that she wished women of her culture didn't feel it was so tabboo to talk about sex. She thought a lot of them could benefit from hearing me talk. So I told her to feel free to send me any of her friends that needed help and I would work with them one-on-one. She's done that a few times since. Couple of women who were having issues with their sex life and wanted product that their partner would never know about... which makes me sad cause it sounded to me like the partners were a big part of the problem (what, you mean it's hard for you to finish when your partner asks you every couple of seconds if you're ready yet? Shocking!) but I always do the best I can to help them.

A few days before New Year's, "A" called me again, this time on behalf of a man she knew who was having some issues. I talked to her about some product that I thought could help and she gave me his name and number and asked me to call him directly. As we were hanging up, she added "He doesn't have English so good, but he will understand you."

"He doesn't speak English," I questioned, concerned. Cause God knows I don't speak nothin' else.

"No, he speaks French, but he will understand you. He just won't talk well."

"Okkkkaaaayyyyyy, I'll give it a shot."

So I called "C" and it went better than I expected. I told him that "A" had filled me in and I had a few products in mind to help him and when I got back to Charlotte after the holiday, we could meet and talk about them. Somehow, I had it in my mind that if I met with him while holding visual aides, he would understand me more than he would on the phone.

Since then, he has been very anxious to meet with me. He was not at all pleased when I got home from Nashville (where I spent a rockin' New Years with she of the Snelly-ness) with bronchitis and was too contagious to leave the house. I finally re-entered the world today and so I agreed to meet him at his work. And there-in lies the source of our first English --> French road bump. Somehow, directions were beyond our ability to communicate to one another. When I asked him for the address to his store, he didn't understand the question (!!!). He kept saying something about an Exxon station. I had NO idea what he was talking about. So I tried to figure it out myself on-line and was lead astray by inaccurate information. Basically, I wound up wandering the streets of Charlotte for a while. I kept calling him, hoping he would either figure out what I meant by, "What's the address" or put someone else in his store on the phone who maybe spoke some more English. Alas, I was disappointed. He kept talking about the Exxon station. Finally, I realized he was telling me to pull into the Exxon station by his store and ask for directions from there. I am wayyyyyyy too stubborn and lazy to do something like that, so I just started driving around in circles until I finally stumbled onto the location by sheer, dumb luck.

He pulled up next to me in the parking lot and was nothing at all like I pictured in my head. I got out of the car with the product I had brought to talk to him about and he invited me into his car. I got in, against my better judgment, and got out the catalog to start talking to him about his options. As I'm talking, I'm trying to remind myself that he's probably not understanding everything I'm saying, so I'm trying to speak in easy words. But at the same time, my Pure Romance training has ingrained deep in me the need to use the REAL words for body parts and body fuctions. To avoid crude words and use language that doesn't scare people. Sadly, the words that don't scare people are, in many cases, multi-syllabic and much less a part of the vernacular than the slang. So the two voices in my head are warring as I'm trying to explain to him how a c-ring works.

He finally decides which product he wants to try and I pull it out of the bag and pass the toy over. He immediately rips the bag open and starts trying to figure out how to put it on. NOW don't get carried away, pants stayed zipped the entire time (thank the LORD!) But he was holding up the new c-ring, asking me what went where and how it worked and how he could keep his partner from knowing he was using it... (which he can't. Cause it vibrates. And unless she shoves some double "a" batteries up his butt and assumes he works like a vibrator, she's gonna notice the difference.) And the entire time I'm trying to explain to him, he's getting more and more confused. We pull out the bullet and I show him where it goes on the toy and he continues to be confused.

And this is when I realize that, technically, I am breaking the law. (There is actually a law saying that if I hold up a toy and explain it's usage to a man with the intention of selling it to him, I am committing solicitation. Is that RANDOM or what? But it's a law!) If there is a cop in this GIANT empty parking lot that we are sitting very conspiciously in the middle of, and he sees what I am doing, he could really have me arrested. And I could lose the whole business. So now, as I'm trying to explain to this befuddled man, I'm also looking around me furtively, trying to see if the SWAT team is closing in to bust me. (Those of you who partook in illegal substances with me in college will remember the paranoia that can plague me when I know I'm doing something I shouldn't.) He notices my discomfort and wonders if we should drive closer to the building where we will be hidden from sight. HELL TO THE NO BOBBY BROWN! I am not going to go sit in a car, hidden from the world, to talk about sex toys with a French man I have never met before! I'll take my chances on prison.

It's about this time when the thought that has been hanging out in the back of my brain finally comes to the forefront. Really? Is this my life, really? Am I really hanging out in the parking lot of a furniture superstore in a 78 TransAm with a missing ceiling with a french-speaking African explaining how to use a c-ring for the love of God?

And now we're off to the races. Cause now, as I'm desperately trying to explain to him that he should wear this toy for no longer than 30 min at a time or his penis may fall off, in my brain, I'm cycling through the following thoughts... 'nice, Jewish girl from a wealthy Cleveland suburb... wore a blue sailor dress to my Bat Mitzvah... played the flute in the marching band... majored in television in a half-way decent college... worked on the Olympics... met Brad Pitt once... really? How did I get here again?'

Of course, that's not to say I don't enjoy my job. I love my job. Can't imagine doing anything else with my life right now. And truthfully, I admire this poor man who has to sit in a car with a woman he has never met before to explain his sexual issues. I know quite a few men, and women for that matter, who would rather have the bad sex than have that conversation. (Crazy people!) But still, in moments like these, I wonder... how on earth is this my life? How on EARTH is this my life? Seriously, how on earth is this my life?

Poor "C" and I finally gave up trying and agreed that I would call "A" tonight and explain to her everything he needed to know and she would then translate for him. Probably a good decision for us both. I am saved the frustration of trying to explain and he is (hopefully) saved from wearing his c-ring too long and having his penis fall off. I got out of the car, returned to my own safe haven of a Honda Element and pulled away as quickly as I could without looking like I was pulling away as quickly as I could.

Five minutes later, back on my home turf, I was driving through my neighborhood when I heard a honk from the car beside me. I look over and there, in the SUV driving next to me, waving enthusiastically, are the President/Founder and the CEO of Pure Romance. Who are usually in the home office in Cincinnati. So weird... right? What are they doing driving down my street? Turns out they are in town to shoot a recruiting video and saw the magnet on my car and realized I was one of them so they wanted to say hello. (Did I mention that I worship these two people and am more intimidated by them than I ever was by the Brad Pitts of my former life?)

I decided that their sudden appearance by my side in such a random fashion was fate reaching out to me. Telling me that although it seems like a weird life and such a random detour for an admittedly strange but none-the-less ordinary girl from the mid-west, it's really where I am meant to be. What I am meant to be doing.

Which is good, cause if this wasn't the right job, I'd have to go work for someone else again. And that would SERIOUSLY inhibit my sleeping in every day of the week! I do have my priorities.

So the other night, I'm doing a party in Bessemer City, NC. And it is Country. And as I'm driving there, I'm marveling at the subtle little twists and turns that my life has taken which have led me to be driving through the backwoods of NC with a car full of "marital aides."

Anyhow, the party wasn't all that well attended, but the people were nice and it was a decent take at the end of the night. There were two hostesses who are Pure Romance veterans and so they knew exactly what they wanted to purchase. The first hostess had just finished placing her order and was writing me a check while the second hostess was telling me her order. Suddenly, she stopped talking and she whispered to hostess #1, 'I think Ray's Grandma just came in.' I had no idea who this was, but from the horrified looks on both womens' faces, I assumed it was not a good thing she was there.

The first hostess, who owned the home we were in, walked out of the bedroom and tried to shut the door behind her to keep our new visitor from seeing inside. (Keep in mind, this was about 10:45 PM and Grandma Crazy just walked in and shouted hello without a knock or anything!) She said to Hostess #1 with mounting alarm in her voice "What are you ladies doing?" To which #1 delicately replied "We're having a ladies' party Mom." And all hell, literally, broke loose. Outside the bedroom door, I could hear Grandma Crazy going on and on about how we were bringing the devil into the house and how we were going to have to pay someday and did we think it was worthwhile to spend eternity in hell?

While this was going on outside, Hostess #2 was telling me that Grandma Crazy is actually #1's Grandmother-in-Law, but raised #1's husband because his mother died from complications of childbirth. And apparently she is quite the burr in her daughter-in-law's side, calling the police because she thinks her son is being poisoned by her daughter-in-law, accusing her of practicing witchcraft, etc. So I am hoping against hope that she will not come into the bedroom and am trying to hurry through #2's order.

AND... the door flew open. Grandma Crazy walked in, her 5 foot 3 inch body full of righteous (literally) indignation and accusation. She takes in the product sitting on her son's bed. She saw my bins full of lotions and lubricant and the like. She saw money changing hands. And she was horrified. She began her lecture. It's pretty amusing, so I was keeping my lips pressed together as tightly as possible.

"Ladies" G'Ma Crazy intoned, addressing all three of us. "You are beautiful, intelligent women. Do you know that what you are doing right now is putting your immortal soul in great peril? You have two places to go when you die. One of them is heaven and one is hell. And right now, all of you are headed to hell!"

Then she turned to address me directly. "Ma'am. How many places do YOU think there are to go when you die?" Inside my head I'm saying, 'Do I want to tell her I'm Jewish and I don't believe in any afterlife at all?' And as I hesitated, she prompted me. "Do you think there are three or four different options you can choose from? How many do you think there are?" Well, I have made the very smart decision at this point to play along to get her out of there faster because I want to collect my money, throw stuff in the car and begin the very long 45 min. drive back to my house so I can get some dinner and get to sleep sometime this evening. So, for the very first time in my little Northerner life, I invoke the "M" word. "No Ma'am," I said politely, "You're right. There are two." I was having a hard time keeping the amusement off my face, but I made a valiant effort. I think she sensed my inner struggle, but assumed that I know the path to righteousness regardless because she was pleased with my answer. "That's right," says Crazy. "There are two places. And there ain't nothin in this whole world, in this whole life, worth spending an eternity roasting in hell for!"

She turned to me again. "Who are you" she demanded. I was desperate to say, "I'm the Northern Headonistic Jewish Pure Romance consultant who is instructing your daughter-in-law on how to have a better orgasm ma'am." But instead, I stuck with, "My name is Sheri, ma'am." "Sheri," she responded, "You look like a smart girl. Do you read?" "Yes ma'am," I answered. (HONESTLY, I have never called anyone ma'am in my life! And suddenly it's coming out every other word!) "And I bet you understand what you read, don't you?" I had no idea where this was going, of course, but my strategy seemed to be working because she is talking quieter and looking triumphant. "Yes ma'am." "Well, Sheri, I suggest you go home and pick up your King James' bible..." (Sure, I keep it on the shelf next to my Stephen King books!) "...and you need to read it cover to cover and see if you can't find your way back to God."

She continued on in that way for what seemed like a very long time, although it was probably only about 5 min., while internally I struggled with the decision of whether or not to continue putting together #2's order while she talked. I didn't. Instead, I just kept repeating, "Thank you for thinking of me ma'am. I appreciate your opinion." And eventually she gave up and went away.

#1 apologized quite a bit after she left and we all laughed about it. And I finished taking their orders, packed up my five million pounds of stuff and started the drive back to Charlotte. And along the way, I thought about what she said.

I don't mind her belief that my soul is doomed to hell. It might bother me if I believed in hell at all, but I don't and so I don't mind. And frankly, I gave advice to a woman that night whose marriage is in real trouble because of their sex life. So if the advice I give manages to make her marriage better, I'm confident God will be pretty pleased. At least, the God I believe in will be.

I think, as usual, what bothered me the most was the assumption. The assumption that I am a Christian. And I know I was in the country and I'm in the south and the assumption is pretty logical down here. But it still frustrates me that people think everyone is exactly like them. That there is this automatic assumption when someone is bagging my groceries at the Harris Teeter that they need to tell me to have a Happy Easter. And that I feel guilty if I don't say it back, when all I want to say is, why do you assume I celebrate Easter? But I wouldn't say that cause it makes people uncomfortable.

When we were kids, I used to tease my sister and tell her she had Gentile-envy. She used to bug the hell out of my mother begging for a Chanukah bush. I never cared. Honestly, I thought the whole tree thing was cool, but I was just as happy to light the menorah. Either way, I got presents. And that's the end game for most kids anyway. Dad used to make us march around the house singing Chanukah songs before we could get our gifts and he would invariably make up extra verses to the songs to keep us marching longer while we whined and pleaded for our gifts, which he cleverly hid all around the house. After singing we would take off looking for the presents which, 6 nights out of 7, were boring things like socks, or a new jacket that I didn't care about at all. But the real joy is in the unwrapping for me, so I was happy. Seemed just as fun to me as sitting around a giant tree opening gifts. And I still have no Christmas envy. And I don't have a problem with Christmas either. But sometimes, when the woman filling my prescription at Walgreens wishes me a Merry Christmas, I wish that people would maybe step outside of their own comfort zone and stop assuming that the whole world thinks how they think and believes what they believe. And every year I tell myself I am not going to be bothered by it because people are just saying Have a Nice Day with different words. Maybe after a few more years here, I'll be immune to it.

One can hope.

I do apologize in advance if this is an uncomfortable subject for the men in my readership (such as it is)...

So throughout my Pure Romance presentation, I ask the party-goers questions to keep their attention and provide them with an opportunity to do more than just listen to me run my mouth. I always tell them that I do not acknowledge shouters and they must raise their hand if they know the answer, whereupon I will call on them to give me the answer. If they get it right, they get candy. If they get it wrong, they get candy for being the student willing to walk up to the blackboard when the teacher asks for volunteers. Cause you know I was never the one to raise my hand when a question was asked and did everything short of physically removing my own eyeballs to avoid making eye contact, lest the teacher be reminded that I am there and decide I should be called upon.

Sometimes I get strange answers to questions. One that is typically answered incorrectly is "Why are all of our products sugar-free." And at EVERY single party, three people yell out, Cause of diabetics! Which seems like the right answer, although it isn't, so I understand the inaccurate guess. (Psst... the right answer is because sugar=yeast infection.)

HOWEVER, I always ask at a certain point in the presentation if someone can tell me what is the one part of the human body that exists for no other reason but pleasure. I stress before I call on anyone that this body part serves no other function at all. It is there only to bring pleasure to a person. (For those of you who are picturing a little man in a boat right now, that is correct! Once again, sorry to the squemish.)

Now I don't expect everyone to know the answer to this. I'm not, after all, unreasonable. And sometimes a question can put pressure on people. Not make them think straight. I get this. And the desire for candy is strong. I get that as well. But at a party last night I heard some of the strangest answers ever, and sadly, this is not the first time I have heard some of these answers.

The first one, I believe, was EARS. Yes, ears. Those things we hear with? You know? And even if you discount hearing as an important function, we can also count on things-to-tuck-our-hair-back-with-when-we-have-no-sunglasses-around as a useful function. They are also a good area from which to dangle accessories. And speaking of sunglasses, how about the fact that ears hold up that which provides me crystal clear vision. All of these are functions served by the ear. I do recognize that some people find pleasure in the ear and yay for them, but can we all at least agree that the ear serves many useful functions? I hope we can.

Another fun answer I heard last night was tongue. Tongue. Did I say that clearly enough? TONGUE! CLEARLY, the tongue serves no other function than to bring pleasure. That whole taste buds thing-- totally a myth. The assistance it provides with both chewing and drinking, not actually true either. Just pleasure. Yup. Sure.

And last but not least, last night's big winner of my "How do I keep a straight face and not call this woman a moron in front of all of her friends" contest...

LEGS!

Yes, legs. Apparently, in this woman's world, she doesn't use them to walk. She doesn't use them to hang her feet off of. She doesn't even use them to wear fashionable pants with. In this woman's very limited world, legs are there for pleasure. And nothing else.

Now, I realize that not everyone is a rocket scientist like yours truly. (and by rocket scientist, I mean someone who could not figure out the tax on an order if the fate of the entire universe rested upon it.) And I hate to bag on these lovely women who give me money and something to do on the weekend nights. But seriously? SERIOUSLY?

Oh the things I am learning about human nature. And today's lesson is, when a question is asked and candy is the reward for knowing the answer, just go ahead and scream out any minute thought that pops into your mind. The candy makes i

Auditorially Stimulated

So... I've always loved music. I have a connection to music that seems a bit more obsessive than what most people feel. When I love a song, or even when I hear it a lot over a short period of time, it becomes imbedded in my mind. I will always remember every word of it (for more information on how this has ruined my practical memory, please see last year's blog.) Which is kind of funny but not really all that unusual. My Grandfather, in the last year of his life, became obsessed with the fact that he couldn't remember to eat lunch when he was hungry, but could remember every word to every song he knew in his youth.

The weird thing is, not only do the words and melodies stick in my head, but the situation and emotions imbed themselves as well. So after a while, whenever I hear a song, I remember where I was and what I was doing when I was either obsessed with it or when I was hearing it everywhere I go. Which then prompts me to comment to people nearby, "This song totally reminds me of..." Which I'm sure is quite annoying. Cause who really cares other than me, right? But the thing is that I get so caught up in these memories and the emotions that go with them, that I can't seem to keep it to myself.

The other day, I was teaching Pilates to a few women. The radio station that played in the background was apparently playing a lot of songs from the year I turned 13, because every song put me back at a Bar/Bat Mitzvah party. Every freaking one! Dancing in my socks (which I naturally wore over my panty hose to keep them from tearing), watching the boys on the other side of the room (far, far away from us of course) whisper and play with matches and wishing they would come over and ask me to dance, seeing relatives rallying around the Jew-of-the-day, congratulating them on not dropping the Torah. All that. And I kept those memories in as long as possible, but I just couldn't help myself. I blurted out, "It feels like a Bat Mitzvah in here! Anyone have a glowstick I can make into a halo?" To which the nice waspy southern ladies who I was working out at the time responded, understandably, "What?" "Nothing, don't worry about it. Pull your abs in."

Yesterday, I was playing around on the XM and tuned to the 80's channel. They were playing Phil Collins, "Inside Out." As a angst-ridden high schooler, I played that song A LOT! And there is a line in the song that says "Let me in, I'm through with wasting my time!" which I recall screaming at the top of my lungs as I sang along. (Go ahead, you can lose respect for me for singing along with some Philage. I understand.) As soon as I heard that song the other day, I found myself mentally slipping back into that angsty place... that feeling of being misunderstood, angry, confused and hormonal. For a minute, some part of me was sitting on the floor in my childhood bedroom, cranking the music and singing as loud as my lungs would permit. And even though I changed the channel quickly to avoid it, I sank into that mood for a good half hour and had a hard time returning to the good mood I had been previously walking around with.

This happens to me all day long, wherever there is music playing. I have such specific memories attached to so many songs that sometimes it feels like dodging landmines. 'Crap, that's a Ryan song.' 'Oh man, I heard this song so much when I was working for Leeza.' 'Wow, Paul loved this song. I wonder what happened to him.' 'Oh god, I heard this song one night driving home after a crappy day of working on Wayne .'

Some songs are forever taboo. There's the Rolling Stones song that reminds me of the night my first boyfriend dumped me. The one that reminds me of being fired from that Disney show. Another one that reminds me of a really angsty night in college. These are songs I know I need to avoid like the plague because it takes me a really looooooong time to pull myself out of the moods I know come with them.

Some songs are great memories. From a fun family vacation or a great night in college with my friends. Songs from shows I really enjoyed, or songs that we played while we worked (Can you say Whitesnake, Paige?) or songs we danced to in the nightclubs in London.

Sometimes I try to recondition my brain to connect a different memory to a song. Doesn't seem to work very well. Only accidentally. My mother loves Barry Manilow, so his music used to remind me of being a little girl and make me feel warm and safe. But I used it so many times to pull myself out of bad moods while I was working in Salt Lake, that now it just reminds me of being miserable in Salt Lake.

Because of all this, I think I have a stronger connection to my past then I should. I know I spend too much time thinking about it. It's hard to stop. Memories are just everywhere, and they are so strong. I don't know how to avoid them. And the thing is, I don't always mind. In fact, a lot of times, I like it. When they are good memories, I'm excited to relive them. When I heard "Roam" by the B-52s today, it reminded me of taking a tour of Ithaca's campus for the first time, and how excited I was about how close college seemed, how soon I was going to get out of Shaker. And as I remembered that feeling, my life felt so open and full of possibilities.

Sometimes even the bad memories are good to remember. There is another Phil Collins song that reminded me of being 17 and saying goodbye to my best friend who was moving to New York. I hear that song and think about how sure I was that I would never see her again and it makes me so happy that we stayed close and have kept our friendship going another 20 years. Makes me feel accomplished.

I may sound like I'm complaining here, and I may be to a degree. But really, if you gave me the option to change this, I wouldn't. Some part of me likes the connections. Even the bad ones.

What I do wish I could change tho, is the feeling of being so out of control of my reactions. I would like to be able to have these moments of my life on playback but I would like to watch them from a safe emotional distance. Maybe if I didn't constantly emotionally relive my past, I could let it go and focus more on what's going on in my life right now.

Once again, I am solution-less on this issue. I shall continue to live in my mental auditorially-stimulated time-machine.

Maybe I should just find a channel on XM that only plays songs I've never heard before. Think it would work?

Admit It!

You all thought I was exaggerating, didn't you? Well... here's some proof for ya...

How to Know You're in New Orleans

8:30AM: I'm headed down the street with one of my fellow production-ites to go to Starbucks in the French Quarter in New Orleans.

Sadly for me, I'm dressed for my day at the Superdome, which means I am layered to the eyeballs because it's freezing in there. So my walk to Starbucks turned me awfully sweaty in the thick N.O. air, especially since I am also schleping my computer, a binder and God knows what else, in my computer case.

I turn the corner onto Canal and there in the doorway is the most aggressively average looking Transvestite/ prostitute I have ever seen. She looks me up and down and says, "Good morning" with a very bright smile. I respond in kind and as I pass her by, she gives me another glance and says, with a very surprised inflection, "Oh! Nice tits!"

Naturally, I say, "Thanks very much." And I continue on my way.

Hello, New Orleans.

Comfortable is a relative term...

Internet dating. There are so many pitfalls and traps. And it's so easy to get sucked into cliches when putting your profile together.

For example, does every guy out there aged 25-45 really like long walks on the beach? Is it really that universal? Isn't there someone out there like me who thinks that sand in your shoes is overrated?

Also, do that many people enjoy badminton so much that they are compelled to list it as a hobby? Cause I don't see badminton clubs sweeping the nation.

Then there are the people who like to work hard and also like to play hard. Is it me, or is that code for I-love-getting-drunk-and-throwing-up-in-some-random-stranger's-garden? Okay, that may be a bit cynical, and since I don't claim to either work hard OR play hard, it's probably not fair to judge. But I remember my old boss used to use that line all the time, and as far as I could tell, playing hard for him meant meeting the other power biz chino and polo shirt guys out for drinks for a few hours and talking on the phone to clients the entire time. So maybe my impression is incorrect.

But my fav of all the fav cliches are the guys who are looking for girls who are equally comfortable in black-tie or sweats.

Ok, um, what? EQUALLY comfortable? Let's evaluate that for a moment. Because is anyone EVER comfortable when they dress up to go out somewhere? I mean, maybe men can be comfortable in ties and suits, if they wear them everyday, and I guess tuxedos aren't that much different. But seriously, guys? Have you ever seen the shoes we wear when we wear black-tie attire? Do they look comfortable to you?Do Spanx, or panty hose, or anything else we wear to keep our bodies in check while wearing fabulous clothes look as comfy as sweats to you?

Let's see these two scenarios side-by-side, shall we? Do a little side-by-side comparison.






















"Honey, let's stay in tonight and watch some TV."
"Oh, fantastic idea sweetheart. I'm so tired and I have been waiting for the chance to wear my new strapless bra with underwire under my new black tie gown. Let me just throw my hair into a chignon and I'll be all ready to get comfy."

Am I ranting? Of course. Am I exaggerating? Uh huh. Do I think that perhaps I am taking it all a bit too literally? Well, duh. Am I completely wrong? Possibly. Am I amused by the idea? Abso-freakin-lutely.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go put on my new stilettos and do some gardening. Have a lovely evening!

Take a Moment Friday

I'd like to start a new tradition here at the blog. Each Friday, I am going to pick one thing and Take a Moment to Appreciate It. So here goes today's.

I am doing a party for a woman tonight who is folding me into her birthday celebration. She has rented a hotel suite and invited all of her friends. She is having Ladies' Time from 5:30-8:30 and I will be attending as part of that portion.

She gave me an invitation so that I would know the details and where everything is. It's a pretty straightforward invitation, mostly unremarkable. Exept for this one part, which is my favorite.

At the bottom, under the directions, it says "Please bring a gift."

I love that! She wants gifts. So rather than leaving any mention of gifts off, in the hope that people will just assume to bring them, or being socially correct and saying "no gifts" and then hoping people will ignore that directive and bring them anyway, she's putting it out there. Please bring a gift.

Someone who actually asks for what they want. Huh. Doesn't hope, doesn't hint, doesn't fantasize about it. Just asks. How often do we actually do that in life? I can't speak for everyone, but I know I don't do it all that often. So it shouldn't be surprising to me when people don't read my mind, but it always seems to shock me.

So, on this Take a Moment Friday, let's take a moment to appreciate someone who is willing to risk putting themselves out there and asking for something they want.

I shall now follow the lead and ask people to forward my blog on to people you think may enjoy it. And maybe leave a comment.

(That was scarier than I thought. Better hit Publish Now before I change my mind.)

Richie's Bid for Freedom

So, the first time was a week ago today. No, you know what? Let's start a bit further back.

My sister's dog, Ernie, made his first attempt at freedom early last week. Somehow, he got out of the gate in the backyard and went off to check out the neighborhood on his own. My sister lept in her car and chased him down, luring him into the backseat with hot dogs.

My poor sister. She lives on a main street and her dog is lovable and sweet and very endearing, but not the brightest bulb in the box. We're talking about a dog who tried to eat a skunk and then looked so sad when it sprayed him right in the face. You could practically hear him thinking, "Well, what did you do that for? I just wanted to eat you! Why would you hurt me?" So, when my sister said to me that she was grateful she had the presence of mind to take along hot dogs to tempt him into the car, I agreed. It was a smart move. And I said a silent prayer of thanks in my head that Richie has spent hours upon hours in the backyard and never gotten out or tried to eat a skunk. See? I willed it into being! Stupid, stupid, stupid.

A week ago today, I was out all morning. As I was driving home, the sky was just starting to return to normal after several hours of rain and thunderstorm. I was relieved that it was ending before I got home because, as previously discussed, Richie can get quite manic when thunderstorms roll into town.

I pulled down my street and noticed that the woman who cleans my house had parked in my driveway. So I pulled up to the curb and parked. As I was getting out, a very nice man who was getting into his minivan down the street yelled hello to me. Then he asked me if I knew anyone in the neighborhood who had a Corgi. I yelled back that I had one, as my heart started to beat faster.

I walked toward the man who was yelling to me that he had just seen a corgi trailing a red leash (which I leave on him when my cleaning person is here so she can get him back into his room when she leaves with little difficulty) walking down the street. Naturally, I instantly began to panic and started running down the street toward the car, my mind already trying to calculate where he might have gone.

Fortunately, this lovely man had realized that a dog walking down the street with his leash on and no owner didn't seem right and had picked him up and put him in the car. The man got out and opened his back door. "Come here, buddy," he said and I saw Richie's head pop out of the door and look around with interest to see what was going on. Very nonchalant. 'Oh gee, what's happening out here?' I wanted to kill him and hug him at the same time. He caught sight of me and smiled before jumping out of the car and walking toward me. I grabbed his leash, gushing thanks to this wonderful, wonderful man (who was a little scary for a second when he said that his wife had always wanted a corgi and he had been about to call her and tell her he found one... um...) Richie started pulling on the leash like he thought we would go for a walk now. As if my legs were still working and not shaking like crazy. Sorry, buddy. We had to go home right away so I could have a quiet nervous breakdown and try very hard not to yell at my cleaning person for letting him out when the gate was open. Which I know was not her fault, but I wanted to yell anyway.

Anyhow, we all recovered and it became a funny story to tell for the next few days. I tried not to think about what could have happened and just focused on how fortunate I was that the timing worked out the way it did.

Two days ago, Ernie, apparently having gotten a taste of freedom and liking it, streaked out the side door of my sister's house while someone was leaving and ran off down the street. My poor sister had to run after him and finally caught up with him when he was a couple blocks down. Now she's worried that every time she opens the door, he's going to make a run for it. And I don't blame her. Again, as she told me what happened, I stupidly said a silent prayer of thanks that Richie didn't get any further on his freedom run and that I had learned my lesson. Jinxed it again!!!

This afternoon, I came home during a thunderstorm. I let Richie out to pee but he was so freaked out by the storm, he refused to go. I shut the back door and walked away for a second thinking if I wasn't standing there, maybe he would go on his own. Um... I thought wrong.

No, instead he made a break for it, no doubt looking for somewhere to get away from the storm. If the storm is in his house and in his backyard, then surely he can get away from it by leaving those places.

I returned to the door less than a minute later and he was nowhere in sight. Completely panicked, I got in the car, stalled, and then backed out, terrified that he would come running up the driveway and I wouldn't be able to see him. (He's REALLY SHORT!) I drove around the block, stopping at a park near my house, where I very enthusiastically and loudly, screamed "RICHIEEEEEEE" at the top of my lungs several times. (Think STELLLAAAAA. That's about right.) I turned around to get back in the car with absolutely no idea what direction to head next when I saw two ears crest the hill of the block next to the park. I hoped against hope that it was him. That he had heard me scream and was running to me.

It was, although I don't think he heard me yell. I think he was just still trying to outrun the storm. He was running, running, running, ears flat back, in the rain. He was, of course, just to torture me as much as possible, running down the middle of the friggin' road, just so a car could not see him and run him over as they drove by. I was standing there yelling, "Come to me Richie! That's a good boy, come on Richie." I didn't want to back the car up for fear of running him over and I was afraid if I wasn't right next to the car when he got to me, he would take off again before I could reach down and grab his collar. So I just stood next to the car, yelling his name and clapping my hands together (our signal for "come.") He got to the end of the block and I was just about to stop freaking out when I realized he wasn't running at me. He didn't seem to know it was me. Like Forrest Gump before him, he was just running. He turned the corner and started heading toward the house.

Fortunately (how many times can I use that word in this post), when I yelled his name again, he realized it was me and changed course. I opened the car door and he jumped in, shaking and panting (which made two of us.) I got in the car and sat behind the wheel, trying to calm myself down. My legs were shaking too much to put the clutch in. I kept seeing everything that could have gone wrong flashing behind my eyes. A car. Another dog. Him getting lost and not knowing how to get home.

We got home and I was too afraid to put him down outside so I carried him into the house. Did I mention he doesn't enjoy being carried? He squirms and squirms until he either falls out of my arms or I put him down. Which I did and then flopped down on the couch.

I wanted to be mad. I wanted to punish him. But all I could feel was grateful. So I sat down on the floor next to him, petting him and telling him I love him. I started to lecture him about never leaving the house again, but he was apparently not interested, because he got up and walked to the other corner of the room and laid down, panting, drooling and staring at the ceiling, no doubt wondering why he couldn't get away from the storm.

'What is it with my Granddogs,' my mother asked me. I honestly don't know. But I am choosing to blame Ernie for being a bad influence on Richie. Now granted, they live in seperate states and have only ever met once since Richie doesn't know how to play nicely with others. But still, let's blame Ernie. It's less stressful for me.

And I've had enough stress today.

Year 35

So... 36 looms. In two more days, I will be closer to 40 than to 30. Which is fine. I'm not worried about age. But as the day gets closer, I've been doing some evaluation of the previous year. I've been making a mental list of my accomplishments (such as they are) over the year that was 35.

• Recruited four new consultants. All of whom are still active, which is exciting. Still dangle on the precipice of Director level where I have been hanging since November, waiting to find one more recruit. Frustrating!
• Read at least 20 books. Started and never finished significantly more than that, however. Let's not do the math to see how much I spent on these. Re-read Time Traveler's Wife for possibly the 5th time. Stay tuned for a later blog on that book and the special place it holds in my heart.
  
• Learned to teach Pilates and taught over 60 hours of free classes for friends and family.
• Attempted to understand the anatomy of the human body for Pilates. Ongoing process.
• Attended PR annual training in Cincinnati and PR Convention in Las Vegas. Guess which one I enjoyed more.
  
• Held more than 50 PR parties. Had three women tell me I helped save their marriage.
• Took Richie for significantly fewer walks that I should have. Poor Richie.
• Ten haircuts and six cut/color.
• Countless mani/pedis.
• Spent many hours with my fantastic niece singing songs from Sesame Street and impersonating the Count.
• Finally brought a 20 year relationship to its inevitable conclusion, simultaneously purging myself of two decades of regret and what-ifing while also creating a whole new world of pain. Thankfully, it abated quicker than the previous times.
• Replaced the broken tile on the kitchen floor finally freeing the house from the last of many stupid home improvement mistakes the previous owners made.
• Accrued an additional $10,000 in ViewU debt.
• Got to see my Mother recognized and thanked for her many, many years of service to the Alzheimer's Association.
• Saw "Love" by Cirque Du Soleil twice. (Fully intend to see it again this August.)
• Abandoned one knitting project mid-process and replaced it with a different one several months later.
• Wrote way less blogs than I meant to and plan to do better in year 36.
• Joined Twitter. Pretty much stopped at joining however.
• Bought a new dishwasher. It's sooooo quiet!
• Drove to Nashville for NYE.
• Cleveland for Thanksgiving.
  
• Girls' Weekend in Asheville.
• Family vacation in Hilton Head.
• Telethon in Vegas.
• Some stupid gospel show in Sept.
• Inaugural Event in DC.
• Laryngitis
• Bronchitis bordering on Pneumonia
• Read lots and lots and lots of Twilight Fan Fiction (and I'm only slightly ashamed...)
• Walked 26 miles and raised $1900 for the Avon Walk 2008!
• Worked three or four Panther's games for Kara.
• Bought a Wii and joined a book club at the same time!
• Watched a fantastic season of Lost! And even though I wanted to throw the TV at the wall in frustration after the season finale, I loved every minute of it. I'm sure I will sob next year when it really does end for real real (as Molly would say)

I'm sure I accomplished a ton of other things during the course of this year. But those appear to be the highlights. All in all, I think the good things far outnumber the bad things.

I've spent a lot of time in the last few months thinking and worrying about the things I don't have. But looking at this list now, it reminds me of so many things I do. Which is important to do, especially when your own personal calendar is set to flip to the next year.

It's a good time to make resolutions, many of which are not appropriate for sharing with the outside world. But one thing I will let everyone in on... I plan to update this blog once a week from now on. Don't know what day and don't know for sure I will always be able to pull it off, but I am going to do my best. Entries will probably be a lot shorter (which is probably a relief to everyone) but they'll be there.

And with that, I'm off. See you next week!

Shameless

So... as I type this, I am sitting in a pool side chair on the last day of my family's week long vacation to Hilton Head.

I just watched my own Aunt bribe her 1.5 year old granddaughter with a goldfish cracker to get a kiss. Which, sadly, she did not receive. But young Sara got a cracker anyway. Cause that's how grandkids roll. And grandparents who live in a different city from their grandkids are only too happy to do whatever it takes to get some affection and attention. Much like Cool Aunts.

Earlier today, we were sitting at the table eating lunch and I decided it would be fun to start counting like The Count from Sesame Street. I'll be honest, it didn't seem like fun so much as a promising attempt to draw my niece's attention with overt Sesame Street references. And it worked like gangbusters. I was the hit of the lunch. We counted mouthfuls of mac 'n cheese (one mouthful of mac n cheese in zoe's mouth mwah ah ah! TWO mouthfuls of mac n cheese in zoe's mouth mwah ha ha ha!) and then we counted pieces of cantelope. We counted flowers on her shirt. We counted the number of forks on the table. (There was only one, so that was a short game.) It was a shining moment of attention for me and only one of the many I have attempted over the course of this week long vacation. "Aunt Sheri, you so funny!" YES!!!!

At the beginning of the week, I tried some succesful methods I scored with on my last visit home. That included my own special rendition of "C" is for Cookie... "Z" is for Zoe, that's good enough for me." Then there was Little Bunny Foo Foo. She loved LBFF last time I was home. This time, not so much. I got a very emphatic "Aunt Sheri no can sing!" most times when I tried.

I tried to play "Pass the Zoe" in the pool with her mother. That died a quick and painful death and put me in a two day time-out. "Aunt Sheri is taking a break!" she announced to my sister, implying that it was time for me to take a break from swimming with her. I must have really needed that break, because when I woke up the next day and came down to the pool, she announced that I would be taking a break again before I even said good morning. "Aunt Sheri is taking a break," she said cheerfully to my sister. Boo says Aunt Sheri. But what my niece wants, she gets. At least, from Aunt Sheri!

Finally, yesterday I achieved success. Dubious success, but success none the less. We were in the pool together at the end of the day and I was struck with inspiration. "Zoe," I shouted with drama. "Wanna see Aunt Sheri disappear?" She was enthusiastic at the prospect, which I decided not to take personally. I swam on my back to the center of the pool and, after counting to three, lifted one leg and both arms into the air and sank below the water.

I returned triumphantly to the surface and was met with the desired reaction. She was excited, she was laughing, she was PAYING ATTENTION TO ME! So, naturally, when she said "again" I was down!

And that was the rest of the day. "Aunt Sheri can disappear again!" okay... only if you count to three for me. "Aunt Sheri can disappear again!" okaaaaayyyyy... "Aunt Sheri can disappear again! One two threeeeee!"

I'm not gonna lie. I thought it would get old. I did. To stave off the boredom, I spiced it up occasionally with a mid-water somersault and handstand. They were met with mild delight, but nothing was as great as Aunt Sheri disappearing. Again, I tried not to read too much into it and performed like the trained aunt I am over and over and over and over. And it didn't get old. It really didn't ever get old.

We got out of the pool later that afternoon after countless disappearances. First thing this morning, when I walked out to the pool in my workout clothes, Zoe shouted "Aunt Sheri can disappear again!"

I gotta say, it's a real feeling of accomplishment to have carved out a place in my niece's mental list of fun things to watch and do. I only get to see her a few times a year and I like knowing that she might remember me when I'm not around. Until I can take her shopping and sympathize with her when her mother is unreasonable, this kind of stuff is all I have that may make a lasting impression. So if I have to repeat the same impressions over and over, whistle on occasion, (which always commands her attention and prompts her "tweet tweet" as she tries to imitate me) and sink into the pool time and again until my eyes burn with chlorine, (see how I get to do the Jewish martyr thing?) I will do it any chance I get.

Cause tomorrow, Aunt Sheri disappears for real. At least until August. When she will have to start from scratch and look for new methods of inspiring her niece's delight.

Gotta start watching Dora so I can do a Dora impression. See? I will do ANYTHING!

Ode to me mom

So... as I mentioned in today's earlier post, tonight my Mother received an award from The Alzheimer's Association.

My mom started volunteering for the Association around the time my grandmother was diagnosed. Since then, she has become an incredibly active part of the organization, going to meeting after meeting, dripping blood, sweat and tears over every detail of her involvement. Although I know she loves this work, I often wished she would cut back, just because it seemed to be so stressful to her. Last year, when she was required to resign from the board (term limits) I was so excited that she was going to get her life back. So when she told me she was going to re-join the board as soon as she was eligible, I thought she was crazy. But tonight, I finally understand.

I have never seen someone so beloved as my Mom in that ballroom tonight. And it was more than the three tables of friends who joined us in helping her celebrate. I always know how much she means to her friends. She is always the rock in their lives. She is the one they always turn to, the one everyone trusts with their darkest secrets. The one that everyone most respects. It's an incredible thing to have a role model like that. I always aim to be the same kind of friend as my mother.

But, tonight, I saw the respect, the gratitude and the appreciation that my mom inspired in all the employees and volunteers at the Association. I saw how she is their support system and their friend. I had so many people introduce themselves to me tonight and say, "We just love your mother! She is such a wonderful person." And I would agree.

My mom isn't comfortable with the spotlight. She's been anxious for this night to be over for a while, possibly since the day she learned she would be receiving the award. I, in my attempts to make sure she appreciates tonight, have been badgering her mercilessly since I got to town the other day. I've been making her swear that she would accept every compliment graciously, that she would save the self-deprecating comments for another night. And she has agreed, although reluctantly. I told her we would give her standing ovations and she begged me not to. I made jokes about creating a cheer with her name in it and spelling her name with our bodies, which made her turn white with fear and say "You better not!" But when they introduced her, it didn't matter what I did, because half the ballroom was on their feet anyway. I have never been so proud of her or so grateful to be her daughter (and that's saying a lot because I have always looked up to my mom.)

So Mom, congrats again for tonight. I am so pleased that you finally got the attention and thanks that you so richly deserve. And I know Grandma and Poppa are too.

From the program book: "Marsha's involvement began in the late 1990s when she casually mentioned to an acquaintance, "let me know if there's anything I can do to help with the Alzheimer's Association." Since then, she has served as a member of the board of trustees, is a member of the development and finance committees, has served on the executive committee, has chaired A Celebration of Hope and Memory Walk and has been an active member of countless event committees. Marsha is known as a real go-getter who is always willing to take on roles of responsibility and leadership...

When asked to describe her, Chris Stevens, the current chair of the association's board of trustees, said, "We have all benefited from Marsha's grace, dedication to the mission of the organization and hard work. She has always been very generous with her time, energy and talents and is our serene leader."

That's my mom!

Pack-rat or Archivist? You decide

So... my mother is receiving an award tonight from the Alzheimer's Association (I will be writing a blog later with the details from the program) and I flew home this week to go to the event. I'm so proud of her and everything she's done, but that's for a later post.

No, today's post is about my childhood desk. It sits on the wall of my childhood bedroom, below a faded yellow post-it note on my wall that says (in all caps and underlined, no doubt for emphasis) "STUDY!" The note is a relic of my long-ago days of school-dom. I asked my mother yesterday how it can still be on the wall. They stripped the wallpaper since I moved out and painted the room white. She says she liked to leave it there because it was so iconoclastic.

Anyway, I was getting dressed yesterday and happened to glance over at my desk and noticed a little round piece of plastic sitting there. I realized it was one of those plastic discs that you put in the center of a 45 record to play it on a normal record player. As I was looking at the little disc of yester-year, suddenly, as though I had blinders on before, my entire desk and everything sitting on it (including the yellow post-it reminder to study) materialized. I realized that since I moved out of this house in 1991, I have never really looked at that desk. So, I decided to dig in and discover it's contents. Here's what I found...

On top of the desk:

• A jar full of pennies in a mug that says "Please don't bother me, I'm studying." (Yeah, I'm sure...)
• 8 different coffee mugs with various sayings... "Official Left-Handed Mug" (which had a small hole on one side so if you tried to drink with your right hand it would dump the liquid all over you) "Coffee and Cruellers will hold back the honk" (That's a Wayne's World mug, of course) and one with a pretty unicorn leaping over a rainbow.
• A Giant Guinness mug filled with hair combs.
• Four, count them, FOUR pencil cups jammed full of writing implements (including some Crayola markers) which no longer have any hope of working. (And I know they don't work, cause I tried several of them as I began my inventory of the desk. None of them were up to the job. I just put them back, naturally.)
  
• A Guinness bottle with a red and white pom sticking out of it from my Shaker Heights Red Raiders days.

And that's just what's been sitting on top...

Drawer #1:

• A program from my high school senior honors dinner, in which I did not receive any honors.
• My report card from the fall of '92 (Mostly Bs with an A- in Fiction writing)
• A directory of my C:/ drive from my first computer
• A Colleco Quiz Wiz with 1001 questions (I wonder if I can get money for that from eBay)
• A container of Pick Up Sticks
• A File box that says "Pick a Book" on the outside. Inside are cards describing books. For example: "This book is about all kinds of animals at a hotel. It is very funny" and "This book is about a boy who loves soccer. If you like soccer, this book is for you." (For the record, I believe this box was a class project in Elementary School and I took it upon myself to procure it secretly. Not all these descriptions were written by me, as evidenced by the fact that there is a book about soocer.)

Drawer #2:

• Two boxes of reel to reel tape from my days as a radio Production Manager on 106-VIC- the Voice of Ithaca College.
• A notebook containing questions from my first (and last) celebrity interview... yes, friends, it was Julio Iglesias.
• A folder full of fiction writing, most of it involving death and bad metaphors. I was a very, very dark writer in my youth.
• A college Viewbook from the University of Hartford. (A school which I did not visit, nor apply to, nor, obviously, attend. However, I live on a street called Hartford now, so that's something.)
• A book in which I wrote down song lyrics I liked with the title in calligraphy (or what I believed calligraphy should look like) on the facing page. Many of the titles are Beatles songs, but there is some Simon & Garfunkel thrown in for good measure. (It seems to me this was early practice for my future career. It also seems to me that I got a lot of song lyrics wrong back then.)
• A reminder on a slip of paper to call Lee Fisher's office (candidate for State Representative) on Monday for myself and Molly. Mol and I volunteered in his office in 1990, mainly because the Volunteer Coordinator was very cute and used to call us Slut-Puppy. (Which we also called ourselves, to be fair.)
  
• A yellow Yo-Yo
• The letter I earned for my letter jacket from High School Marching Band. (Which I clearly had the sense NOT to put on my jacket, cause how lame is a band letter?)
• A book of piano sheet music with TV and Movie themes. (Ex: The Theme from Ice Castles, St. Elsewhere and Happy Days.)

Drawer #3

• A Certificate of Merit from Temple Emanu El for Outstanding Scholastic Achievement in Grade 10 Judaic Studies. (Really? They must have set the bar VERY low...)
• A wall calendar from 1990 titled "PMS Attack." Complete with countdown to the day I left for my summer trip to Cambridge in England. The countdown begins 117 days from departure. (From 4/22-4/30, I wrote "Dante's 9th Level of Hell" across the dates. Which puzzled me until I saw that the SAT's were held on May 1st. Ah!!!)
• Paperback book version of the movie "Big" starring Tom Hanks.
• Flash cards for Division. (Truthfully, I should take those home and study them. I could use the practice!)
• The shooting script from the August 25, 1994 edition of Entertainment Tonight. John Tesh: "All that pushing and squeezing and pushing and squeezing and finally... rock hard thighs. Now watch Suzanne put them to work." (Ok, I'd really like to know what was happening in the tape package that came after THAT intro!)
• My Driver License that expired in June of '93
• My SISTER'S Driver License (which I was stupidly using as a fake ID even though there was a three inch height difference and we look nothing alike) which expired in January of '95.
• A recipe printed on dot matrix printer for Skyline Chili (hmmm.... can't wait to try that!)
• A copy of Cliff's Notes for Macbeth.

Now, you may be wondering to yourself, 'Self, I wonder if Sheri decided to throw out stupid things like the note to call Lee Fisher's office, or the printed 8 page description of a C:/ drive that has been taking up space in a landfill for a good 15 years... and really get something accomplished while she strolled down memory lane.' So, I'll tell you.

No.

No, when I was done looking at everything, writing it all down so I could record it here, I shoved it all back in the drawers and pushed and pushed until they closed again.

And it's not that the idea of purging the drawers and throwing things out didn't occur to me. It did. Many times. However, ultimately, the garbage bags were downstairs and the alarm was already on. And, you know, I had such a good time combing through all this crap, that who am I to deny my future self the same enjoyment 10 years from now? When I can again wonder why I'm saving that empty file box, or that yellow yo-yo, or the 15 copies of the resume I sent to LA when I was trying to find an internship for 2nd semester senior year. How sad would I feel one day to not be able to comb through pages and pages of badly written fiction with teacher's comments written in green on the side, pointing out gramatical and spelling errors?

No, I can't deny my future self this joy. And what if I should become famous? I know it's not likely, but it could happen. Shouldn't I save all these important momentos for the opening night of the Sheri Spitz Collection at the Smithsonian?

Yes, better to leave things as they are. Who knows what I will need someday.

Tune in for the next time I return home and document the contents of my closets, where I promise you, there is a Married With Children board game!

I freakin' love my job!

So... I have had a bad couple of weeks, as you can probably tell from my previous two posts. I feel like I've been non-stop cranky for months. (I'm sure if I asked some of my friends if that's true they would confirm... which is why I won't ask). I've been feeling a bit lost, a bit confused, a bit like everything I want in life is just beyond my reach and I will always come close to what I want and but never quite get it.

Then, miracle upon miracles, PR scheduled an all day educational Empowerment Summit in Charlotte. Well, not just in Charlotte. In eight other markets as well. But Charlotte's happened to be today. And all I have to say, having spent 9 hours sitting in a hotel ballroom, in the same chair (with a half hour lunch break and loooots of bathroom breaks cause my bladder is apparently the size of a pea), listening to five different speakers and watching five different Powerpoint presentations...

I FREAKIN' LOVE THIS COMPANY!!!!$#@$#@

Feel like I'm shouting at you? I am.

Seriously, I have always loved trainings and meetings from the day I signed up. I go to every meeting that I can for our team in the Carolinas, I've been to National Convention twice in Las Vegas and chose to ignore the city and its trappings to sit in voluntary training sessions (of course, to be fair, I don't like Vegas very much, so I didn't feel like I was giving up anything) and I've gone to Annual Corporate Training in Cincinnati, OH every year for three days. Every year, at the end of training, I start getting excited and can't wait for the next one. It's always so empowering and exciting and amazing to be in a room with SO MANY women who are all about bettering themselves and each other instead of being nasty and bitchy as you know we women can be in large groups.

But this Empowerment Seminar blew all those previous trainings away. I am so pumped, I want to do a party right-freakin-now to show off what I learned. I want to memorize every bullet-point, every note, every demo that I heard today and recite them to strangers so they can get as excited as I am. (Hence the blog! Aren't you glad I didn't call you personally?)

I have been to quite a few trainings for other companies. The Pump Factory in Monroe, North Carolina (pronounced MONroe by the folks who worked there...) was a special treat of sheer, mind-numbing, excrutiating pain. The sales trainings I used to have to organize when I worked at Hair Color Xperts made me want to cry and beg my boss not to make me actually attend. And then, of course, there have been the ENDLESS tech meetings (yes, telethon, I'm thinking of you!) and production meetings where I seriously considered jabbing myself in the eye with my mechanical pencil just to make life more interesting.

This was twice as long as most of those (except the Telethon meeting, of course!) and flew by in a blink.

What I love about PR sales trainings is that they don't train us and say "Here's how you can make better sales." Instead, they tell us how we can like ourselves more, appreciate our customers more, be more educated... thereby increasing our sales. I genuinely walk away from our trainings feeling happier, more empowered and more in love with this company than ever.

Anyway, this is probably getting nauseating, so I'll stop here. I guess I just wanted to let everyone out there in blog land who might be feeling some concern for me based on previous posts know that "HappySheri" is back and ready to go!

PR rocks!!!

Messages from the Subconscious

So... last night, I had two very weird dreams. Not unusual for me by any stretch. I am the most vivid dreamer I know and my dreams are regularly active, dark and often involve life or death situations. If anyone out there in blog land has a cure for that, let me know. Please.

These dreams last night were no different, generally, than the others. Quick action, representation from people in my life etc. But usually, I wake up from these things thinking 'What in the holy hell did that mean?' and writing it off. Like the other night, I had a dream that my whole family was going to Greece for a vacation and I had volunteered to stay and watch my cousins' restaurant for them (despite the fact that none of my cousins actually own restaurants) and was very anxious about doing a good job. What does that mean? I have no idea.

But two dreams from last night actually seem like they are sending me a message. In the first of the two, I was driving a large mobile home type thing with a group of friends home from some kind of vacation. For some reason, I have a memory that we were a band on tour? But anyway, we were driving this mobile home and we put it on autopilot (!!!) and went into the back to play cards while the car drove us home. But something was bothering me and I couldn't figure it out. So I went back up to the driver's seat to check on things and started to come a very slow realization that we were driving the wrong direction on the highway.

I didn't panic, but I got off (driving backwards so I could go with the flow of traffic) at the next exit I could find. My friends didn't seem bothered by it and no other cars were honking at me. Which is probably why it took me so long to figure out that we were going the wrong way. But we did eventually get off the highway and turn around to attempt to get back on. As we were starting to turn onto the entrance ramp, I noticed there were some orange cones blocking part of the ramp. I tried to see if I should go around the cones, but there was so much traffic and they were all honking to get me to move forward, so I just went around the cones and started driving down the ramp, only to discover that the ramp was only half finished and didn't connect to the highway. We were trapped. And then I woke up.

I had to get up to go pee at that point, and as I went, I was doing my usual to reassure myself that none of that actually happened, that it was just a dream, blah blah blah. But I realized it seemed like a pretty telling one and I thought to myself, 'If I still remember it in the morning, I'll write a blog about it.' Then I went back to sleep.

In the next dream, I was at a gas station, filling up my car (which was actually my car on and off through this dream. Sometimes it was the Element, sometimes it was a big van) when all of a sudden, someone came by to pick me up and I left. I came back a long while later to the same station to pick up my car and pacing around the car screaming was Luke from Gilmore Girls. He was mad that I had left the car there so long with the gas pump handle in the car, taking up room. He was threatening to tow. I came running over, apologizing over and over and he started telling me he was going to sue me for all the business he had lost while my car sat there. I was horribly embarrassed and apologetic and tried to pay for my gas, but he kept ranting and raving and getting angrier and angrier. Finally, he started to calm down and eventually agreed to just let me pay for the gas I bought. Then my friends and I climbed into the car and started heading home.

Do you ever think maybe you're doing something wrong with your life and no one has bothered to tell you, or even noticed? I hate to take such a literal translation with these dreams, especially since my dreams are usually so screwy that there isn't a lesson to be learned among them. My dreams are abstract and strange. But these dreams just seem so obvious. At a time in my life where I am a feeling a bit at loose ends, these dreams seem to be screaming at me. Am I going the wrong direction? Am I taking dead-end roads? Am I just taking up space in places where better things would get done if I would just move out of the way?

I don't think this applies to my business. In fact, work, as usual, is the one thing in my life I am completely certain about. I know I am doing good there and I'm proud of the work that I do. At least, I know I'm good at parties, at selling, at educating and supporting my clients in a very intimate setting. Recruiting, on the other hand... not my strongest area. But I don't feel like I'm going the wrong direction there.

Maybe the dreams happened because I have spent this entire week carrying around the intention of getting organized as hell in my house and never getting it done. Is that it?

Is it my personal life? Is that where I am standing at a dead end road? I don't get the chance to meet a lot of people to spend time with in this line of work. I work from home, I work at night... not a lot of new friendships or relationships to be made in that context. Back in LA, I would do new shows every month and at every show, I would make a great new friend. Sometimes they were just friends that I would see at shows occasionally, but more often, they became friends that I would hang out with after shows ended. I had so many incredible friends out there and I do miss that here. The friends I have made in Charlotte are amazing and I love them all, but there are not a lot. At least, not by my standards.

Maybe the dreams were the result of frustration that I've been feeling this week over trying to prepare my books without really understanding what I'm doing. I finally got them done on Tuesday and gave them to my accountant who then called me to ask a hundred questions about things I had done wrong in my Quickbooks, even going so far as forgetting she was on the phone with me and muttering to herself 'she has got to take a bookkeeping class.' Which, yes, I need to do.

Maybe it's to do with my fear that practicing and learning Pilates so I can make an extra couple hundred a week teaching is not going to work out because it appears there are not enough clients for me to actually get a class to teach.

I don't know exactly what they mean, but I have a feeling it might be all of the above. I also know that I have these types of moments in my life, these feelings of being at a turning point, on the cusp of something, every few years. And everything always works out in the end. I have no doubt that all these issues I'm facing right now will be resolved and when they are, of course, the answer in hindsight will be obvious and I'll wonder why I spent so much energy trying not to think about them.

In the meantime, until the light turns on, I guess I'll just assume these dreams are a warning sign. A reminder to me that even though I'm pretending these issues aren't there, they do exist and probably need some attention.

And my Element does need some gas. I'll just remember to stand there while I fill the tank and take my car with me when I go.

Wocka Wocka Wocka

So... I'm having a bit of a downer weekend. All the parties I had scheduled for this weekend canceled, which was frustrating as hell for me. The two people I usually spend time with whenever I don't have parties on a weekend are actually in Australia right now. So, I spent a lot of time in the Pilates studio practicing, saw a few movies and actually got to attend Molly's daughter's 8th birthday, which I normally would have missed if I had parties, so that was the highlight. But I ended the day Sunday kind of bummed. Too long by myself in my head with no structure and nothing of interest to do.

A few weeks ago, when I was home, my sister gave me a new book to read. It's about the creation of the Children's Television Workshop and the birth of Sesame Street. It's a great read (it's called Street Gang, for those with an interest) and I'm loving it. I did watch a lot of Sesame as a kid, so the nostalgia was thick around me this afternoon as I sat in Starbucks reading.

I loved Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch and Cookie Monster and all the other Muppets that hung out on Sesame Street, but my favorite Muppets had always been those who worked at the Muppet Theater on Saturday nights at 7:30PM. Kermit, Miss Piggy, Fozzie Bear, the Swedish Chef, Camilla the Chicken... I loooooved that show. For some reason, Kermit's voice reminds me of my Dad. Especially when he (my Dad) sings. At my Bat Mitzvah, after my Dad sang an Alliyah on the pulpet in front of everyone we knew, I looked at him and said "Now sing 'It's Not Easy Being Green!'" (Years later, in college, when I was, shall we say, experimenting with things my father would not have approved of, my friend Gary would sing that song to me to further my already rampant paranoia while I inhaled.) Similarly, my father has always had this habit of singing the Swedish Chef theme song whenever he's tossing a salad or pasta. (In fact, I think my whole obsession with the Muppets is because I so strongly connect them with my father in my mind. Dad used to get ready to go out early on Saturday nights so he could watch The Muppet Show with us while we waited for the babysitter to get there.)

So every mention of Kermit in the book has made me want to watch the Muppets again. It's been so many years! I bought a DVD of some shows a few years ago, but never got around to watching it. So tonight, after I finished feeling crabby about my business and lack of people to hang with in Charlotte, I pulled out the DVD and put it on.

God, I forgot how funny it was. And not just in a 'oh, I used to think it was so funny back when I was a kid' kind of way. Funny in a laugh-out-loud as a grownup kind of way. There was so much adult humor in that show. I keep staring at Kermit and trying to see him as just a puppet. Just a felt thing that moves it's mouth up and down. But I can only seem to do it for a second before I get caught up in his personality and forget that his lips aren't actually forming words. The facial expressions are what makes it. I know that it's just his nose getting pointier (is that a word?) but it makes all the difference and changes his whole mood from happy-go-lucky to perplexed and/or mortified.

The Swedish Chef tried to make eggs in a frying pan but instead of laying actual eggs, Camilla the Chicken kept laying ping pong balls. Ultimately, TSC wound up chasing her around trying to put her in the pan instead.

At the Vertinarian's Hospital, Rolf the dog was worried that the dog patient on their table had fleas. Miss Piggy inquired as to why and Rolf explained it was because he hated starting from scratch. When the voiceover started his "Tune in to the next episode..." spiel, Miss Piggy, Rolf, Janice (who was the other nurse helping) and the dog patient all looked toward the ceiling to see where the disembodied voice had come from. I forgot they used to do that every episode. I don't think I understood as a kid.

Elton John sang Crocodile Rock and was eaten by the backup singing Crocodiles at the end.

Watching Kermit and Fozzy sing a duet means so much more now that I know how close Frank Oz and Jim Henson were.

On Pigs in Space, Miss Piggy and the Captain freak out when aliens invade the space ship. The aliens turn out to the Camilla the Chicken still being chased by the Swedish Chef. The voice over offers "Tune in next week and be bored again by... Piiiiiiiiigs Iiiiiiinnnnn Spaaaaace"

Sam the Eagle wants to know why Elton John dresses like a 'stolen car'. Huh? Yet, funny!

Okay, here's a scary moment... Elton John wearing a bedazzled, skin tight pink pantsuit (unzipped to the waist) and a pink bowlers hat.

Anyway, I could provide a blow-by-blow of the rest of the episode but I'll spare you. The point is, even though I haven't seen this show in 25 years or so, it is home to me. Comforting. Puts me completely at ease and totally abolished my bad mood. As soon as Kermit waved his arms and yelled "yaaaaayyyyy" during the opening song, I started to smile.

Sometimes the current fascination with Elmo makes me crazy. I wish Elmo would stop referring to himself in the third person. Sheri doesn't like it when people do that. But there is a whole generation of kids years from now who will be in a bad mood one Sunday afternoon when they are 35 and suddenly, they will see a Tickle Me Elmo doll and it will immediately make them feel better. So long as they don't grow up referring to themselves in the third person, I can accept that.

After all, the Muppet Show DVD managed to turn my downer of a Sunday into a Most-Sensational-Inspirational-Celebrational-Muppetational day.

(The final scene of the episode was of Statler and Waldorf in their balcony audience box talking as the Swedish Chef and Camilla go running through the background. Waldorf says "I hate a running gag!" Get it? Cause it was a running joke through the show and they were running in the background? I loved those two!)

Um... holy awkward Batman

So... I've temporarily folded my Pure Romance self and put it in a drawer for a week so I could once again temporarily don my production self and come out to D.C. I'm helping out on one of the Inauguration events. I was hired on Sunday afternoon. Travel booked Monday afternoon. Flew out on Tuesday morning and was sitting in the office of the Presidential Inaugural Committee headquarters by noon, breaking down Jonas Brothers songs. Our event airs on Monday night on the Disney channel.

When I was called on Sunday afternoon to come out, I said yes immediately since I had no parties this week. Besides, who wouldn't want the chance to be part of something historic?

But later that day, a bit of concern started to creep in. See, five or six years before I left Los Angeles, I took a job which was a move up position-wise. Although the show should have been easy for me to handle, for some reason, it quickly turned into a logistical mess and a show that was WAY over my head and abilities. I hung in for a while, struggling to keep my head above water, but ultimately, they decided I wasn't the right fit for the show (aka I was fired). Honestly, I was never angry about it, because I would have fired me too. I was terrible on that show and totally drowning in my inexperience. When they fired me, I was COMPLETELY relieved and anxious to get back to shows I would enjoy. So when I was booked on the Inaugural I got very nervous because the production company and two of the producers on the show are the ones who fired me back then.

But ultimately, I got over it and realized that they fired me so many years ago and haven't seen me since and probably would not remember me at all. (Which it turns out was right for one of them. In fact, yesterday, after having worked with one of the producers for three days straight, I sent him an email and he asked the people in his office, "Who is Sheri Spitz?") So off I trotted to D.C. and all has been well so far. In fact, I've kind of enjoyed having the chance to redeem myself to "P," one of the producers who I am working with very closely. I can tell he has changed his opinion of me and his attitude has changed with it. I feel very triumphant.

The only TV show I normally do tends to have the same people on it year after year, so the added bonus of coming here and doing this show is that I have been able to see people some people I hadn't seen in years. Years before I left LA in some cases. It reminds me a lot of a family reunion. I remember a lot of them and most of their names. Most of them remember my face, some of them remember my name. I have decided to give them all the easy way out and pretend we've never met and introduce myself. Then, later, I pretend to have an epiphany and say, "Hey, didn't we work together on something before?" To which they say, relieved, "Yeah, what was that again?" At least, I do that for the people I like. The ones I don't like, I just say hello, call them by their names and let them twist in the wind while they try to remember who I am and what my name is. Ha.

So all has been going well here. The horrific nightmare of a production schedule I anticipated never really happened. Should happen tonight, but tomorrow is show day so no big deal. I'm having fun catching up with people and it's been easy, as usual, to shrug back into the script department role I played for so long. I've had my rough moments with certain higher ups, but other than that I'm having a good time. At least, I was. Until last night.

We actually made it out early(ish) last night and for some reason, the gods were smiling down upon us and we made it to a 9PM dinner reservation. It was super awesome! My fellow scriptie and I returned to the hotel to meet our fellow diners. The new FOSS (Fan of Sheri Spitz) producer "P" was joining us as well as one of the writers and a few other people. At the last minute, two people arrived at the hotel who had just flown in from LA and they wanted to join us. I knew the guy looked familiar, but I just couldn't place it. So we waited for them to drop their stuff in their rooms and headed to the restaurant.

The whole time we were walking in the F-ING FREEZING COLD to the restaurant, I was looking at him... trying to figure out what show we did together. No big deal, I thought. Probably some show back my early years and I haven't seen him in a while. But then someone called his name and it hit me... like a ton of bricks. I know where I've worked with him before.

A few months ago, I wrote a post about a sushi restaurant. In it, I talked about my first experience learning that as a Script Supervisor I should be seen and not heard. I talked about how I got spanked, AND HARD, when I was fired from my second job out of college. What I didn't really go into in that post is how I committed all these cardinal post-production bay sins... I lounged with my feet up on the desk. I talked at random. I ordered coffees for myself not realizing they weren't free. All kinds of things that I would never even THINK of doing now. (In fact, one of the producers just went to Starbucks and I'm half asleep and he would have been happy to get something for me if I had asked, but I was too uncomfortable to do it.) I plead ignorance. It was, as I mentioned, my second job (and only six months) out of college and I just didn't know any better. The problem is, I continued these habits unabated (cause no one told me not to) for over two months. Finally, when the post-production supervisor let me go, he explained in detail everything I did wrong. I have never been so humiliated. To know that all this time, I had been making people mad and making mistakes and acting completely wrong and had no idea and no one told me? Ugh. I hated myself for doing it and them for not telling me.

So back to our current story (can you guess what's coming?) We're walking to the restaurant and I realize, the man I recognize is "R", the very Post-Production Super who fired me all those years ago. 13 years ago, to be exact. I instantly panicked, but at the same time I was highly amused. Strange combo, I am aware, but none the less, those were my thoughts.

So we get to the restaurant, all 10 of us, and walk to the table. I am the first to arrive at the table and so I pick out my leftie seat as usual. At this point, I'm trying to decide if I am going to re-introduce myself to "R" as though we have never met and let him just assume that's the case or remind him and own it like a grownup OR ignore him throughout dinner altogether. Option three was the winner in my mind, but apparently not in fate's mind. Cause he was the last to the table and there was only one seat left. Yes, next to me. On my right. Oh, and did I mention that "P" was sitting directly across from me? (It's also worth mentioning that "P" and I have never talked about the fact that he fired me. We are pretending that never happened, apparently.)

So there I am, surrounded by my own failure, deciding between the catfish and the crab cakes. "R" is mostly turned away from me, talking to the woman on his other side and I thought maybe I could ignore him the whole dinner after all, but then I decided that would be too tiring and I'd spend the entire dinner nervous. So I bit the bullet. "R," I said, drawing his attention. He turned to me and I stuck my hand out. "I'm Sheri." He shook my hand and said, "Yeah, we'e met before." I said, "Yeah, we worked together a VERY long time ago." "Where was that," he asked. "I can't remember." I pretended for a moment not to remember while I tried to decide whether or not to bring it up. Finally, I surrendered. "Disney," I said, looking him in the eye as much as possible. (BTW, I just realized that not only was that a Disney show, but the other show I was fired from was Disney as well and SO IS THE ONE I'M DOING NOW! Hmmm. And you guys wonder why I hate Disney!) I watched recognition dawn. And his face changed. And I knew he remembered. And for some reason, it made me laugh. Probably inappropriate, but unavoidable none the less.

He recovered quickly and we talked about how difficult that show was, neither of us actually acknowledging the giant pink elephant sitting on my shoulder, and then we both turned back to the people on our other sides and continued other conversations. We spoke a few more times during dinner, but for the most part, remained in our seperate corners. Later in the evening, one of the other producers there who had too much to drink started talking about how grateful he was that I was there doing the show and how great a job I was doing and how fantastic I was. And, of course, I humbly acknowledged his praise and thanked him graciously. In my head, I was thinking, "Yeah 'P' & 'R'! Suck it!"

At some point, the irony of sitting at a table with two men who have fired me became too much to shoulder alone and I told the AD who was sitting on my other side. He and I shared a laugh and he asked me if there was a third person who fired me and if we could expect him to show up on the show anytime soon. I assured him that the list ended with "P". Unbeknownst to me, I got up to go to the bathroom ("R" had already left to go meet friends at another restaurant) and the AD told the table what I had told him. According to my fellow scriptee who shared the story when we were back at the hotel heading up to our rooms, "P" adamantly denied that he had EVER fired me and then said "And it was a long time ago, anyway." Which made me laugh all the way up the elevator to the 9th floor and down the hall to my room. It never happened, officer! And even if it did, it wasn't my fault.

My mother has decided that the reason fate gave me the opportunity to do this show was so I could go back and prove to these men who were such bad memories for me that I am a good, competent script pa. She could be right. Who knows? Either way, last night was definitely a lesson in humility. Shall I pass the bread and butter to the two people who fired me at this table in chronological order or alphabetical? But either way, I got a ton of amusement out of it.

How appropriate that this all happened at Obama's Inauguration event. See, it's a lesson that Obama taught me! Can I survive a whole night of socializing with people who don't like me?

Yes, I can.