Throughout my youth I have been a Sox fan. Sure, I'm a North Sider, indeed, but when those Black and White Striped players take the field, all loyalties fall South. Naturally. When my five siblings and I were kids, growing up in Lake Forest, we were sort of knocked about for being Sox fans, which fueled the flames of Sox rage even more. I'm sure this is a common life experience for Sox fans, what else could explain the anger? Anyway, this past week that pot reached boiling point when my sister Colleen and two of my brothers, Sean and Timmy, and I went to the Cubs/Houston game at Wrigley.
All of us in our more mature twenties, we decided, why not go to Cubs game? We like baseball. We like hotdogs. We like a happy atmosphere as much as the next guy. So we did. Our dad gave us some tickets typically donned out to his clients, as a special treat for Colleen's homecoming from LA, which was nice. But we had no idea what would lie before us once entering "The Friendly Confines."
About the third inning in, we get to the park and Immediately Colleen and I head to the beer stand to purchase a round. Then we pop down to our seats meeting Sean and Tim there. The guys in the seats behind us are your typical Cub fans, belligerent and loud, heckling the players from three tiers up in hopes of rousing the opposing team. Annoying. As the innings progressed, they turned on whoever was closest (ie the foursome in front of them. Us.) Somehow Colleen had let it slip we were actually Sox fans, an easy thing to detect as none of us had any Cubs gear on. So, we may not have looked the part, but the older couple seated below us, Pete and Randi we'd later come to learn, certainly did, making up for our lackluster baseball appearance. The pair have had Cubs season tickets since 1981, my oldest brother's birth year to put it in perspective). Randi was decked out in a Cubs white polo, a classic blue baseball cap and white pants with the cutest pair of faux golf shoes I've ever seen adorned on a senior citizen. Pete, wearing a complimenting red polo and khaki pants, didn't quite match up Randi in parfanelia, but he gave it his best shot. And, Randi keeps the stats of all Cub games.
Every few minutes Pete would turn around and make conversation with us about how much he hated the guys behind us: "I've already made a formal complaint," and "I just want to beat those guys in the head" being my favorites of the night. About mid the 5th inning, after the guys returned with a fresh round of brews, Sean gets into it with me, of course involving health insurance and the collapse of modern healthcare. [Note, I have the worst health insurance ever. My brother has helped me out with this, but it's really a problem with the system. Our relationship has suffered as a result. He is an insurance agent.] Randi literally turns around and tells us to shut it. Noting that, "This is a baseball game." I went to the restroom (a story in itself) and came back. The jerks behind us were in full form. In my absence they began screaming, "Go Back to the Suburbs" to us and the crowd around us.
In fury, I turned to Colleen and told her, wouldn't it be nice if the guys behind us would stop spitting on the back of our necks with every insult spew? She proceeds to ask them.
Response: "It must be nice to have your daddy's season tickets."
To which Tim relishes: "Oh, yeah, it's great. I'm really thankful. You know, we've got Sox tickets too."
Timmy, love him, but probably a dick-move in retrospect.
Pete makes another complaint. He's really a great guy. The section overseer comes down to let the two chotches behind us know that they've received a noise complaint.
Jerks: "But, sir, their Sox fans."
Cub Employee: "I don't care who they're rooting for, they could be rooting for the Packers. I want you to shut up."
Jerks: "Sir, do you know Adam? He's our neighbor. Yeah, he works here."
Cub Employee, now rolling his eyes: "Great."
Jerks: "Hey, you should get him down here."
This is not working for them. Adam never comes down.
Then, Soriano has to go and knock out a homer. Everyone stands up in excitement. We're thinking, hey! Maybe this game is looking up. Woo!
The crowd goes wild and asshole behind me drops his beer — all over my back, my white t-shirt soaked. Classy. I turn around, and no, I do not know containment. The inner White Sox fan in all of us gets loose. Between Col, Tim, Sean and I, we drop at least 15 F-bombs.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?"
"WHAT ARE YOU IN COLLEGE?"
Tim chimes in, "God, more like high school, asshole."
A Slew of profanities ensues.
One jerk: "It slipped outta my hand." [Mostly slurring, giving a shrug and taking another sip of Old Style]
It's all a blur for about 4 minutes.
I've stomped up to the top of the section, cry to the old guy who's in charge of the section. I'm crying, and the crowd is still going wild thanks to Soriano. I guess homers don't happen too often. [Note here: The Cubs eventually lose after holding the lead most of the game. Typical.]
When the guy gets his manager down to our seats minutes later, we're still in rage mode. The guys have sat down at this point, Colleen has ripped into them, and Sean looks like he might break someone's face.
I'm a little shocked that my siblings care about me, given the health insurance quarrel not three innings ago.
Colleen has demanded that the guys make amends in the form of nachos and beers. "Get up. Yeah, you, get her some nachos!"
I'm red-faced and yelling: "It's not our fault we're from the suburbs. Gees, you're probably from Mount Prospect. That doesn't make us bad people. What's your problem?!"
Meanwhile, my voice, which was already hoarse, completely disappears into a strained whisper.
Randi tells me to settle down, I tell her to stop yelling at me.
The jerks are ousted.
Colleen finds out the crowd around us, save for Pete and Randi, is experiencing their first Cubs game. One guy attempts to buy a round of beers in celebration at the end of the 7th. After standing in line for 20 minutes, the cashier says, "Sorry, it's the 7th, these are the things you learn."
He settles on Cotton Candy for everyone instead. Hilarious.
And even after all of the mayhem, a woman, who might have been a little off, sits on the steps next to my seat, turns to me, and says, "I don't like you. You're an ugly person. You got those two boys kicked out."
Yikes. She is excorted out by a friend. Pete invites us back to his club stadium seats after the 8th, the longest inning ever, Randi declares that this was indeed the worst baseball game she's been to, and then we run into our cousin Maureen and her husband. Pete loads us up with a round of drinks, then another, and as the stadium shuts down Randi says she can't be the last to leave the park! We learn Pete is an ex-FBI agent, and he offers to get us old badges to flash at anyone who attempts to mess with us in the future. We find out Randi used to be a Chicago Judge, and she knows our whole family. Seriously. Margaret, Judge Quinn, Attorney Bill Quinlan, cousins upon cousins.
Small world. All brought together over the love of baseball, hotdogs, and beer. The American past-time.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Never Trust a Man with Two First Names
I have four things on my "To-Do List" today. It's funny. I make these sorts of lists compulsively. I always seem to have things to do, and when I don't have a lot to do, I either:
OK, so one of the things on my list today is to write a funny story/blurb on my blog. Hence, this moment, right now.
But the thing is, nothing funny has happened today, and though I like to make up stories, they are usually of the depressing sort, i.e. all throughout college I took creative writing and fiction courses. Each story that received the most praises were
So, back to the notion that nothing funny has happened. Perhaps it's because I am currently at oh-so-exciting L.Marshall, Inc. working away. Actually, today has been much busier than usual. I did payroll, organized the mail and wrote a few bid proposals. Hark. Something funny has just happened.
I work in an office of two. Well, there are some other people downstairs and then there are all the roofers out on the jobs. The office office is comprised of usually Judy and Terry, whom I might have mentioned in previous posts. Terry is a neurotic chain smoker who is in charge of all the company's finances. He wears glasses straight out of the late '70s, collared shirts from painting and roofing conventions, and gym shoes he is very proud of. They only cost him $8 each. Who doesn't like a good deal? But the best part is his mullet-styled curly hair in the back with a nice comb over. And now, pair that with a Tom Selleck mustache. You can usually find him behind his desk in the back of the office mumbling "Fuck" over and over again. I don't know why. He gets frustrated easily.
Some of our interactions are funny, others, he's kind of a jackass. Like yesterday, I told him I had to leave a little early to go to my other job (one which I had already gotten hours for before agreeing to help my padre out). And like a true jackass he goes, "Gees, that says a lot about you. I mean, you leave early and you took a long lunch." Then he does a deep sigh and says, "Yeah, it really says a lot about you." The lunch was due to Harry and Celeste, grandparents extraordinaire wanting to chat, eat and having me pick up prescriptions for them. Couldn't be helped. They're in their 80s and really are starting to fall apart each time I see them, though they still have their wits about 'em. Usually I only take 30 minutes, but yesterday I took an hour and five. An hour is typically allotted. I decided not to make a stink of it, and didn't mention casually that he takes about five 15 minute smoke breaks per day, plus a trip to Starbucks, adding up to well over that allotted 60 minutes. But, I know I could have.
Anyway, other interactions with Mr. Terry Bobbe (never trust a man with two first names) are more humorous, because really, he isn't a bad guy, just kind of a pain. So, today, I think because I made him feel bad once I let him know why I took a little longer lunch than usual, he offers to get me a coffee from Starbucks. And all I could think for a good half hour was why I didn't say, "No, but thanks a latte!"
When he gets back, he starts to rifle through the mail I had put on his desk. He opens one from Chris Industry's, one of our suppliers, and starts laughing that sort of Flem rattling one, thanks to nearly forty years of smoking. Standing up, "Brigid, oh this is good. This is good. Every once in a while Chris does something like this." Reading from the sheet: "Chris Industry's Bill for St. Mary's of 'dah' Lake." Laughing hysterically, coughing, cough, an "Oh, gees!" thrown in there for effect. "Get it? It's for St. Mary's of 'the' Lake." I get it. Gangster-speak and/or an Indian accent. "Yeah, that's funny," I answer. He sits down, looks at it for a second, then files it, still chuckling.
A. Make up things orI feel accomplished when I do said things. But even I know, at least a little in the back of my mind, that it's all a lie. [Pause for a deep moment.]
B. Write down things I have already done, and then cross them off.
OK, so one of the things on my list today is to write a funny story/blurb on my blog. Hence, this moment, right now.
But the thing is, nothing funny has happened today, and though I like to make up stories, they are usually of the depressing sort, i.e. all throughout college I took creative writing and fiction courses. Each story that received the most praises were
1. A story about two brothers living in a small town, one still with their dying mother. The mom was dying of cancer, and I went into all the gritty details about what happens when mom's die of cancer, mostly just the vomiting and clean up. I'm pretty sure I had read the first few pages of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius and felt compelled, and or, watched Susan Sarandon's performance as a dying cancer patient in Step Mom. [Another deep moment. I might have to make these more compact to send them to deep songwriter Brian McKnight.]I know, right? What's my deal? Anyway, these stories landed some compliments from the class, and one of my professors suggested I apply for the MFA program in fiction writing at the Iowa Writer's Workshop. I like to drop that in casual conversation sometimes.
2. Another of these sad stories was about this really selfish doctor who goes to Cambodia on a research grant and then learns all about child sex trafficking and the like. He gets really distraught and heartbroken, and I think I had him attempt suicide.
So, back to the notion that nothing funny has happened. Perhaps it's because I am currently at oh-so-exciting L.Marshall, Inc. working away. Actually, today has been much busier than usual. I did payroll, organized the mail and wrote a few bid proposals. Hark. Something funny has just happened.
I work in an office of two. Well, there are some other people downstairs and then there are all the roofers out on the jobs. The office office is comprised of usually Judy and Terry, whom I might have mentioned in previous posts. Terry is a neurotic chain smoker who is in charge of all the company's finances. He wears glasses straight out of the late '70s, collared shirts from painting and roofing conventions, and gym shoes he is very proud of. They only cost him $8 each. Who doesn't like a good deal? But the best part is his mullet-styled curly hair in the back with a nice comb over. And now, pair that with a Tom Selleck mustache. You can usually find him behind his desk in the back of the office mumbling "Fuck" over and over again. I don't know why. He gets frustrated easily.
Some of our interactions are funny, others, he's kind of a jackass. Like yesterday, I told him I had to leave a little early to go to my other job (one which I had already gotten hours for before agreeing to help my padre out). And like a true jackass he goes, "Gees, that says a lot about you. I mean, you leave early and you took a long lunch." Then he does a deep sigh and says, "Yeah, it really says a lot about you." The lunch was due to Harry and Celeste, grandparents extraordinaire wanting to chat, eat and having me pick up prescriptions for them. Couldn't be helped. They're in their 80s and really are starting to fall apart each time I see them, though they still have their wits about 'em. Usually I only take 30 minutes, but yesterday I took an hour and five. An hour is typically allotted. I decided not to make a stink of it, and didn't mention casually that he takes about five 15 minute smoke breaks per day, plus a trip to Starbucks, adding up to well over that allotted 60 minutes. But, I know I could have.
Anyway, other interactions with Mr. Terry Bobbe (never trust a man with two first names) are more humorous, because really, he isn't a bad guy, just kind of a pain. So, today, I think because I made him feel bad once I let him know why I took a little longer lunch than usual, he offers to get me a coffee from Starbucks. And all I could think for a good half hour was why I didn't say, "No, but thanks a latte!"
When he gets back, he starts to rifle through the mail I had put on his desk. He opens one from Chris Industry's, one of our suppliers, and starts laughing that sort of Flem rattling one, thanks to nearly forty years of smoking. Standing up, "Brigid, oh this is good. This is good. Every once in a while Chris does something like this." Reading from the sheet: "Chris Industry's Bill for St. Mary's of 'dah' Lake." Laughing hysterically, coughing, cough, an "Oh, gees!" thrown in there for effect. "Get it? It's for St. Mary's of 'the' Lake." I get it. Gangster-speak and/or an Indian accent. "Yeah, that's funny," I answer. He sits down, looks at it for a second, then files it, still chuckling.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Lunch Break
This week I've elected to temp at my father's business. Judy, who is normally the Office Manager, is out of town on vacation. I am taking over. Her desk is abnormally messy, and she keeps old plastic spoons, expired coupons and salt packets in her drawers and pen holders.
This afternoon after much debate, consisting of me driving one direction, then turning around in 3 point fashion, I decided to grab some grub at my grandparents' house. Harry and Celeste live in a condo. It's about a block from my dad's office in Glenview, a suburb of Chicago. They live on the Penthouse floor of the complex, and when I knocked on the door to be let inside, I could hear Harry shuffling, then yelling, "Just come on in!" But the door was locked, which I made known, shouting through the door, "It's locked!"
Then Gana answers the door. She's their new assistant person from Mongolia. Neither Harry nor Celeste would readily admit they need an extra hand, what with Celeste getting her knees replaced Thursday and Harry just returned from the hospital after a fall in the shower.
So, I'm making an egg salad sandwich, and Celeste asks me if I want some cake. Harry offers a selection of cookies and then they both see the pie, and ask if I want that, too. Too? I just had some pie. Rye bread for the sandwich? Yes, I say. But, anyway, I've sat down at the round table between the two of them, and I begin to enjoy the first bites, and then Don St. John calls. So, Celeste picks up the portable phone to answer, looks at the Caller ID. "This must be Don St. John." Chuckles all around. "Yeah, Harry? I know him. You wanna talk to him. Yeah, OK."
"Who is it?"
"It's Don St. John. What do ya mean, 'Who is it?' Gees."
He's using a letter opener from 10 years ago with my grandma's face on it to open their excess mail accumulated from too many days before.
"Oh, Don. Well, say 'Hi,' Brigid." So I do.
"Hi, Don. Yeah, I'm their granddaughter. You know? You wanted to say, "Hello," too? Well, alright. Hello." The conversation lulls, "I'll give you over to Harry." So I do.
"Hey Don. Yeah, I don't think I'm going to be able to go to [Insert miscellaneous Old Man get together]. No, it is too bad." The conversation continues for a bit, then his blue eyes light up. "Celeste," he says, putting the receiver on his lap. "Don's son-in-law got a knee replacement in the spring, and he's now out playing baseball on the team this summer." The team is comprised of one of my uncles, Don (who just turned 90 according to my grandma) and other sprightly men of all ages.
"Oh, really, Harold? Maybe I'll join the team now." She's so witty. Her little lips curling into a smirk. The one their accustomed to make after over 50 years married to Harold T. Stanton. " Go ahead, ask him if I can join."
He puts the phone back to his ear, making a silly kissy face to her. "No, she can't catch. The only thing she's caught was me!"
Laughter.
Then comes the Celeste punchline. "No, I got stuck with you." And the lips curl into a kissy face paired with a wink.
This afternoon after much debate, consisting of me driving one direction, then turning around in 3 point fashion, I decided to grab some grub at my grandparents' house. Harry and Celeste live in a condo. It's about a block from my dad's office in Glenview, a suburb of Chicago. They live on the Penthouse floor of the complex, and when I knocked on the door to be let inside, I could hear Harry shuffling, then yelling, "Just come on in!" But the door was locked, which I made known, shouting through the door, "It's locked!"
Then Gana answers the door. She's their new assistant person from Mongolia. Neither Harry nor Celeste would readily admit they need an extra hand, what with Celeste getting her knees replaced Thursday and Harry just returned from the hospital after a fall in the shower.
So, I'm making an egg salad sandwich, and Celeste asks me if I want some cake. Harry offers a selection of cookies and then they both see the pie, and ask if I want that, too. Too? I just had some pie. Rye bread for the sandwich? Yes, I say. But, anyway, I've sat down at the round table between the two of them, and I begin to enjoy the first bites, and then Don St. John calls. So, Celeste picks up the portable phone to answer, looks at the Caller ID. "This must be Don St. John." Chuckles all around. "Yeah, Harry? I know him. You wanna talk to him. Yeah, OK."
"Who is it?"
"It's Don St. John. What do ya mean, 'Who is it?' Gees."
He's using a letter opener from 10 years ago with my grandma's face on it to open their excess mail accumulated from too many days before.
"Oh, Don. Well, say 'Hi,' Brigid." So I do.
"Hi, Don. Yeah, I'm their granddaughter. You know? You wanted to say, "Hello," too? Well, alright. Hello." The conversation lulls, "I'll give you over to Harry." So I do.
"Hey Don. Yeah, I don't think I'm going to be able to go to [Insert miscellaneous Old Man get together]. No, it is too bad." The conversation continues for a bit, then his blue eyes light up. "Celeste," he says, putting the receiver on his lap. "Don's son-in-law got a knee replacement in the spring, and he's now out playing baseball on the team this summer." The team is comprised of one of my uncles, Don (who just turned 90 according to my grandma) and other sprightly men of all ages.
"Oh, really, Harold? Maybe I'll join the team now." She's so witty. Her little lips curling into a smirk. The one their accustomed to make after over 50 years married to Harold T. Stanton. " Go ahead, ask him if I can join."
He puts the phone back to his ear, making a silly kissy face to her. "No, she can't catch. The only thing she's caught was me!"
Laughter.
Then comes the Celeste punchline. "No, I got stuck with you." And the lips curl into a kissy face paired with a wink.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Future Stories. But For Now. Just Tastes.
I've become obsessed with taking notes on various happenings.
Some include, but are not limited to:
1. It just bothers me knowing that Jimmy Fallen is out there, somewhere, making more money than me.
2. People keep telling me I'm funny—that I should be in or at least write for 2nd City. I always wondered if these people really know what they're talking about. I mean, they are the "public"—the end all, be all, deciders of who makes the cut to fame. I wonder—did anyone say these nice things to the guys current in 2nd City, performing right now in Old Town tonight? Well, did they?
3. There's a big ex-football player lip singing emphatically to himself on the El train right now. He is also doing a Sudoko puzzle and wearing a blue checked button down with black slacks. A Business Professional?
4. Claddagh rings (with the heart out) on women—What does that say to the world? Is it a plea? "Please hit on me?" Pathetic or just upfront? Is it upfront if the heart is turned in (meaning, "nah, uh, I'm taken, brother!") and sad if it's out (meaning, "I'm single! Single! Take me out! Ask for my number! I'm free tonight. I'm free every night!")
5. Vaginis. This guy's last name is Vaginis. I'm thinking: Vaginis Monologues, a hit television show where at the beginning and end of each episode someone from the Vaginis Family has to share a monologue of what happened to them that day, so starting and ending an episode. This is brought on by Michael P. Vaginis, a guy who unknowingly is being made fun of by myself and my coworkers at Bar/Bri LSAT testing facility. We are currently scanning Scantrons. That's right. Someone has to make sure these lawyers in waiting have filled in their bubbles correctly. And. Yes, that's us. We get to read everyone's last names and first names. We get to poke fun at each of them. There have been a lot of "Butts" so far. I should try and Facebook Michael P. Vaginis.
5. Pretty in Pink. Ducky got the short end of the stick. Except at the end when the pretty girl asked him to dance. They should have made a movie about how in the end Ducky was alright. Titled: Ducky: The After Party.
6. Weird names: Blaine Doyle.
7. Coworkers for the week: Russell (Italian/Black female, obsessed with diversity and EOE, helps companies with diversity training, has an excuse for every single moron who has incorrectly filled out bubbles: ie. maybe they are foreign, maybe they are dyslexic, maybe they are blind (for real), maybe, well, maybe Russell, maybe they're just dumb and can't read.), Janie (a college girl, very sweet, goes to Gaucher College in Baltimore, lives with her sister in Chicago during the summer, temps for fun/money, and constantly makes me sing "Janie's Got a Gun" in my head, all day), Todd (an actor from Indiana, 26, says mildly dramatic things when explaining how something made him feel, i.e. "That kills my soul" in reference to the film Requiem for a Dream), DC (who's real name is Derek, he works as a financial guy for Goldman Sach's usually. Right now, I don't know why he's temping. His wife is his best friend, he says that casually and sweetly causing the women in the crowd to wish for something more. He's sort of a toned down Lionel Richie. He sort of looks like him and has an intense mustache that makes me laugh when I look at it), and then there are two forgettable others (1. Jamie, a beautiful, young black girl who used to work for I think it's AT&T or something like that, and the other is a K-5th grade teacher named Kristen from Naperville. Both are mid-20s).
8. Both my parents, but my dad more so than my mother, want me to appreciate the art of creation, but not to be myself a creator. Actually, that goes not just for me, but for all my siblings. It's weird, because we all learned instruments growing up, but were no Jackson 5. We all learned just enough to know how to read notes, appreciate music and the like, but were never encouraged to write our own stuff or seriously pursue music or theater as sincere job options. Funny. My oldest brother Larry took some acting classes with Improv Olympic and performed in Tony and Tina's Wedding, much to our parents' chagrin. He works at an accounting firm during the day and wishes his life were different. Now my sister is in LA in the process of gaining a BFA in film & screenwriting, my younger brother Timmy writes his own music, Kevin is transferring to USC to finish college with a degree in Screenwriting. The sad thing is, and probably the most selfish, is I was the creative, theatrical, musically talented Marshall growing up. Maybe I just thought I was. I regret playing field hockey in high school in a lot of ways. I should have done the plays. I was good at acting, always have had stage presence and can sing. Now I'm playing the banjo, and jamming more with Timmy. I've seen three musicals in the last month, and when I'm not seeing a musical or play, I'm watching a movie or reading.
9. I interviewed for two jobs this week and have another tomorrow. The one Monday was to be an Assistant Building Manager. That's right. The other is to be a Paralegal at a Home Tax/Mortgage Law Firm. To say the least: these jobs stomp creativity out, are dull, are monotonous, would in fact "kill my soul." I have another tomorrow with TravelZoo to be an Assistant Producer, which I would kill at! Should be more exciting. Is it weird that today I'm wishing I had gone out to audition for American Idol. I don't want to be on a show like that. I love to sing and perform, but I don't want to be like that. Tonight I saw Million Dollar Quartet, a story about Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, and Elvis Presley, all involved with Sam Phillips' Sun Records in Nashville. I want what they had. I told my mom that she raised kids that all, for some odd reason, want to be famous. I think it's because we all want to be recognized. Maybe it's a big family thing.
10. Fame: Karaoke. When I told my mom about how her kids want to be famous. We just want something more. Competition. Fame is weird. A kid who took the BAR practice test's name was Fame. His/her parent was dreaming big. Kevin, my younger brother, said to me while watching Harry Potter the other night, "I could have done that role. I would have rocked at it. You know, Brigid, his dad is a major movie producer in London," all in reference to Daniel Radcliff.
11. Brian McKnight. Think of "Deep Quotes" of the day. Turn them into song lyrics. Send the finished songs to him for him to either listen to softly OR re-record giving you full song-writing credits. Did you know, "Blue Suede Shoes" sung by Elvis Presley on the Johnny Carson show, was actually meant to be sung by Carl Perkins who also wrote the song. He was supposed to perform it, but on his way to New York got in a big car accident preventing him and his band from arriving. Tough break.
12. I've fallen in love X times this year. With advertising, PR, and education. And I always am in love with music. And Each time these genres break up with me. Each time I get an interview and they turn me loose before giving me a real shot, I'm left hopeless. I'm like the retarded girl at school who can't figure out why the captain of the football team doesn't love her. Tough break. Me and Carl Perkins. Luckily for Perkins, he was a multimillionaire, got to play rockabilly music for life (my favorite kind of music) and to boot was inducted not only into the Rock and Roll, the Rockabilly, and the Nashville Songwriters halls of fame, but was also a Grammy Hall of Fame Award recipient.
13. The phrase: "I've got a taste for...," "What do you have a taste for?," etc, etc, is purely a Chicago thing. No one else says it. Most people are just upfront and say, "What do you want to eat?" Noted.
Some include, but are not limited to:
1. It just bothers me knowing that Jimmy Fallen is out there, somewhere, making more money than me.
2. People keep telling me I'm funny—that I should be in or at least write for 2nd City. I always wondered if these people really know what they're talking about. I mean, they are the "public"—the end all, be all, deciders of who makes the cut to fame. I wonder—did anyone say these nice things to the guys current in 2nd City, performing right now in Old Town tonight? Well, did they?
3. There's a big ex-football player lip singing emphatically to himself on the El train right now. He is also doing a Sudoko puzzle and wearing a blue checked button down with black slacks. A Business Professional?
4. Claddagh rings (with the heart out) on women—What does that say to the world? Is it a plea? "Please hit on me?" Pathetic or just upfront? Is it upfront if the heart is turned in (meaning, "nah, uh, I'm taken, brother!") and sad if it's out (meaning, "I'm single! Single! Take me out! Ask for my number! I'm free tonight. I'm free every night!")
5. Vaginis. This guy's last name is Vaginis. I'm thinking: Vaginis Monologues, a hit television show where at the beginning and end of each episode someone from the Vaginis Family has to share a monologue of what happened to them that day, so starting and ending an episode. This is brought on by Michael P. Vaginis, a guy who unknowingly is being made fun of by myself and my coworkers at Bar/Bri LSAT testing facility. We are currently scanning Scantrons. That's right. Someone has to make sure these lawyers in waiting have filled in their bubbles correctly. And. Yes, that's us. We get to read everyone's last names and first names. We get to poke fun at each of them. There have been a lot of "Butts" so far. I should try and Facebook Michael P. Vaginis.
5. Pretty in Pink. Ducky got the short end of the stick. Except at the end when the pretty girl asked him to dance. They should have made a movie about how in the end Ducky was alright. Titled: Ducky: The After Party.
6. Weird names: Blaine Doyle.
7. Coworkers for the week: Russell (Italian/Black female, obsessed with diversity and EOE, helps companies with diversity training, has an excuse for every single moron who has incorrectly filled out bubbles: ie. maybe they are foreign, maybe they are dyslexic, maybe they are blind (for real), maybe, well, maybe Russell, maybe they're just dumb and can't read.), Janie (a college girl, very sweet, goes to Gaucher College in Baltimore, lives with her sister in Chicago during the summer, temps for fun/money, and constantly makes me sing "Janie's Got a Gun" in my head, all day), Todd (an actor from Indiana, 26, says mildly dramatic things when explaining how something made him feel, i.e. "That kills my soul" in reference to the film Requiem for a Dream), DC (who's real name is Derek, he works as a financial guy for Goldman Sach's usually. Right now, I don't know why he's temping. His wife is his best friend, he says that casually and sweetly causing the women in the crowd to wish for something more. He's sort of a toned down Lionel Richie. He sort of looks like him and has an intense mustache that makes me laugh when I look at it), and then there are two forgettable others (1. Jamie, a beautiful, young black girl who used to work for I think it's AT&T or something like that, and the other is a K-5th grade teacher named Kristen from Naperville. Both are mid-20s).
8. Both my parents, but my dad more so than my mother, want me to appreciate the art of creation, but not to be myself a creator. Actually, that goes not just for me, but for all my siblings. It's weird, because we all learned instruments growing up, but were no Jackson 5. We all learned just enough to know how to read notes, appreciate music and the like, but were never encouraged to write our own stuff or seriously pursue music or theater as sincere job options. Funny. My oldest brother Larry took some acting classes with Improv Olympic and performed in Tony and Tina's Wedding, much to our parents' chagrin. He works at an accounting firm during the day and wishes his life were different. Now my sister is in LA in the process of gaining a BFA in film & screenwriting, my younger brother Timmy writes his own music, Kevin is transferring to USC to finish college with a degree in Screenwriting. The sad thing is, and probably the most selfish, is I was the creative, theatrical, musically talented Marshall growing up. Maybe I just thought I was. I regret playing field hockey in high school in a lot of ways. I should have done the plays. I was good at acting, always have had stage presence and can sing. Now I'm playing the banjo, and jamming more with Timmy. I've seen three musicals in the last month, and when I'm not seeing a musical or play, I'm watching a movie or reading.
9. I interviewed for two jobs this week and have another tomorrow. The one Monday was to be an Assistant Building Manager. That's right. The other is to be a Paralegal at a Home Tax/Mortgage Law Firm. To say the least: these jobs stomp creativity out, are dull, are monotonous, would in fact "kill my soul." I have another tomorrow with TravelZoo to be an Assistant Producer, which I would kill at! Should be more exciting. Is it weird that today I'm wishing I had gone out to audition for American Idol. I don't want to be on a show like that. I love to sing and perform, but I don't want to be like that. Tonight I saw Million Dollar Quartet, a story about Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, and Elvis Presley, all involved with Sam Phillips' Sun Records in Nashville. I want what they had. I told my mom that she raised kids that all, for some odd reason, want to be famous. I think it's because we all want to be recognized. Maybe it's a big family thing.
10. Fame: Karaoke. When I told my mom about how her kids want to be famous. We just want something more. Competition. Fame is weird. A kid who took the BAR practice test's name was Fame. His/her parent was dreaming big. Kevin, my younger brother, said to me while watching Harry Potter the other night, "I could have done that role. I would have rocked at it. You know, Brigid, his dad is a major movie producer in London," all in reference to Daniel Radcliff.
11. Brian McKnight. Think of "Deep Quotes" of the day. Turn them into song lyrics. Send the finished songs to him for him to either listen to softly OR re-record giving you full song-writing credits. Did you know, "Blue Suede Shoes" sung by Elvis Presley on the Johnny Carson show, was actually meant to be sung by Carl Perkins who also wrote the song. He was supposed to perform it, but on his way to New York got in a big car accident preventing him and his band from arriving. Tough break.
12. I've fallen in love X times this year. With advertising, PR, and education. And I always am in love with music. And Each time these genres break up with me. Each time I get an interview and they turn me loose before giving me a real shot, I'm left hopeless. I'm like the retarded girl at school who can't figure out why the captain of the football team doesn't love her. Tough break. Me and Carl Perkins. Luckily for Perkins, he was a multimillionaire, got to play rockabilly music for life (my favorite kind of music) and to boot was inducted not only into the Rock and Roll, the Rockabilly, and the Nashville Songwriters halls of fame, but was also a Grammy Hall of Fame Award recipient.
13. The phrase: "I've got a taste for...," "What do you have a taste for?," etc, etc, is purely a Chicago thing. No one else says it. Most people are just upfront and say, "What do you want to eat?" Noted.
Monday, July 06, 2009
Expiration Interaction
"Mom?—"
Blatantly ignored. My mother, commonly referred to as "She-She Baby," "Little Sheila" or any combo of those, as her name is Sheila, is standing over the trash compactor reading old mail from no one knows when. She found it to the left of the bread cabinet that both of my parents use to hide old mail they would rather not read, i.e. Macy's catalogs and bills.
"Mom—"
I go over to her. She's sweaty. She's wearing this hot pink Nike dry-fit workout tee with black yoga pants. She looks like one of those mom's you see at the grocery store. You know the ones. The Oneees. With the tennis outfit, clearly having not played tennis that day or any other. It occurs to me that that may just be a Lake Forest thing or at the least a North Shore thing. Anywho. She's ignoring me. As goes our typical routine comes 5 p.m.
"Mom?"
"Why do you have to be so annoying to me Brigid?" She's referring to the fact that I've now gone over to her and given her a bear hug emphasizing the little waist she's widdling down from a size 10 to a 6. Maybe three months ago I went up to my mom, who is adorable, but was mildly Mom-Chubby, and had recently decided to go see a fitness trainer, that I would say goodbye to her cute mommy roll. (As I write this, I really sound like a horrible child. It isn't weird that I do this though. It's a Marshall-ism. Everyone does it.) I go up to her and flick her tummy. I do realize now that maybe that wasn't the nicest thing I've ever done, but whatever. I do it. And I did it.
So today, I notice how little the waist is becoming and give her the bear hug. Then I go for it. I try to flick the belly up, but to no avail. She's really getting taut.
It comes to my attention midway through our little back-and-forth that perhaps it's more than just the trainer. Maybe it's the diet.
She pulls out a slab of ribs though, and I sort of change my mind, though she did buy the relatively fat-less ribs. Our kitchen is one of those kitchens with so many cabinets that at any given point you can open one and find something worth eating, as long as it's not stale. I usually go for the fridge as I am a berry person, and anyone who knows anything knows you put berries in the refrigerator.
So, I'm going for the bottom drawer, and I see it. It's a vast compartment full of Dannon's Lite & Fit yogurt. Hark, it's my mother's no-tummy-roll secret! I noticed this drawer a few weeks ago, when I actually put all of the yogurts there. They're little Sheila's chosen low calorie food selection for snacks and breakfast.
"Mom."
She finally looks over to me as if I've really interrupted her intense old-mail-reading experiment. While ripping into teensy pieces an old bill (another story for another time)—
"Mom, these are, like, old," I don't say it like a Valley girl would, just your typical Midwestern street jargon, "Really old."
"Well, how old?" Pause. She doesn't even go to check the dates. "No, no." Insert a distasteful Chicago accent. Think Costa Rica, with the "O" sounding like the beginning of Apple. "No, it's good for three weeks after. Everyone knows this."
Everyone does not know this.
"No, mom. They put an expiration date on it for a reason." Which they do. Sometimes you can get away with a few days, but we learned from that time with the chocolate milk—
"Remember that time with the milk?" She looks at me with that Mom-look, with that Mommy Knows Best-face, that face that I have decided is a farce, especially in relation to refrigerated food products.
"You threw up in the sink." The story goes like this:
Attempting to separate the two stories, she says, "Part of the issue is, the weather was warmer."
And the best part is she doesn't even try to deny the milk story.
"Well, it was May then, now it's July, you do the math." Aha, a retort!
"It's still not—" She breaks off. "Brigid, please stop picking on me."
And then she moves on to another piece of mail.
Blatantly ignored. My mother, commonly referred to as "She-She Baby," "Little Sheila" or any combo of those, as her name is Sheila, is standing over the trash compactor reading old mail from no one knows when. She found it to the left of the bread cabinet that both of my parents use to hide old mail they would rather not read, i.e. Macy's catalogs and bills.
"Mom—"
I go over to her. She's sweaty. She's wearing this hot pink Nike dry-fit workout tee with black yoga pants. She looks like one of those mom's you see at the grocery store. You know the ones. The Oneees. With the tennis outfit, clearly having not played tennis that day or any other. It occurs to me that that may just be a Lake Forest thing or at the least a North Shore thing. Anywho. She's ignoring me. As goes our typical routine comes 5 p.m.
"Mom?"
"Why do you have to be so annoying to me Brigid?" She's referring to the fact that I've now gone over to her and given her a bear hug emphasizing the little waist she's widdling down from a size 10 to a 6. Maybe three months ago I went up to my mom, who is adorable, but was mildly Mom-Chubby, and had recently decided to go see a fitness trainer, that I would say goodbye to her cute mommy roll. (As I write this, I really sound like a horrible child. It isn't weird that I do this though. It's a Marshall-ism. Everyone does it.) I go up to her and flick her tummy. I do realize now that maybe that wasn't the nicest thing I've ever done, but whatever. I do it. And I did it.
So today, I notice how little the waist is becoming and give her the bear hug. Then I go for it. I try to flick the belly up, but to no avail. She's really getting taut.
It comes to my attention midway through our little back-and-forth that perhaps it's more than just the trainer. Maybe it's the diet.
She pulls out a slab of ribs though, and I sort of change my mind, though she did buy the relatively fat-less ribs. Our kitchen is one of those kitchens with so many cabinets that at any given point you can open one and find something worth eating, as long as it's not stale. I usually go for the fridge as I am a berry person, and anyone who knows anything knows you put berries in the refrigerator.
So, I'm going for the bottom drawer, and I see it. It's a vast compartment full of Dannon's Lite & Fit yogurt. Hark, it's my mother's no-tummy-roll secret! I noticed this drawer a few weeks ago, when I actually put all of the yogurts there. They're little Sheila's chosen low calorie food selection for snacks and breakfast.
"Mom."
She finally looks over to me as if I've really interrupted her intense old-mail-reading experiment. While ripping into teensy pieces an old bill (another story for another time)—
"Mom, these are, like, old," I don't say it like a Valley girl would, just your typical Midwestern street jargon, "Really old."
"Well, how old?" Pause. She doesn't even go to check the dates. "No, no." Insert a distasteful Chicago accent. Think Costa Rica, with the "O" sounding like the beginning of Apple. "No, it's good for three weeks after. Everyone knows this."
Everyone does not know this.
"No, mom. They put an expiration date on it for a reason." Which they do. Sometimes you can get away with a few days, but we learned from that time with the chocolate milk—
"Remember that time with the milk?" She looks at me with that Mom-look, with that Mommy Knows Best-face, that face that I have decided is a farce, especially in relation to refrigerated food products.
"You threw up in the sink." The story goes like this:
"Gosh, I didn't even know this milk was still in here." Me
"Yeah, it's still good." Her
"What day is today?" Me
"May 20th. What day's it say?" Her
"May 9th. I'm throwing it away." Me
"No, you're not. I bought it, we're going to drink it." Her
"Be my guest." Me
She picks it up, pours a glass. I smell it from three feet away. She puts it to her mouth. I half expect her to plug her nose. Takes a sip. And runs to the sink not only spitting it up, but letting out one of those ghastly upchuck noises. The kind you make when you stick your tooth brush too far down your throat in an effort to clean your tongue.
Attempting to separate the two stories, she says, "Part of the issue is, the weather was warmer."
And the best part is she doesn't even try to deny the milk story.
"Well, it was May then, now it's July, you do the math." Aha, a retort!
"It's still not—" She breaks off. "Brigid, please stop picking on me."
And then she moves on to another piece of mail.
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