nine

may 31, 2006

Adventures at Shady Pines

Memorial Day Weekend marks my annual pilgrimmage to West Palm Beach to visit my
grandmother at "the home". Granted the home is more like the Four Seasons than
Shady Pines, but it is still quite scary nonetheless. The active senior lifestyle
can make your toes curl with fear. I don't know whether to be terrified or
envious.

When one arrives in West Palm Beach there are three simple truths that must be
accepted in order to survive the stay.

1- dinner is at 5pm and most likely the early bird special.

2- You will rise at 7am and be in bed by 7pm.

3- Communication with the outside world is not permitted

Still, La Posada "changing retirement living" is my home away from home and I
embrace all the idiosyncracies. The buzz around the community is that Yvette's
granddaughter will be here this weekend.

Tracey and I arrive Saturday afternoon for lunch and also in time for the 2pm
concert. Two staff members will perform showtunes from Broadway's Golden Era....
the bus driver/ piano player and lifestyles director/ balladeer. "Somewhere Over
the Rainbow", "I Could've Danced All Night", etc. Simon Cowell would've made some
choice comments if his parents lived here. The concert was held in the main
lobby, and was interrupted by the man in the wheelchair who rolled right through
center stage and out the door and then down the street. Another gentleman
distracted Tracey and myself by the mere fact he did not finish putting on his
sweater. After the performance my grandmother declared we could have a late
dinner...5:30pm.

Sunday I was allowed to sleep to 10am. I've never been allowed to sleep so late!
It must be the concussion. One gets lots of sympathy with a concussion.

Sunday brunch in the main dining room is quite the elaborate affair. There is a
generous buffet of miniscule sugar-free, fat-free taste-free pastries, fruits,
and omelets. The women don smart short sets in citrusy colors and bouffant Aqua
netted hairstyles. My grandmother and I make the rounds, and I am proudly
displayed like a blue ribbon winner at Westminster.

Honestly, the gossipy high school cafeteria scenario never ends. Warm smiles,
waves, and promises of future lunches/dinners are immediately followed by catty
whispers like "I can't stand her." "Who does she think she is?" and the ultimate
of all insults "They really belong in assisted living!". The new status symbol is
not a luxury car or designer handbag, but by how many specialists one gets to
visit weekly. The more the better.

The highlight of this meal had to be when Joan McCransky remarking that it was
"So nice to see that I was slim considering what I chunky child I was". Although
I never recalled having to shop in the Husky department, my grandmother readily
agreed to my adolescent plumpage. I'd like to thank them both for my future
eating disorder.

Granted action around La Posada is hard to come by. Sometimes you have to make
things happen as in the case of Sunday afternoon. My grandmother noticed a
lonesome dove perched between the philodendrum in her flower box. It was a mild
mannered bird resting between the plants. It could've been sick. It could've been
injured. Hell, maybe the dove wanted to retire too!

My grandmother does not do anything quietly. She brought the bird to my attention
and immediately declared a state of emergency. "The bird could be dangerous!" she
declared as if it was secretly hiding a machete. "Worse, it could be carrying
bird flu!".

She flagged down the security guard in his golf cart. He feigned interest and
promised to investigate. She called the front desk emphasizing the imminent risk
of bird flu. The front desk said this was a job for maintenance. Maintenance had
the day off. Sunday afternoon was spent worrying about the future of all mankind
because of this little dove.

Monday arrives. I awaken and surprised to see my grandmother dressed normally. I
was sure she'd have a hazmat suit on for all bird investigations. It turns out
the lonesome dove is not a meance to society but simply a proud mama. Instead of
wreaking havoc among the senior set of La Posada, she was quietly nesting her
birdlings.

This changes everything. Our roles immediately morph from exterminators of all
things fowl to selfless, caring animal rescuers. She encourages everyone at the
Memorial Day BBQ to be kind to animals. She waxes poetic about the miracle of
life and the cuteness of the dove and her fluffy babies.

What can you do? Either laugh or go insane. 365 days until the next pilgrimmage.
Possibly less if Tracey has her way.

Now go away.

june 12, 2006

Murders and Executions

I'm dating Patrick Bateman. Not really. See, this is New York and no one really
dates as that implies a commitment of sorts which is undesirable especially in
my book. So perhaps an evening with Patrick Bateman is a better description.

Patrick Bateman is an affectionate sobriquet, and not to imply that my friend
is a homicidal psychopath. Social, vain, and vapid but all in a fun way. The
only thing missing from last night was the classic battle for the most
luxurious business card.

The entourage consisted of myself, the personal trainer, the best friend, and
the uncle/musician. Sadly a starving artist named Stash was not part of our
group. As the evening's token female, I did my best to look suitably
uninterested like a Ukranian supermodel and ate my lollipop in a provocative
fashion.

We floated from one trendy Meat Packing district hotspot to another leaving a
trail of unispped bellinis behind us. Occasionally, conversation would flow my
way. Mostly, I would repeat the same answers to questions asked about 5 minutes
earlier. Other hot topics inlcuded who made a better bordeaux, the pros and
cons of Butter (the nightclub not the condiment), and the unseasonably cool
weather in the Hamptons this weekend.

Despite my shameless mocking, it was a fun night with cool people. It's just
the smiliarities to "American Psycho" were incredibly uncanny and did not
escape my attention. If you didn't read the book, you're missing the fun of my
coy references.

This is not an exit.

june 25, 2006

Pageant Drama Part 1... Getting There

Never fly US airways! Promise me that you never will. Regardless of
how low the fare is. No matter if it's free. Don't be tempted.
There will inevitably be something that will fuck up your day.
Please refer to my previous blog "Welcome to Mr. Sedaris'
Neighborhood" for further proof of this fact.

I arrive promptly at the airport ready to embark on the adventure
that is the Mrs. Alabama pageant. I am a strategic packer and avoid
checking luggage like the plague. Two weeks of dragging around a 50
pound suitcase in the Southwest was lesson enough. I strut the the
kiosk and laugh at the suckers waiting in line to check in. All is
well until a peculiar message says "flight is canceled". I need to
be in Birmingham at 7:30pm. This fucking flight cannot be canceled!

Relax. Relate. Release. I tell myself and put on my best helpless
puppy dog smile as i approach the stoic ticket agent. She's not
quite sympathetic to my plight, but searches for alternatives for
me. Next to me, a young man in the same predicament begins to lose
his cool. The US Airways agents merely shrug their shoulder and
roll their eyes while he rants about the unacceptable reason of the
flight being canceled due to lack of crew members. He asks for a
supervisor who's response is pretty much "tough nuggies chump."

Meanwhile, my agent is able to book me on a flight that lands in
Birmingham at 4:15pm. Somehow I will have to find a way to check
into my hotel, prepare the newly minted Mrs. Alabama's prize
basket, shower, change, and somehow arrive at the theater before
7pm. Of course, the other alternative is to not show. I'm not
stupid enough to face the wrath of those consequences.

I accept the new arrangements and make my way to Terminal B. I must
wait on another lengthy line to get my boarding pass. My patience
dwindles rapidly as a pack of gentlemen on the flight to Osaka are
checking in more luggage than the total population of Osaka itself.
A woman tricks me into letting her go in front of me because she
needs to use the kiosk to check in. The kiosk won't accept her
ticket, and she must also speak to an agent. Rather than being a
polite civilized human being and returning to the end of the line,
she continues to cut in front of me insuring my hatred of her. I
fear if I say something, the next news item on the 5pm news will be
about the murderous redhead behind the Newark airport massacre. I
get my boarding pass, and the only good news of the day is that I
will at least receive mileage credit for the change in flight.

Now it's time for that joke called airport security. Obviously
someone noticed my impatient twitch and pissed off scowl because I
am quickly flagged as a potential terrorist. As a rape survivor,
nothing violates me more than helplessly watching as strangers
manhandle my personal belongings. If I dare say something, it's off
to the interrogation room and then the dreaded strip search. I
wince and cringe as I'm frisked and my things searched. I try to
convince myself that this is all for the greater good somehow. I'm
unconvinced. I'm 5'2" female that is unnaturally pale. How could I
be a potential threat to anyone?

Xanax can always save the day! I take more the recommended dosage
and eagerly wait for the buzz to kick in. Until my flight boards, I
proceed to pester everyone I know about the rocky start this trip
has gotten off to. Unkind words are spoken about US Airways. I
board the plane and immediately fall into my xanax induced haze.

Just when I think the drama is over, I realize there's only about
30 minutes to catch my connecting 3:11pm flight. Eleven of those
minutes are wasted waiting for the jet operator to let us off the
plane. Adding to my nerves are whining children bitching about how
they want to go home. Once let off the plane, I rush to find the
gate for my next flight. Gate B11 the agent helpfully tells me. Of
course it is. It's only the Detroit Airport, and I'm at Concourse
A. Concourse B is about a marathon's distance away.

More proof that life is like a Seinfeld episode, I push and scream
my way through slow Midwesterners that find tasks like walking
single file challenging. I run like a man with knees up instead of
doing the girly flailing around like a headless chicken. I wish I
could say "go-go gadget legs" and propel myself to the gate, but I
must rely on my Kilimanjaro training. It's 2:59 when I reach Gate
B11. Something is amiss as I notice that this area isn't boarding,
and the flight information says "St. Louis".

Huffing and puffing I approach the agent and politely ask for the
correct gate assignment. I imagine that my frantic, disheveled
appearance and breathless speech would indicate I was in a rush.
She ignores my impatience and wants my flight number. I thrust my
ticket at her, but she's having none of that. She tells me to find
the flight number. I've just run a mad dash across one of the
country's largest airports and I have less than 5 minutes to catch
this flight that assures my arrival in time for the Mrs. Alabama
pageant. My fried brain cannot compute this simple task right now.
I look at her imploringly and she says to look to the left hand
side of the ticket. Everything on that piece of paper looks like
Japanese now. I locate some numbers and bark them at the agent. She
sing-songs that I wasn't looking at the left. I'm absolutely
hysterical at this point and point out that time is of the essence.
She won't even bother to look at my ticket. I find some numbers on
the left hand side which also happen to be the same exact numbers I
repeated seconds earlier from the right hand side of the ticket.
This somehow placates her, and I rush to make it to Gate B1. My
nerves are absolutely shot. Seriously, I was ready to go all ghetto
McGyver on that woman, and find a way to cut her with a luggage
tag.

Like the Road Runner, I leave a trail of dust behind me. B1 is
still far enough away to be inconvenient. Suddenly, like an oasis
in the desert I see the gate. It's beautiful and welcoming. It's
calling my name. The only problem is that it looks like the plane
may have left without me. I fling myself torwards the door ready to
do whatever it is that needs to be done to get myself on that
plane. They announce that it's last call for all passengers. I made
it. Last person on the plane, but I made it. Whew!

Coming Soon...the pageant and getting stranded in North Carolina!

june 20, 2006

Miss World

The gods are blessing me with plenty of blog fodder this week.
Saturday, the job is sending me to Birmingham, Alabama where I will
represent the "firm" at the Mrs. Alabama beauty pageant.

Yes, I did say beauty pageant.

To add to the bizarreness of the situation, not only will I attend the
festivities I will also partake in presenting the newly minted Mrs.
Alabama with a luxurious gift basket that will cater to all her tooth
whitening needs while she prepares to compete in the national Mrs.
America pageant in Tucson, Arizona later this year.

As truly fabulous as I think I am, there is something seriously wrong
with this beauty pageant if the best celebrity they can get is me.
Although I am in this month's issue of Teen Vogue, Dolph Lundgren of
Rocky IV fame has a higher star quotient than me. It is quite possible
he could be the host if not a very special guest judge. I'm keeping an
open mind.

Handing out this gift basket is not as easy as it sounds. It requires
weeklong, rigorous preparation and a carefully scripted introduction.

Yes, I did say introduction.

This 100 words or less description of all my accomplishments will be
incorporated into the fully scripted event. I will be introduced and
paraded on to the stage as if to accept an Academy Award. There will
photo opportunities where my moment of "glory" with the newly minted
Mrs Alabama will be captured for all of Birmingham to mock endlessly.

It is highly likely that there will be a repeat performance for the
newly minted Mrs. Texas in the upcoming weeks. Don't you wish you were
me?

july 3, 2006

Beauty Queen Blues

There are three necessary components to executing a successful state
beauty pageant. Enthusiastic former pageant winners, a strange
glittery concoction called "pageant dust", and an effeminate man
wearing Jim Carrey's shirt from the movie "Liar, Liar". If any of
these key elements are missing, it's a complete disaster. Hence, no
mention of the Mrs. Alabama pageant.

This past weekend finds me in Dallas to attend the Mrs. Texas beauty
pageant. The event takes place in Grapevine which is minutes from the
airport and miles away from urban civilization. There will be no
Cowboy Chicken for me.Having learned from last week's debacle, I
arrive the day before avoiding such annoyances like canceled flights
and lack of cabin crew members. Saturday is the big day, and I've
been graciously invited to partake in all the festivities.

I arrive at the high school auditorium to set up the prize and catch
the tail end of the rehearsal.The coordinators are so thrilled by my
"national sponsor" presence that they've reserved a front row seat
with my name on it as if I'm an Academy Award presenter. They point
to it gleefully, and I realize this is probably as close as I'll ever
get to the Oscars. I take my seat and watch the run through. There's
Gloria Estefan music and terrible choreography. A former pageant
winner/choroeographer demands perfection and shouts for big smiles
and straighter lines.

We break for a "break". I was invited to the judges dinner, but I've
been neglected to be informed of who the actual judges are and the
designated meal time. Instead, I end up in a car with Mrs. Kansas and
a former Miss Teen USA.We drop Mrs. Kansas at her hotel, and Miss
Teen USA prattles on about her various titles while we stop for a
bite at McDonald's. Now I understand why she is wearing a prom dress
at 3pm.

Miss Teen USA and I gobble our hamburgers in secret as to not enrage
the starving contestants. When finished, we head backstage and enter
the beauty madess. Surprisingly, the girls are friendly and calm. No
backstabbing or "unfortunate" accidents. Not even a foul word. They
smear there bodies with slick oil and glitter while a team of helpers
primp their curls and plump their lips. Several try on swimsuits with
more padding than a NFL player and additional "chicken cutlets" to
give that natural look. In reality, their bodies look freakish and
not the least bit desirable. I was told I would be given a few
minutes during the show to say a few words...whatever I'd like.
Having no bloody clue to what I should actually say, I scramble to
jot something down and not look like a complete fool.

The effeminate man in the Jim Carrey shirt prances about and declares
that his shirt is inded the original from "Liar, Liar". He is also a
pageant director. He inquires about the toothpaste and sulks
incessantly until I give him a goody bag. After chatting for several
minutes, he declares that I was meant for pageants. Sadly, I'm not
married, so I don't qualify. He urges me to come back once I'm
hitched. He's definitely one of those rare people that loves their
job. He's tattooed with several tiaras and his bedazzled cell phone
also sports a mini-tiara on the antenna. I'm definitely not in New
York anymore!

It's finally showtime, and I take my front row seat next to Mrs.
Kansas who looks resplendent in St. John evening wear plus sash and
tiara. I frantically try to memorize my speech. The effeminate man in
the Jim Carrey shirt gets the show started by announcing our
evening's host Mrs. Texas 2001. She springs out from behind the
curtain in an outfit so shiny and bright, it's a cross between
Spiderman's suit and the catsuit Britney Spears wore in the "Oops, I
did it again" video. The difference is this pantsuit is made out of
some synthetic snakeskin material. I shudder in horror.

It's your typical beauty pageant. Song. Dance. Swimsuit competition.
Evening gown parade. Suddenly, "Jill" is called on stage for a "few
words from our sponsor". Instead of handing me the microphone Spider
Spears flips the script and asks me to tell everyone about the
toothpaste.That wasn't part of the script! My mind freezes. I glance
at my cheat sheet and blurt out a few lines. I think I said "happy
smile". What is a happy smile?. I slink to my seat and just pretend
this didn't happen. Sure there's a videotape, but it doesn't exist.
At least not in my mind.

Mrs. Kansas and a random gentleman mistake our surroundings for a
race track and eagerly rank and compare their favorites. The end is
near as the top 5 are selected. The final challenge is the
"question".The top secret question is "What is your ideal family?".
Four out of the five finalists mention god and their own family as
being the ideal. I knew who the winner would be instantly, the minute
I heard, "Well, I come from an abusive famliy..."

While the judges had the difficult task of choosing a winner, Spider
Spears ran out of material and called for kids to come on stage and
tell jokes. Xavier, age 5, rambled incoherently yet still managed to
get a standing ovation. Mrs. Lubbock's child asked "What has three
eyes?". The answer is a horse. If there is anyone out there that
understands that punchline please explain it to me. The audience is
still greatly confused.

In the end, the scores are in and the winner is Mrs. West Texas. She
will room with Mrs. Kansas as they go to compete for the national
Mrs. America title in Tucson, Arizona. The real question is will I be
attending that as well?

july 25, 2006

This is for Johnny Ospina

Back in 1991, an ambitiously blonde Madonna was quoted on MTV's
"Rockumentary" saying if she played a song for 100 people, and 99
people liked it. She would only remember the one person that didn't
like it. At the time, it was a pretty innocuous statement. Lately, I've
been thinking how much the negative lingers more than the positive.
Case in point, I have yet to recover from Steve Nunez's "My feelings
aren't growing for you."

This Saturday my girlfriend Gina and I threw a super fabulous joint
birthday party at the Xth Avenue Lounge in Hell's Kitchen. Everyone in
our little black books were invited. The ones who came to party like
rock stars have earned my eternal loyalty and a special place in my
heart. However, the ones that did not bother to show, call, or have a
valid excuse are burned into my long term memory and have earned my
eternal wrath. I'm petty. There is an exception or two and those
unnamed people are forgiven. The rest not so much. Again, I'm petty
like that.

At said birthday party, the "Johnny Drama" of a certain "Entourage" rat
pack and I engaged in a spirited debate. It is rumored that Mr. Drama
has a modeling agency. Having been told that my hands and feet should
seek representation, I sought an expert opinion. It is one of my dreams
for my body parts to be discovered George Costanza style, and find
myself earing thousands of dollars for minutes of work modeling watches
or the more coveted advertisement...hand cream. Don't even get me
started on my feet.

I find Mr. Drama and ask if the agency rumors are true. Indeed they
are. I raise my hands and strike my best "Lee Press-On" nails pose and
ask for his opinion. Parts aren't Mr. Drama's forte so my request is
slighlty rebuffed and I'm encouraged to look at "specialty" agencies.
Obviously it's time for the big guns.

Anyone that knows me rather intimately knows that I take care of my
feet. These are fetish quality, drool worthy, sexy toes and arches.
They are scrubbed and polished to perfection. There's smoothness to the
touch. They are a perfect size 6 with incredibly high arches. I have
been offered foot massages from strangers. Even former paramours that
call to catch up often ask what color my toes are painted that day.
Needless to say, I'm pretty confident about my feet.

I tell Mr. Drama to take a look at my lovely lacquered red toes encased
in my strappy wedge sandals. "Aren't they model worthy?" I ask.

He somewhat agrees but thinks he can top my fabulous feet with his own.
He takes off his shoe and sock and wiggles the little piggies free.

"These are fantastic!" he says. "Yours not so much".

These are fighting words if I ever heard them. It's on now. Like a used
car salesman, I begin to point out all the sexy features of my feet.

"The toes! Look at theses arches! The curves! C'mon!" I implore.

"Yeah, but they're just not feminine" he calmly replies. Quel horreur!
The debate continues but we must agree to disagree.

My feet are not feminine! I feel like my world has been crushed and
I've been scarred for life. It's been about 72 hours now, and like a
crazy homeless person I keep staring at my feet and mumbling
incoherently to myself about how wrong Mr. Drama is. So for all the
people who have ever complimented my feet, I shall only remember the
one that said they were unfeminine. Hmmmph!