Yes, that’s me last New Year’s Eve In Victoria, BC with Bigfoot. Yes, I am drinking champagne, thus my chumminess with the squatch. However that’s not what I want to attract your focus. Behold… the pink coat.
In the fall of 2014 I was invited to my neighborhood’s semi-annual CAbi party. In case you are unaware, CAbi stands for Carol Anderson by invitation, and it’s a home-based clothing business. It’s Tupperware for clothes, basically.
Each evening that I go to one of these parties (conveniently held next door every spring and fall) my husband cringes as I walk out the door.
“I’m just going for the wine!” I call out cheerfully.
Every time, though, I come home having placed an order.
This time, however, I was determined not to buy anything. I had recently purged many items in my closet and was going for a simpler life. And less laundry, theoretically.
Then I saw it. I got butterflies. It was beautiful. And it was pink. Cotton candy pink.
I never wear pink. Ever. I’m not a fluffy, girly person, and because of my body type, wearing pink always makes me feel a bit like a drag queen.
But this coat looked like Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn wrapped up into one stylish package.
I tried it on, and of course all the ladies at the party insisted this coat was ME, and I just HAD to buy it. I felt like a million bucks.
Alas, this coat was not cheap. True to my word, I went home without placing an order.
A couple weeks went by, and the CAbi rep emailed me to say that she was selling off her samples, and I could buy the coat for 50% off! Of course, 50% off of beau coup is still mucho dinero. (Yes, I am aware those are two different languages. Becoming more globally-minded is one of my New Year’s resolutions.)
My husband was out of town. Could I slip a Pepto Bismol pink coat into my clothing repertoire without him noticing? Not likely. But still… I had to have it.
I waited a month before the grand reveal. If I recall, his exact words were, “Whoa! That’s pink!”
There are only so many events for which a pink (with a capital P) wool coat seems an appropriate choice, so over the past year I have only worn it a handful of times. Every time gets a similar reaction to the first; Whoa. That’s pink.
Yesterday was a frosty morning and I was headed out to my hair appointment. Knowing I would feel fabulous following my sprucing up at the salon, I decided it was a good day for the pink coat.
My hair is the longest it’s been in a while, and my colorist is slowly evolving me into an auburn color. Right now it’s sort of a mahogany shade, and since I can take zero credit, I will admit it looks amazing. I get lots of compliments, and so every time I get a refresh, I walk with a bit more of a spring in my step.
As I walked to pick Parker up after school, I felt fancy. Classy, even. So many times I show up in yoga pants and a pony tail, so it’s nice to step it up once in a while. He took one look at me and said, “You’re wearing pink.”
“Yes. I’m wearing pink.”
“You never wear pink.”
“I know. ”
“I don’t think I’ve seen you wear pink in like 15 months.”
I have no idea where this random number has come from, and I know it to be inaccurate, but his point is made- I never wear pink. He’s not sure what to do with this sudden shift of color palate.
As we crossed the street, another mom that I don’t know said, “I really like your coat!”
“Thank you!” I beamed.
“You remind me of The Gilmore Girls. I don’t know if you watched that show or know what I’m talking about.”
“I know the show, but I didn’t ever watch it.”
“Oh. Well you remind me of that!”
I gave a little laugh as she crossed the other street, not really knowing to what she might be referring, but hoping it was a good thing.
That evening when my husband got home from work I said, “I got a compliment on my coat today.”
“Oh yeah?”
“A mom at the school came up to me and told me she liked my coat and I reminded her of Gilmore Girls.”
He laughed and said, “Which one?”
“Well the mom, I assume.”
He stared at me for a moment, and then chuckled again.
As we waited in line to order our dinner at the local pizza place, he looked at my coat and said, “You’re taking this awfully well.”
“What?”
“Being told you look like a Gilmore Girl. I would think you were more like the one who dated all the men more than the mom.”
Blink. Blink.
“Um. Are you referring to the GOLDEN GIRLS?!”
He began laughing really hard.
“She said GILMORE girls NOT GOLDEN girls!”
“I kept thinking, wow, she seems okay with this. I would think she’d be really offended.”
I pulled out my phone and googled the following photos:
“THIS is the Gilmore girls:”
He was really laughing at this point.
“I was so confused. You were like ‘I guess I’m like the mom’ and I was like, ‘really?!’ but you seemed to be rolling with it.”
For reference,
Blanche (the one who dated a lot of men) did wear a lot of pink, as did Sophia, the mother.
“I wonder what pink coat in the Gilmore Girls she was talking about.” So I googled that as well, and sure enough, there were tons of photos like this:
Having never watched the show, I was unsure whether this was a running gag, or whether the pink coat was considered a staple piece. Further research revealed that the pink coat was the envy of many viewers, which took the sting out of the fact that my husband thought I looked like a geriatric character.
Here’s the thing;
We all have things we love but feel we “can’t get away with.” (Forgive the dangling preposition) Two piece bathing suits. Skinny jeans. Girly clothes. Statement jewelry. Long hair after a certain age. (I remember telling my friend Marques who cuts my hair that I wanted to grow it out until I was too old to wear it long. He replied, “You’re never to old to wear your hair whichever way you want.”)
I say, wear what we love. Buy into the fantasy for that moment. Do I look more like an Easter peep than Audrey Hepburn in my pink coat? Probably.
I like to imagine myself as “that kind of girl” sometimes. Not all the time, but sometimes. And so I shall continue to wear the pink coat on days when I want to be “that kind of girl.”
No, not the three adorable girls (Zoe and two of her friends). I’m talking about the numbers at the bottom of the photo.
689. 1075.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with Twitter, let me explain.
What appears to be a recycle sign is the number of times this photo tweet has been re-tweeted. The star represents the number of times it has been favorited. (Similar to “liking” something on Facebook.)
Last Wednesday night, instead of a party for her 11th birthday in October, I took Zoe and two of her friends to the Washington State Fair for a concert featuring:
Once we got seated we noticed that on the big screen they were showing tweets from the audience with the hashtag #WAfairlive. They announced that one of those tweets would win upgraded seats to the second row.
About 20 minutes before the concert began I tweeted the above picture of the girls with the required hashtag, and tagged Cody Simpson in the tweet as well.
Not too long after, the picture came up on the big screen and the girls squealed at the decibel and frequency reserved solely for hyped up preteen girls.
“Do it again!” They said excitedly.
So I tweeted another picture, and once again it made it up on the big screen. Once again they shrieked and giggled.
But this time I noticed something. The original tweet was getting favorited and re-tweeted surprisingly fast. I wondered briefly if people at the concert were re-tweeting everything with the hashtag.
As the numbers began to tick up, I thought maybe it was like all of my fake spam subscribers; While I wish it were legitimate, there’s no way 2700 real people subscribe to my blog, and real people certainly don’t leave comments like “If you bring into play them, be specified not to get too hot them. Particular you build this tool in a poorly lit spot for your dog’s comfort.”
I figured my tweet had some trigger phrase that set all the spammer twitter accounts off.
Then I started realizing that most of the people re-tweeting had Twitter handles like “Mrs.CodySimpson2002” or “JustinBieberpleasefollowme.”
The Cody Simpson Fan Club had come across my tweet somehow and it was going nuts.
For perspective, my previous most successful tweet was a photo I took on my way down to the Seahawks Super Bowl Championship parade that bore a moderate resemblance (if you’re drunk and squinting) to the Seahawks logo.
49 re-tweets, 60 favorites. And a few mean spirited haters.
Other than that, my re-tweet/favorite average is… zero. Most things I tweet go out into the social media netherworld, never to be spoken of again.
I spend a few hours a week writing my blog. Some weeks more, some less. But I usually put time, thought and effort into writing. After a year and a half of posting this blog on various social media outlets, I have 392 likes on my Facebook page with an average of 25 subscribers actually seeing my posts. Prior to the “Tweet heard round the tween world,” I had about 400 Twitter followers. Now I have 454. 54 in a week may not sound like a lot, until you consider that the 400 had been accumulated over the course of 5 years!
In addition, I am embarrassed to admit, my (self-named) job title for my husband’s company is Social Media Director. (I made myself a director because I felt like it and no one was going to challenge me. “Facebook Addict” didn’t seem quite professional enough for my business cards.) This is my job, and until last week, I couldn’t figure out how to get any traction.
When I got home after the concert, I discovered what had set off the frenzy. In my email inbox:
and:
Take a gander at the number at the bottom of the email. He re-tweeted that photo to his nearly 7 million followers.
Now I’m no dummy. When I see something’s working, even unintentionally, I’m going to pay attention and see if I can replicate it. I’m still trying to figure out how to make this social media thing work for me , and this experience has taught me a couple really valuable lessons. (If you are using number of minor twitter followers as a benchmark of value)
And now I shall pass my newfound wisdom on to you. You’re welcome.
Here, in no particular order, is a primer for what I have determined are the keys to Twitter success in 5 easy steps:
1. Scope out the celebrities that have millions of followers who are so obsessed with them that they are willing to re-tweet anything re-tweeted by the celebrity. Even if it’s in Chinese. Even if it’s as simple as “Hi.”
2. Look for stars who have yet to get too big for their proverbial britches (I say proverbial, because with the saggy pants that are popular these days, the only way they’ll get too big for their literal britches is if they up their daily caloric content by 2000%.) If they appreciate their fans, they are more likely to re-tweet anything complimentary or positive.
3. Tag at least one of these people in EVERY single tweet you make. Tweeting about the pot roast you had last night?
“That was some great pot roast I had last night. @Mileycyrus #MileyCyrusisbetterthanpotroast.”
4. Download the concert schedule of the acts most popular with the Disney set. Tweet with hashtags that give the impression you are actually attending the concert.
Example:
“Looking forward to seeing @_________________ in concert tonight at ______________. He/She is my favorite! #ILOVEYOU #PLEASEFOLLOWME”
Of course, it must be in 140 characters or less. I’m too lazy to count it out.
5. Sit back and wait for the tweeny-bopper followers to come flooding in.
Of course, once you have thousands of 6th graders following you, you’ll have to adjust all of your tweets going forward. No more mention of global events or political intrigue. No using words like “inflation” “amalgam” or “pandemic.”
I would also recommend using a peace sign and a duck face in every photo you tweet out.
May this information be as helpful to you, as it has been for me.
Recently my husband finally cried “uncle” and made an appointment to see a sleep specialist. Lack of sleep has the tendency to wear down even the most stubborn. I’m not sure he’s had a decent night sleep since 2007. I, on the other hand, sleep very well, almost too well, a fact that he resents greatly.
As a result of the ACA, before doing an overnight in-patient sleep study, doctors first have to have the patients perform a home sleep study. This requires wearing headgear that records, well, we aren’t exactly sure what it records, but whatever it is, any data collected will be used to determine a sleep apnea diagnosis.
First, let me back up a bit to explain the context for the following incident. Recently, for throwback Thursday, I posted the following photo of myself and a former classmate with the caption: You know, if someone would have told me 30 years ago I’d be taking my daughter to a soccer tournament wearing a jersey with this boy as a sponsor, I wouldn’t have believed it.
After a couple of comments like “what a great thing that he’s giving back to the community” and ” Go Zoe!” another former classmate commented,
“The boy in yellow?”
to which my husband responded,
“He’s the taller boy. Not sure who the boy in yellow is. Looks like Ricky Schroeder.”
And then-
“Yep, it is.”
Flash forward to the first night of my husband’s home sleep study. As he drifts off to sleep, he murmurs, “I love you Ricky Schroeder.”
A couple of minutes went by and then he said, “Do you think they’re recording what I’m saying?”
To which I responded, “I certainly hope so.”
We have yet to receive the test results. I have a feeling the technicians analyzing his kit are going to put that one in their “greatest hits” collection.
*World Issues With Zoe And Parker*
The following are actual conversations from the car ride after Zoe’s last soccer tournament.
Zoe: Do you know what’s going around?
(Simultaneously)
Me:Ebola
Jeff: OMgosh
Zoe: Dad’s right. What are YOU talking about?!
Jeff: She’s talking about a disease. She forgot she was talking to a 10 year old.
Me: (Muttering) She asked what was going around. Ebola is going around.
Me: Zoe I’m really proud of how well you played, even with your hurt arm.
Jeff: It’s not like she could whimper about a sore arm when the girl on the other team was missing an arm.
Me: I had a weird dream last night. It involved a bear. I was really scared when it came in the house, but it turned out to be a nice bear who just wanted me to cuddle it. I also had a dream you were randomly holding other women’s hands.
Jeff: You won’t even let me go to the boobie espresso.
Parker: In Nepal you can hold anyone’s hand. You don’t have to be married or boyfriend/girlfriend. You can hold anyone’s hand.
Jeff: Not me, according to your mother.
Parker: In Nepal you can.
Jeff: Not even my Nepalese friends.
Parker: (giggling) Nepalese.
Nathan turned 16th this past weekend. I asked him several times what he wanted to do. “It’s a big deal!” I said. He said, “Only for girls.” Apparently he was right, because the only non pink, non-sparkly 16th birthday decorations was a package of napkins in rainbow colors with the number 16. No matching plates, no balloons, nothing. I had to buy generic decorations and add “16” stickers to them.
We were planning on just a family barbeque, and then asked if he wanted to see the new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie. He said no. The morning of his birthday Jeff said that they should go to the gym. Suddenly Nathan wanted to see the movie after all.
We decided rather than fighting the crowds we would go to the IPIC theater. IPIC used to only serve adults over 21, but recently started allowing kids. I have a feeling we are really going to regret taking our kids there. They will never be satisfied with a regular theater experience again.
Recliners, blankets, pillows. I came back from the bathroom and Parker had buncha crunch candies being delivered- in a martini glass. He prefers his chocolate shaken, not stirred. He didn’t make a sound during the entire movie other than a few blissful sighs.
The look on Zoe’s face when she opened the menu and realized she could order food was priceless. Cost of soft pretzels sticks with two gourmet dipping sauces? $10.
should have been enough to dissuade me from attempting to take more than one child school clothes shopping at a time. Alas, my “let’s get it all done in one painful trip” instincts won out over common sense. Also not a good use of common sense? Allowing Parker to wear his Heely’s.
I took Zoe into Justice and Parker let out a cry of, “Please not this place again!”
Nathan went next door to Aeropostale (The pronunciation of which remains a point of contention in our house). He had a gift card and instructions to buy larger jeans than the ones he currently owns. That should be an easy task for a 16 year old, right?
Zoe meandered through the glitterized world of Justice in hopes of finding something she’d be willing to wear.
Parker said, “Mom, there’s something you should know about clothes.”
“What’s that?”
“Anything that says the word cool on it is NOT cool!”
“Duly noted.”
Nathan came back with a bag in about 15 minutes. My instinct said that wasn’t nearly enough time to try stuff on.
“What size did you get?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you try them on?”
“Yes.”
I looked in the bag. “These are 27/28’s. Last year, before you grew 4 inches, we bought you 28/30’s. Either you didn’t notice that these jeans are way too short, or you didn’t try them on.”
“They seemed fine.”
“Go back. Go back and get at least the same size you have now, but preferably longer.”
After he made the exchange and Zoe found enough sparkle- less clothes to fill a bag (40% plus an additional 20% off) we made our way to H &M.
“Would you wear this?” I asked.
“A Sweater?!?” He responded with the ferocity one might reserve for such outlandish suggestions as eating your own feces.
I had no idea sweaters were so offensive.
We managed to leave the mall 3 hours later with not a single item for Parker. I did fend off requests from him for a “Guardians of the Galaxy” Starlord mask and gun set, along with an xbox 360 game.
Parker may end up wearing the same outfit on the first day of 3rd grade that he wore on the last day of 2nd grade. It’s not like he grows very fast anyways.
Well, this past Friday we were finally able to use what we had bid on and won at the auction- a behind-the-scenes Seattle Sounders experience.
Zoe, Parker and I, escorted by pre-MLS Sounder alumni player-turned- Rush Coach Doug, were able to watch an entire practice, meet the players, and get autographs and photos.
Just before we were supposed to meet the man in charge (Chris Henderson) at the gate in front of the practice field, Parker decided he had to use the bathroom. We had just been up at the main building 10 minutes prior for Zoe and I, but he had chosen to Heely around the floor instead of going to the bathroom.
I dragged Parker back up to the building, and when he was done we started walking back down towards the field. From the back entrance of the main building a tall man in a Sounders shirt and cleats emerged and began walking towards us.
I knew he must be a player, but my knowledge of soccer players is pretty limited. I didn’t know his name, and he didn’t give it. He started a conversation, and was so friendly and casual that I started to wonder how he could possibly be a professional athlete. There was no “do you know who I am” or “Aren’t you lucky that I’m talking to you” vibe coming from him at all. He was pretty impressed with Parker’s Heely ability, and Parker didn’t seem to realize he was talking to one of the players. We walked down the entire pathway talking as if it was no big deal.
And that was pretty much our experience with every single player on that team. They went out of their way to talk to my kids, ask if they wanted autographs, gave high fives and fist bumps and I never saw even an ounce of attitude. I became a bigger fan of the team than I already was, just because I was able to see first hand what great guys these are.
Clint Dempsey was the first to leave practice, and Zoe went over to have him sign her shirt and Parker had him sign his hat. They both came back with sweat stains on their stuff (and a little on them). I explained to them that there were a lot of people who would be thrilled for the opportunity to have Clint Dempsey sweat on them.
Clint Dempsey appears to be giving Zoe a back rub
Marcus Hahneman was on two world cup teams and played over in the Premier league in the UK. He spent quite a bit of time talking with us and our escort. Nice to see someone of my age still playing the game.
Lamar Neagle is a local boy who has been with the Sounders since their re-inception as an MLS team.
Djimi! He also played in the Championship League in Europe
My buddy Chad Marshall who walked down to the field with Parker and I
Parker had Obafemi Martins sign both his hat and his shirt. Following the practice, Parker got pizza sauce all over the signature.
Quite possibly our favorite person of the day, announcer Ross Fletcher. He said to Zoe, “Sorry about my accent,” to which she replied, “It’s beautiful.”
Autographs!
We had such a great time that we decided we wanted to go to Sunday’s game. It was a bit surprising to see our escort from Friday, Doug, being honored amongst other alumni players in a pre-game ceremony.
Parker seemed a little underwhelmed by the whole experience, but then he puked up his pizza on the floor outside the bathroom and he started perking up. His favorite part of the game was when the crowd started heckling and booing the officiating.
I think we may have some pretty serious soccer fans on our hands.
Go Sounders!
Update- day 17. Still no sign of the wallet. I am beginning to think there may be a black hole in our closet. It will require further investigation to determine. If you don’t hear from me for a while, I have fallen in the black hole.
Welcome to the official first edition of Burnt Ends! In case you missed yesterday’s post, http://kbjackson.com/welcome-to-burnt-ends/, I am trying out a new format for my blog that will hopefully be a little more reader-friendly ( and also writer-friendly.)
Let’s get down to it!
This past week has left me seriously fried- in the brain, on my skin, and as you probably read yesterday, down to my eyeballs. I had envisioned lazy summer days, sleeping in, drinking ice tea, reading a book on a lawn chair while the kids gleefully jumped through the sprinklers.
The days of early alarms, yelling at kids to eat breakfast, brush their teeth and throw their shoes on were to go away as soon as the last bell rang in June, right?
Nope.
Reality set in last week when Nathan started tennis camp and got even more real when Parker started soccer camp this week.
Alarm going off an hour and 15 minutes earlier than during the school year, dragging Nathan and Parker out of bed, yelling for them to eat brush their teeth, get their shoes (cleats) on…
Nathan’s camp is at my old high school, my old stomping grounds. It’s a 15- 20 minute drive down the hill into my hometown. His instructor, Andy, grew up two blocks down the street from me. His dad was and is the tennis coach at my high school, and Andy is a tennis pro at a club in another town.
Parker’s camp is closer to our house, but starts at the same time as Nathan’s camp, so I have to drop Nathan off early to get Parker there on time. The courts will be empty for another 20 minutes.
This morning I noticed a large group of pretty girls standing not too far from the courts.
“Look! pretty girls! I wonder if they are cheerleaders.”
“They are, they were here yesterday. ”
“Oooh good. you can look at the pretty girls while you wait for everyone to show up!”
“I’m not going to watch them like some creeper! Seriously. You are creepier than any guy I know!”
Those were his parting words as he got out of the car.
Parker’s soccer camp is run by a bunch of players flown in from the UK for the summer, whose accents and flat out adorableness require me to put in a little more effort getting ready than I might normally make. I have, in the past, been known to roll directly from my bed to the car when having to do early morning drops-offs. Not the case this week, I can assure you.
Parker’s coach is Declan, a young lad from Scotland who can’t be more than 21. His brogue is so thick that I do a lot of smiling and nodding and hope he’s not actually asking me a question I’m supposed to answer. Have you noticed those UK accents always sound like they are asking questions even if they aren’t?
I had anticipated hearing that Parker spent the entire time grilling him on the Loch Ness Monster, but so far he has restrained himself. I asked him if he wanted to wear his Union Jack shirt to camp (You know, the Benedict Arnold shirt he wore to our 4th of July celebration?)
He declined, and then stuck his tongue out at me for even suggesting it. He did tell me that he’s learning to “speak Scottish,” which I assume to mean he’s starting to be able to understand Declan’s instructions.
Meanwhile, Zoe’s new obsession has arrived via UPS in the world largest box. (Someone needs to explain to me how Amazon can give free shipping on a box that would cost me a thousand dollars to mail. )
She’s been asking for a guitar for months, and finally last week her “Adam Levine acoustic guitar” arrived. Parker immediately took off with the giant box and turned it into his new home.
At one point he was using the flap as a table for his tv remote and a cup of water.
Zoe’s never taken lessons, but that doesn’t stop her from strumming and singing at the top of her lungs.
She told me she wants to be the female Justin Bieber, to which I replied, horrified, “No! You don’t want to be like Justin Bieber!”
She reassured me that she only meant in the way that he was discovered. Unfortunately that means posting videos on YouTube, which I find concerning in itself.
I tend to be one of those people who lives my life in phases. Earlier this year I ate a lot of pineapple and listened to Reggae in order to escape the winter doldrums. Last year I went through an “All Motown all the time” phase. This year, in addition to binge-watching “Hart of Dixie,” crushing on Farmer Chris on “The Bachelorette,” and spending a whole lot of time in my hometown full of small town charm and attractive people selling things at the farmer’s market, it has become the summer of country music.
Nathan is not happy about this development, especially since he’s been spending about an hour a day in the car with me coming and going from tennis camp. There’s something about driving through the valley into town- the hay bales dotting the fields, the tractors hoeing the rows, the corn that’s already as tall as my waist- that makes me want to listen to country music right now. I can’t explain it.
Yesterday he was heckling me about the music.
I said, “Zoe’s been listening to it more than you, and she’s finding songs she likes,”
He responded, ” Yeah, well if you dive in a dumpster for an hour, you’re likely to find something that’s not complete trash. But you’re still in a dumpster.”
As you might imagine, I had a difficult time coming up with a rebuttal for that one.
Last Saturday night I made homemade minestrone and roasted redneck garlic bread using mostly vegetables I had bought at the farmer’s market.
My husband has inferred that a simple observation of attractive organic fruit and vegetable purveyors has influenced my organic fruit and vegetable purchases of late.
I argue that it’s merely love and care for my family that motivates me to hit the market each week. I think I should be offended by his inference. Don’t you?
After trying the soup, he smirked and said, “It tastes extra hunky.”
Jeff got a white noise machine last week to help him sleep. I was totally okay with the idea, until that night at 10 pm when he turned it on.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to sleep.”
“But I’m watching TV and now all I can hear is ‘shhhhhhh.'”
“I need it to help me sleep.”
I stared incredulously at him for a moment, and then a moment or two longer.
He stared back.
We had a stare-off.
“Does it at least have another setting other than ‘10,000 shushing librarians?’ Waterfall? Rain maybe?”
“Blame it on the rain,” He sang.
He reached over, but instead of turning off the machine like I hoped, I began to hear the opening melody of “Blame it on the rain,” by Milli Vanilli streaming out of his phone.
“No.” I said.
He giggled. “Blame it on the rain. Blame it on the rain.”
“This is NOT okay,”
“Blame it on the rain! Blame it on the rain!” He sang.
I gave up, turned off the TV and rolled over to the sounds of Milli Vanilli and the 10,000 librarians.
One of the drawbacks of having a really active brain is sometimes the inability to shut that brain off so you can sleep. As a result, on occasion my husband has to take a nighttime sleep aid. Last night was one of those nights. Before he had gone to sleep, we had watched the hilarious interview Stephen Colbert did with Paul Rudd to promote his new movie “They Came Together.”
The following is the conversation that happened after the Ambien had kicked in. He woke up, wandered into the bathroom, stumbled back and opened with-
Him: You know that Judge Apatow?
Me: Judd
Him: What?
Me: It’s Judd Apatow. Not Judge Apatow
Him: Well that explains it. I was wondering why he was a judge
Me: You know, he’s married to that blonde chick who’s in all his movies.
Him: Sarah Silverman?
Me: No. She’s a brunette.
Him: Oh. I know! The one who goes to law school and has the dog!
Me: What?!
Him: You know, “Legally Blonde.”
Me: No. That’s Reece Witherspoon.
Him: That’s the girl that was in the movie with the guy that was on Colbert.
Me: No. Paul Rudd was in “Clueless,” is that what you’re thinking of?
Him: Yes!
Me: That’s not Reece Witherspoon. It’s Alicia Silverstone.
Him: That’s what I said at the beginning!
Me: No, you said Sarah Silverman, not Alicia Silverstone. Neither of them are married to Judd Apatow.
Him: Well who’s married to Judd Apatow?
Me: You know, the blonde chick who’s in all his movies…
Cast of Characters:
This is JUDD not JUDGE Apatow. He directs movies, and sometimes acts in them.
This is Sarah Silverman. She is a comedienne. She used to date Jimmy Kimmel. She has a bit of a potty mouth, was NOT in “Clueless” and is NOT married to Judd Apatow.
This is Paul Rudd. He has been in a few of Judd Apatow’s movies, such as “40 Year Old Virgin” and “This is 40.” He was also in “Clueless,” NOT with Sarah Silverman (see brunette above) but with…
Alicia Silverstone. The only thing I know about what Alicia Silverstone has been up to since “Clueless” is that she’s vegan. Oh and that she’s NOT married to Judd Apatow.
Reece Witherspoon. Was in “that movie where she goes to law school and has a dog” but was NOT in “Clueless.” Also, not married to Judd Apatow.
THIS is Leslie Mann. AKA “that blonde chick Judd Apatow is married to, who is in a lot of his movies.” Because my kids aren’t allowed to watch most of Judd Apatow’s movies, she will always and forever be Ursula Stanhope from “George of the Jungle.”
Yesterday when my husband called me at 2:30 in the afternoon, I hadn’t been having my favorite day. The weather was gloomy, my mood was gloomy, and I had used up all my energy on not dipping oreos in my coffee for breakfast.
Him: What’s up?
Me: Nothing
Him: Are you in the bath?
Me: How did you know?
Him: I can hear it in your voice.
He then suggested that we go see a matinee of “22 Jump Street.” I weighed my thoughts about having to get dressed to go out to see a sequel to a movie I thought was just okay against watching Channing Tatum for two hours.
Channing won.
We left Parker and Nathan hovered over some computer game, with Sydney under a blanket by the fire. (The world is a very cold place when you have no body fat. Or so I’m guessing) Zoe was off at a birthday party.
We bickered a bit over the route to take to the theater.
Him: Wouldn’t it just be easier to turn left here and get on the freeway?
Me: Well, you’re welcome to do that, discounting the multiple number of times I have driven this road during rush hour to take Zoe to soccer, and the fact that my GPS says the back way is faster. It’s completely up to you.
He took the back way.
When we got to the mall and drove around to the back where the theater is, a ferris wheel came into view. It turned out that a carnival had been set up in the parking lot. It was one of those rickety deals that looks like the rides haven’t been inspected in… ever.
As we pulled into a parking spot I looked over at the carnival.
Me: They have elephant ears.
Him: It’s a carnival.
Me: I know. But it’s not every day that you’re at the mall and there are elephant ears RIGHT THERE. Within reach.
Him: Do you want an elephant ear?
Me: No, no. I mean, they aren’t just gonna let me walk into the theater with an elephant ear, right?
We got up to the entrance of the theater and as we walked in, we noticed that the place was nearly deserted.
Him: First ones here!
Me: This is crazy. There are three movies opening today. Where is everyone?
Him: Well, we have 25 minutes until the movie starts. I don’t think we need to worry about getting a seat. Are you SURE you don’t want an elephant ear?
Me: Uh. I don’t know, I mean… it’s so messy… and where are we going to sit to eat it? We can’t come in here with it.
Him: I’ll bet by the time we walk back across the parking lot it will be gone.
Me: Okay. Why not.
We approached the outskirts of the carnival, which, by the sparse crowd, I guessed had just opened. We walked up to the elephant ear booth.
Him: Been pretty slow so far?
Carny Girl: Yep.
Him: One elephant ear please
Carny Girl: What kind?
Him: There are kinds? I want cinnamon and sugar and butter on it.
Carny girl: They all have that. But you can add strawberry jam, whipped cream, chocolate syrup…
Me: Plain
Him: Plain?
Me: Yes. Plain. I like my elephant ears in their purest form.
So we paid and then went around the other side of the booth to wait.
Him: You know, looking around, with this crowd, and that music it almost feels like the beginning of…
Me: A horror movie?
Him: Exactly. Some sort of zombie apocalypse.
I’m not trying to be mean, but there’s just a certain type of crowd that seems to gravitate towards these kinds of events. They’re a little rough around the edges.
And the employees. Do they have to wait to apply for a job with the carnival after their release, or do they have some sort of prison-to-carnival transfer program?
We looked over at the booth selling toys. We both said a prayer of gratitude that Parker wasn’t there to beg for a blow-up Scooby doo doll or a plastic bow and arrow. (mark-up 5000%, life span- 8 hours tops)
Several minutes went by before our overcooked elephant ear made its appearance at the window.
Jeff looked down at the deeply browned dough.
Him: I think they left it in too long.
Me: Yeah. Not good. Where are we going to eat it? Sitting on a bench outside of the LA fitness?
Him: We should just stand in front of the window licking the sugar and butter off of it, staring at them as they work out.
We walked past the gym window and found a place to stand on the sidewalk. A group of teenagers who appeared to be heading towards the carnival were walking through the parking lot when a boy called out to them from in front of the theater. One of the girls turned around, squealed and went running towards the boy. She was taller than Jeff and he looked to be about the size of Zoe. They met in the middle of the lot where he jumped into her arms. There was all sorts of excited talk, which I had a difficult time hearing over the sound of elephant ear crunching. (Elephant ears should NOT crunch.)
A car came up, so the group moved onto the sidewalk right next to us. A couple of them gave us some glances, but I was standing my ground, since we had been there first. After a few minutes, Jeff moved closer to the theater and I followed him. Actually, I followed the elephant ear that he was holding. I felt sick and yet compelled at the same time.
Him: That’s sad.
Me: What’s sad?
Him: Didn’t you hear what that kid said?
Me: No.
Him: He just got out of jail.
I looked over at the group.
Me: That little boy? The one who looks not a day over 12 if that?
Him: Yes. He said he got in a fight right before he got released.
I was stunned. So young, and already on a very bad path.
Jeff handed me what was left of the elephant ear.
Him: I’m going inside. You should just roll the rest of it up and shove it in your mouth.
Me: I’m not gonna do that!
I totally did that.
I stood by the trash can eating the last bit, with sugar falling all over my shirt. My fingers were coated. I looked up to see a man at the ticket counter watching me. Not my classiest moment. Also not my classiest moment? Lifting my ginormous ice tea out of the cup holder by the lid, which came off, spilling it on my husband and causing him to move a seat over from me. He can’t take me anywhere.
As for the movie, I don’t want to give any spoilers away, but I feel that one of the characters definitely stole the show, and it wasn’t the one played by beautiful Channing Tatum, Jonah Hill or Ice Cube. Don’t get me wrong, they were all hilarious throughout, but this movie contained maybe one of my favorite villains ever. The writing was far better than the original.
I loved that the movie didn’t take itself too seriously, that there were many tongue-in-cheek references sprinkled throughout. (For example, a goofy chase scene on the college campus in front of the Benjamin Hill center for film studies) And the ending AFTER the ending was one of the funniest things I’ve seen in a long time, poking fun at all the formulaic sequels.
I needed those laughs, there’s nothing like a hefty dose of belly laughter to elevate a mood. If you can deal with language, you’ll love this movie.
There’s nothing like being able to ride the spider and then head over to TJ Maxx for a bargain. (Don’t let the weather in this pic fool you, The sun had just come out for the first time all day)
This week I received two copies of “The Hurricane Review” in the mail. “The Hurricane Review” is a literary anthology published yearly by Pensacola State College in Pensacola, Florida, and its inclusion of my short story “Flip Flop,” along with two poems makes me officially a published author.
I didn’t get paid any money, and it won’t be appearing on any best seller list, but for me, it’s the first step towards achieving my life long dream of being a writer. A real one, not the one I have been, the one who hasn’t let anyone read her stuff since she was in school and had to turn it in for class credit. Not the one who has about 20 partially written stories. Not the one too scared to try.
I grew up with the knowledge that writing is in my blood. My grandfather, Ritchie Ward, was a published author of biological nonfiction. His first book, “The Living Clocks,” was published the year I was born and has been translated into several other languages. He also wrote “Into the Ocean World,” an in-depth look at marine biology worldwide. One of my proudest moments was the day I found his books in my high school library.
However, over the years, as my family grew, my writing became very hit and miss. The further I got from the accolades of my UW English professors and the deeper into laundry and dishes and diapers, that part of me dimmed.
Last year, a family member sent me a message telling me that I should write a blog, She wasn’t the first person to suggest that I do that, but for some reason, what she said struck a chord. So on May 25, 2013, my 41st birthday, I started a blog.
Last summer I received a call from my friend Holly MacNaughton. Holly and I have been friends since high school, and have tried to remain in contact over the years as each of us have lived all over the country. Holly is currently living in Florida as her husband, a 20th year USMC Major aviator, finishes out the remainder of his military career. Holly has been going to school at Pensacola State, and was chosen to be this year’s editor of both “The Hurricane Review” as well as “The Kilgore Review,” an anthology publication for current students of the college.
She called to say that she had been reading my blog and wondered if I would be interested in submitting a piece to “The Hurricane Review.” At first I thought she meant something similar to my blog, but then I realized she was talking about a short story; a fictional story.
Some might think that writing fiction would be less personal than writing non-fiction, but for me, that simply isn’t the case. There’s a real difference between my blog, which is my random observations of the world around me, and creating something from my own mind. I’m the kind of writer that is so self-conscious that I don’t like people hovering behind me while I compose a Facebook status, much less having them read my fictional stories. For me, fiction is much more revealing of the writer’s heart than nonfiction.
Oh, and, did I mention the deadline was less than 2 weeks away?
I promised her I would attempt to write something, and if it worked out, great. If it didn’t, well, I tried.
I wrote that story in less than four days. A couple days into it I was less concerned about being able to write enough, but started getting worried that I was going to go way over 15 pages before ever figuring out how to end it. (Those of you familiar with my blog know I can tend to be a bit wordy.) It turned out I had a story.
When I was done, and it was time to send my story, I can’t begin to express the stomach churning that went into pressing send on that email. It felt like I had just ripped my chest open for the world to see.
I submitted my story to her, and then I waited. When she called me to let me know that it had been reviewed and accepted I was thrilled, but also terrified. People were going to read this story. That meant I was about to find out whether I really can write or not. I had opened myself up to criticism, something I hadn’t done with my writing in a very long time.
During the editing process, Holly got back in touch and said she had a challenge for me. She wanted me to also submit two poems of different types for possible inclusion. I hadn’t written poetry since college. I wasn’t even sure I could remember how.
But I did. And guess what? Poetry is not easy, and even MORE soul-bearing than writing fiction. I wrote two poems, one freestyle-ish (I won’t attempt to fool you into thinking I knew what I was doing) and one in iambic pentameter- quatrains and a couplet. Truthfully, I chose iambic pentameter because it was the only style I remembered from Mrs. Searle’s (I think that was her name) poetry class. Shakespeare probably just rolled over in his grave that I have the audacity to call what I wrote Iambic pentameter, but it was at least in the same ballpark.
Amazingly, my poems were accepted as well.
So now, I am a published author. I am currently working on a full length book, that I hope to have finished by the end of the year. Don’t ask me what it’s about, if I told you, I’d have to throw it away and start over. It’s just how I am.
Last night my mom and I got the chance to meet mystery author JA Jance. Ms. Jance has just published her 50th book, “Moving Target.”
I have been reading her books since I was in high school, and I respect her work immensely.
She began by sitting down several minutes before the evening was officially supposed to start, and chatted with us. She gave us warnings about what NOT to say to an author at a book signing. For example, don’t ever tell her she looks tired. She’s promoting her 50th book. She sometimes goes to 3 or 4 book signings in a day. She said, “I’ve earned the right to be tired. You haven’t earned the right to tell me I look tired.”
She spoke about negative emails that she receives (she answers emails personally) and how she has chosen to handle them. She often writes a terse “thank you for your feedback” reply to those who are nasty, but that’s never the end of it. If you cross a mystery writer, she says, we have ways of dealing with it.
She told how a University of Arizona creative writing professor wouldn’t let her participate because she was a girl. Funny thing, there’s a character in one of her books who is a Uof A creative writing professor. It doesn’t end well for him.
She also spoke of things that her readers criticize her for, things she includes in her books that some may feel are unnecessary. What the readers often don’t know is the story behind why she includes certain ideas, landmarks, characters. She said she often doesn’t know where the fiction ends and the truth begins, because there are so many of her real life experiences woven throughout.
She told a few stories to explain why certain aspects were included, and they made perfect sense. The reality is, she isn’t really writing for us. She’s writing because she has a story to tell. The two most important concepts I took away from last night were these:
1. Write what you know
2. Write what you want
It was confirmation to me that I’m on the right track. Or the WRITE track. (Good Lord do I love a bad pun. I shall include them because I WANT to.)
The kids begged me to go. I said, “you know it’s ‘Mary Poppins,’ right?”
Yes yes of course we do.
We get there and the place is already full. Parker insists on bringing a giant stuffed polar bear, which is the size of an actual polar bear, and Zoe wants to find a place for her 3 friends who aren’t there yet.
We find a small spot big enough for them, but not me. I end up in a chair on an aisle close enough for them to yell at me, yet too far to communicate without bothering everyone in between.
Parker and his giant bear refuse to make room and when Zoe attempts to move him, her coke spills all over her pizza.
Parker is up and down, up and down. Popcorn, bathroom (twice), kid in front of him sitting on his knees, blocking the screen. I tell him to get Zoe to handle it, which she does.
I look over and he seems to be content double fisting the two bags of popcorn he bought, and then had equally divided his Kit Kat and licorice Into. I try to watch the movie with one eye and him with the other.
Mary Poppins has just finished “spoonful of sugar” (the movie wasn’t even half over) when Parker reappears at my side, telling me he doesn’t want to watch the movie anymore. He wants to go home.
I’m torn between forcing him to sit back down and getting the heck out of there.
Common sense wins out over my sadistic streak. Besides, sitting in that plastic chair with kids coming and going in front of me is not my idea of a good time.
I say “Fine, ask if Zoe can get a ride with Sophie, and grab your shoes, your two bags of popcorn, your sprite and your blanket. Leave the bear, it’s too big to try to drag out through all these people. ”
We finally get out of there, almost making it to the cross walk, when Parker looks behind us and lets out a whimper of fear.
I turn to see a giant polar bear running at us in the dark on tiny bare feet.
Zoe had hauled it out through the crowd and chased us down.
I wait and watch to make sure she doesn’t get kidnapped on her way back into the cafeteria.
On the walk home Parker says, “They let us vote on the movie but I didn’t pick Mary Poppins.”
I said, “Yeah, but you knew that’s what it was.”
“They didn’t tell us.”
“Yes they did. It’s on all the movie night posters. And remember the conversation we had tonight where I asked you three times if you really wanted to watch Mary Poppins?”
“No. Shhhh. The trees have ears. They’re listening. ”
Mary Poppins would have strung him up by his toes and dropped him down a chimney, you know.
Caution: If you hate anything that has to do with Valentine’s Day, you’re gonna want to stop reading this post now, because I had a GREAT Valentine’s Day. I spent it with one of my biggest musical crushes- Brian McKnight. Oh, and my husband was there too, don’t worry.
About six weeks ago, I found out that Brian McKnight was coming to Emerald Queen Casino in Tacoma, WA for a Valentine’s Day concert. While I was excited, I didn’t have high hopes that my husband would go for spending Valentine’s day at an R &B concert in a casino. I underestimated his relief at not having to plan Valentine’s day surpassing his lack of desire to go to this concert.
For those of you unfamiliar with Brian McKnight, his first album came out in 1992. I became obsessed with this CD. I knew every song front to back. My husband and I started dating a few months after it was released, and many of the songs made it onto various “mix tapes” I made for him.
He’s had many hits since his debut album, but it remains my favorite. A song most everyone knows of his is “Back at one.”
This past Christmas a group of us sat around playing a conversation game. One of the questions was “If you could sing a duet with anyone, who would it be?” My answer, without hesitation: Brian McKnight.
You can imagine how thrilling getting to see him in concert would be for me.
I bought the best tickets still available and made hotel reservations. We didn’t think about making dinner reservations until last Monday. I looked up restaurants near the hotel, and called the one with the best reviews. The woman on the other end of the line laughed condescendingly, and then said, “Oh, honey, no, we’ve been booked up for a while.” I asked her if she had any suggestions, since we were at the hotel next door. She said, “Oh, well we have a relationship with the hotel, so here’s what I will do. Come here at around 5, tell the girl at the desk that you are staying at the hotel, and that you have a concert to get to. We will do our best.”
Not completely reassuring, but better than nothing.
Meanwhile, my husband began making comments about going to a thrift shop to look for a velvet jacket to wear to the concert. I thought he was kidding. I hoped he was kidding. He was not kidding. He said, “I can’t go to a 90’s R &B concert at a casino NOT wearing a velvet jacket.”
My friends were not helpful in supporting me. People begged for pictures and gave suggestions for where he might find a velvet jacket.
While he was at the thrift store, this was our conversation:
Thankfully he didn’t bring this pelt home.
He began to get discouraged, so he tried a different approach:
This was the response from my friends:
Bob: I have a black velvet one he can wear and I am coming to the coast
Me:Uh. That’s ok. Really. But thank you.
Bob: I’m bringing it
Matt: I cannot believe that you are holding Jeff back from expressing himself
Me:I’m not holding him back. I’m protecting him from himself.
Matt: Do you think Barry Gordy’s wife tried protecting him from starting Motown?
Me: Barry Gordy could get away with a velvet jacket
Lee: It’s such a shame that you can only “like” something once
Lisa: I’m buying a velvet jacket AND a cowbell for Doug and we are going on a double date.
Shannon: A velvet jacket is nothing compared to red leather pants
Me: God help me if Loverboy comes to town
Shannon: Do I need to overnight the pants? Seriously- they are in my closet from a Cajun.
Me: No. Do not send him red leather pants.
I decided to fight fire with a flame thrower- I made a prayer request at Bible study that he would not be able to locate a velvet jacket. I figured if I got the Big Guy on my side, it would work out okay.
Unfortunately, my group didn’t agree, and refused to pray for that. In fact, I am pretty sure my friend Lisa actually prayed that he WOULD find one. She said, “You’ll thank us some day.” And “I’ll bet there are a number of us who would actually chip in for the jacket. I’m in for $10.”
People began posting links to velvet jackets on my wall, tips for where he might find one on sale, offering to go out looking for him.
Thursday evening he came home from work with a shopping bag.
I said, “Do I want to know?”
He smirked and told me to look inside.
Not only had he found and purchased a velvet jacket, it was paisley. Also, there was a red velvet vest.
“No.”
“Oh yes.”
I posted the update on my Facebook page, and it received 55 likes. I have a bunch of traitors for friends.
Friday (Valentine’s Day) was a bit chaotic. Zoe was upset with me because I had posted the photos of the Valentine’s Day table decorations on Facebook, so she saw them online before she came down in the morning. Parker kept eating chocolate instead of getting breakfast, so by the time I sent him out the door he was in full blown “Parker” mode.
I got showered and dressed in time to get to the school for party number one- in Zoe’s class. After an hour of pink frosting and sprinkles everywhere, I ran home to finish packing up myself and the kids for the night, straightening the house for the party Sydney had announced that morning she was hosting, steamed Jeff’s shirts and ran back out to the school in time for Parker’s party.
After school I threw everything plus Zoe and Parker into the car and drove out to my parents’ house, where the kids would be spending the night. Jeff was already in Seattle, so he headed south to the hotel and got there well before me. I was stuck in pretty bad traffic for over 2 hours. I tried not to stress, and just told myself that if dinner plans didn’t work out, it wasn’t the end of the world.
When I arrived, he had these waiting for me:
View from the hotel room :
He had gone to the restaurant at about 430 and put our name on the list. I didn’t get to the hotel until 530. We got to the restaurant and only had to wait a short time, since he’d already been in and called to let them know my progress. Sydney called me and asked where I had put the recipe for the chicken enchiladas she was attempting to make for her friends, and I realized I had forgotten to write it down. Attempting to ignore the glares from across the table, I texted her step by step instructions before finally putting the phone down.
Dinner was ok, not fantastic. The view was amazing though with the moon shining down over the water. Oh, and the view of some of the characters at the restaurant was pretty amazing too. I saw a guy who looked like Bob “happy trees” Ross and a woman wearing the largest, thickest white fur coat I have ever seen. It made her look like a furry linebacker. It’s always stunning to me when I see people wearing real fur anymore. You just don’t see it.
As we left, I attempted to get a picture of Jeff “driving the restaurant” in his black velvet paisley jacket (They had a giant ship’s wheel out front) but he wouldn’t let me. I must admit, he actually pulled it off. He wore it with a black dress shirt, and compared to some of the outfits I saw at the concert, his jacket looked conservative.
When we got to the venue, parking was crazy, and the valet line was a hundred cars long. We drove around a bit, and then ended up driving up the hill and parking on the street. They had a trolley shuttle picking people up, which was very helpful. As we got off, though, the driver told us that there was no shuttle back up the hill. Good thing I was wearing my 4 inch heels.
We got into the concert arena, got some drinks from the bar, and found our seats. The big screens were advertising upcoming acts, many of which left my husband exclaiming, “They’re still alive?!” The following night was going to be Air Supply, and they showed this photo of them:
. He leaned over and said, “Oh, did they start a magic act?”
They also posted a disclaimer that made me laugh out loud:
Who in 2014 still has a pager? Just because Brian McKnight has been around since the 90’s, doesn’t mean all his fans are still living in the 90’s.
I tried to get Jeff to take pics with me, and this was all I could get out of him:
Not cooperative
Since we were in the middle of the row, and there wasn’t a lot of passing room, I decided to hit the bathroom before it filled up and I had to get physically intimate with too many people as I tried to get back to my seat.
On my way back I saw a man walking towards me with his date and I thought, “Wow, he’s extremely attractive.” And then a half second later my brain clicked in and I realized I recognized him.
It was Seattle Seahawk defensive linebacker (and Super Bowl 48 champion 🙂 KJ Wright.
Was I lying? Seriously pretty.
I came back to my seat and told my husband and said, “You’ve got to admit he’s really good looking.”
My husband responded, “Yes, he’s the second best looking guy in here.” Meaning he was the first, of course.
I had a clear view of the stage until a couple came in right as the concert was beginning. He hair was teased 5 inches above her head and soon this view:
Became this view:
Jeff insisted I trade seats with him, which was very sweet.
I have never before been to a concert where there was no opening act- until this one. Which was totally fine with me.
From the very first note, I was entranced. His voice is simply amazing, and shows no sign of wear from 20 plus years of belting out those notes. There were times I felt my throat get a little hoarse just at the thought of how much strain singing so powerfully must put on his voice. But not a single crack. Not a single missed note.
It was also very entertaining to watch his bass player. Not a small man, he was seriously grooving on that stage. At one point, he started twerking.
I caught this pic as we waited afterwards. You can see this backside would make for quite the twerk.
At one point Brian McKnight stopped and said that he had been contacted by a young man, and gave his name. The lights came up, and after a few awkward moments, a guy started moving towards the stage with a clearly shell-shocked girl in tow. While we couldn’t hear the words, his intentions became quite clear as he got down on one knee. She nodded her head, and they began kissing to the cheers of the crowd. It was a sweet moment.
A little later, he asked for a single female volunteer to come up on stage. The woman in front of us tried volunteering, much to the chagrin of her husband (her wedding ring was flashing in the stage lights). The woman next to us began jumping up and down waving her arms. I was a little surprised that she was volunteering, as she was at the concert with the guy sitting next to her. He seemed just as excited for her to go, though. Brian picked her and she went up on stage. One of the men up there handed her a bouquet of roses and she was led to a stool in the center. Brian asked her if she had a boyfriend. She said, “No.” I looked at the guy she had come with, and he seemed to be happily recording the whole thing with his phone. I wondered if maybe he wasn’t her boyfriend, but her gay BFF. Brian serenaded her and she played it up for all it was worth. She was a total ham on stage, and in the end, was rewarded with a short peck on the lips. After she got back to her seat, the guy she had come with was hugging her and they were laughing and looking at the video. I was convinced they weren’t a couple, until after the concert I watched them file out, and he had his hands wrapped around her waist. Maybe he’s just a really supportive boyfriend. I’m not sure mine would have been so understanding.
The concert had Brian singing with a microphone, then switching to guitar…
And then moving on to keyboard. He began singing one of my favorite all time songs, Never felt this way. I’m not sure if I violated any copy write laws by posting this, but it’s just a snippet to show how amazing he is live.
Here is the song in its entirety as it was on his CD:
He’s just a very gifted musician, and I know that in spite of his expectations, Jeff really enjoyed the concert also.
It was quite poignant to listen to Brian McKnight singing the songs live that I had playing on our very first Valentine’s Day together exactly 20 years ago to the day.
Afterwards, we got in the photo line. The people who were in line in front of us were interesting. One of the women liked to talk. A lot. She was telling anyone who would listen about all of the radio contests she’s won, all the meet and greets she has attended. She’s met Alicia Keys- twice. She met “Luda” last summer. I can’t remember all the other names she dropped- there were so many. She actually said, “My 1099 is pretty high, for all the stuff I’ve won.”
As I waited for my opportunity to meet him, I noticed my button on my shirt kept popping open. Jeff said, “I hear that happens a lot when Brian McKnight is around.”
It happened again right before I got to the front of the line, so I just draped the fabric over so it wouldn’t be visible, but in that photo at the top, my shirt is unbuttoned.
I thought about what I might say to him once I actually got up there, but when I was finally there, all words escaped me. I managed to choke out “Could you sign this to my daughter Zoe?” as I handed him the photo.
I’m pretty sure he thought I was mildly developmentally disabled.
How nice, though, that he would stay afterwards for an hour signing autographs and taking pics with his fans? That’s one of the many reasons I adore him.
It was an amazing Valentine’s Day- one I will never forget.
It was the best of times… it was the worst of times.
Ok, so maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but that was the phrase that kept echoing through my mind yesterday as I stood in downtown Seattle along with my two youngest children and about 700,000 other people in the bitter cold to celebrate our Seahawks winning the Super Bowl.
I’ve had a lot of people ask me the same question- was it worth it?
It’s one of those questions that’s not a simple yes or no. But if I had to pick one, I’d say yes. It’s a lot easier to say that while I am currently indoors with the heat blasting, but I will tell you, I know the exact moment when I realized that yes, it was all worth it. And I was still a human popsicle at the time.
Let me back up a bit, first.
OH MY GOSH THE SEAHAWKS WON THE SUPER BOWL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It’s still a little surreal. Every once in a while I have to repeat that and pinch myself to believe it.
As I said in my post http://kbjackson.com/what-danny-bonaduce-guinness-and-colin-kaepernicks-eyebrow-all-have-in-common/ I have been a football fan pretty much my entire life. I became a Seahawks fan shortly after moving to Washington State in the late 70’s. I attended games in the Kingdome with my family. I cheered on Jim Zorn and Steve Largent, Dave Krieg and Kenny Easley. I watched my Hawks get into the playoffs many times in the early 80’s and lose to Oakland or Denver. It seemed we just were never quite good enough to take it all the way. Mostly, we were perpetual losers.
And then came 1996. The owner at the time moved my beloved team to Los Angeles. I’d like to go on record as saying that while I believe in general a business owner has every right to move his business elsewhere, it’s a nasty, awful thing to take a sports team away from its fans. We’ve had it done not once, but twice.
Thankfully, that nasty old earthquake death trap Kingdome had an iron-clad lease that prevented the move from happening. Local Microsoft billionaire and homegrown boy Paul Allen bought the team, invested in the team, and is a huge reason why the Lombardi trophy is in Seattle.
We had a close one in 2005. We here in Seattle don’t like to talk about that Super Bowl.
So when the parade to celebrate this city and this team was announced, I knew I had to be there.
With a parade start time of 11am, I began to calculate the time we would have to leave home to get there. Turned out that was at nofreakingwaycouldIleavethatearly o’clock.
Plan B: rent a hotel room in Seattle.
I went online and rooms were booking fast. At one point, Expedia said “1143 people are also currently looking at this hotel.” Many of the reasonable, close hotels were booked. I switched to Priceline. They had an express deal they were calling “Downtown Seattle-Pike Place” 3 star for $99. I jumped on it.
Funny thing, though, apparently Priceline considers Capitol Hill Downtown/Pike Place. No matter that it’s nearly a mile and a half straight downhill to get to the market, and nearly a mile and a half straight uphill on one of the steepest grades in the city of Seattle to get back.
I got onto Priceline chat and the person I chatted with told me in no uncertain terms I was locked in. I said, “Have you heard of Sir Mix-a-lot? When he sings about his posse being on Broadway… THIS is the area he’s talking about. Capitol Hill is NOT downtown/Pike Place.”
She was not swayed.
Turned out the hotel itself is nice, and that area of Capitol Hill is a lot safer than I had remembered from my college days. It’s right across from Seattle University and Swedish hospital. Other than an empty bottle of vodka sitting on a wall that Zoe “accidentally knocked over,” it was pretty clean.
On our way down into Seattle, I looked up at the sky and as I looked at the clouds, I thought I saw an image. I snapped a quick picture.
When I posted and tweeted it, I didn’t suggest what I thought it looked like. I only said I saw something interesting. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who saw it, because soon the picture went viral.
I’m not sure if it’s visible, but as of this morning, the posting on the local news station’s website has over 3500 likes on the photo and over 2200 shares.
If you can’t see it, look at this, and then look at the cloud pic again.
Like someone said, maybe you have to be a Hawks fan to see it. It doesn’t bother me if people think it’s a stretch. I thought some comments were unnecessarily rude. And it did make me realize that anonymity is a beautiful thing. With my name on the photo and people making not always positive comments, I felt a little bit like I had a target on my back. Turns out my skin is pretty thin. I may have to work on that.
Anyways, we checked into the hotel and then made our way down to the restaurant for dinner. Other than Zoe accidentally ending up in the men’s room, it was pretty uneventful. We went to the pool for a bit, met other fans who were there for the parade, and then headed back up to go to bed. Zoe passed out first, and Parker ended up discovering the movie “Spaceballs.” All day yesterday he kept saying, “Yogurt! I hate Yogurt! Even with strawberries!”
The alarm went off at 7am with “Can’t Hold Us” by Macklemore playing. Seemed an appropriate start to the day.
wearing their championship shirts before covering them up in 4 layers
The kids were moving in slow motion, and by the time we got downstairs it was 8 o’clock. I saw a group of people sitting in the lobby in Seahawks gear. I said, “Is this the waiting area for the shuttle?”
They said, “Oh no. We aren’t waiting for the shuttle. It’s full until 9. We’re gonna walk.”
They gave us directions on how to get downtown.
I looked at my kids and said, “Well, it’s looks like we’re walking.”
We started heading down Broadway towards James. (I later found out we could have taken Madison and saved us a lot of time and energy) There was a homeless man walking across the street in front of us. Coming from the opposite direction was a tall black kid, maybe about 19 years old, carrying a backpack. As he passed the man, he held out some money, no words other than a “thank you” were said. I looked at Zoe and said, “That was beautiful.” She smiled and nodded her head.
Parker dawdled most of the way downtown.
He’s like my own Marshawn Lynch, only instead of Beats by Dre, he has on gingerbread man earmuffs
My thought was that once we got to 4th Ave and scoped out the crowd, we would find a place to get coffee and something to eat. I was not prepared for lines at the three coffee places in the center we went into to each have lines that rival Disneyland. Starbucks had like 75 people in line. The other two, maybe 30 each. I picked a bakery and got in line. I overheard one of the girls who was working there say “This morning we’ve already gone through as much coffee as we normally do in a week.” It was 9am.
I waited for about 30 minutes before getting my turn to order. They were already out of milk chocolate, so the only cocoas they were selling were white chocolate. I ordered a drip coffee for myself, plus two bacon and egg sandwiches and some oatmeal. Another 30 minutes later, and the food was ready. I found out at that point that the coffee was self serve and I could have gotten it right away. About 10 minutes later, the white hot chocolates came up. Both of my kids took one sip and grimaced.
We would never survive an apocalypse.
We found a spot that I considered primo- it was a fenced off area in front of a closed restaurant. It looked like the kind of area where they set tables out on warm summer evenings. I liked it because there was a permanent separation from the passing crowd, and if I needed to put Parker on my shoulders, I wouldn’t be blocking anyone.
Zoe wasn’t having it.
We walked closer to the start of the parade route, only to find the crowd thickening. I convinced her to turn back and go further south. Eventually we found a spot that was right behind two rows of chairs. People had been camping out all night for curbside seats. I put a blanket down on the ground, and stood behind the kids. They bundled up close and tried to keep warm in the 26 degree temps with a 19 degree wind chill. We stood there for a bit before three women and a boy showed up. They started moving in between me and the kids to get to a sport further up. I said, “You’re not really going to go in front of us are you?” Apparently they were surprised that I would actually comment. One of the girls stood with the boy in front of me, and another said, we just want to make sure he can see.”
I was trying not to be a bitch, but I wasn’t happy.
One of the women assured me they would make a spot for Zoe and Parker when the time came.
Then the rest of their group showed up. They began pushing in front of me also.
I said, “How many of your group are planning on getting in front of me?”
They looked stunned that I said anything. The guy said, “We just want to make sure he sees, I don’t really care.”
I said, “I get that. But we were here first and now all of you are trying to get in front, and it’s a little frustrating.”
Meanwhile, one of the girls, maybe 13 or 14, who was seated in the front row chairs, had taken it upon herself to start taking care of Zoe and Parker. I looked down and said, “Whose blanket is that?”
Zoe said, “It’s hers. She put it over us.” Throughout the morning, I saw the girl continually adjusting the blanket to make sure the kids were covered and warm. Faith in humanity restored.
Soon, a group of teenage boys were crawling past us, going onto the street. The people who had been there all night were getting upset because the police were not making everyone stay on the sidewalk, and crowds were filling in in front of their chairs. I watched several women kicking newcomers out of the area. Some moved on, some didn’t care what they said. They had shown up at the last minute and were going to get a good spot, regardless. It was starting to make me anxious.
I looked across the way at the courthouse building where I could see people looking out floor to ceiling windows. I contemplated getting myself arrested just to be able to watch the parade from indoors.
It was noon and the parade, which was supposed to start at 11, had still not arrived. My kids were miserable and cold. I made a decision.
“We’re going north. We’re going to try to find a spot as close to the start of the parade, so we can see it, be done, and go get warm somewhere.”
Parker stayed bundled in the blanket, and we started our journey. The crowds were like nothing I had ever seen before.
Seattle City Hall
At 12:12, by the Governor’s decree, a moment of loudness commenced.
We were like salmon swimming upstream in a marijuana-infused stream. There were, as I heard someone say, a lot of people “smoking the state flower.”
At a certain point, though, everything came to a halt. There was no movement. I was getting pushed from behind, but there was a wall of people in front of me. Zoe was bumping into Parker, who in turn began punching her and elbowing her. I tried explaining that she wasn’t pushing him on purpose, but he was getting pretty angry. There was a lot of yelling, a lot of swearing, a lot of pushing. Eventually someone went hulk and made a path. We got pushed through and up onto a side street. There were hundreds of people on that street, trying to look onto 4th to see the parade.
I said, “I’m done fighting.”
Parker said, “I wanna go home.”
Zoe said, “I can’t see! Did we really do all this not to see the parade?”
I looked at her and I said, “Take your brother. Wiggle yourselves into a place where you can see.”
They made their way through the crowd to the intersection. I said a prayer that I would find them again.
The first part of the parade was the team buses with no one inside them. After they passed by, I saw Zoe and Parker running towards me through the crowd.
“We got up front! We saw the parade!”
I said, “That wasn’t the parade. That was just the beginning. Get back in there!”
They ran back through the crowd.
Just as Marshawn Lynch made his way to our intersection, throwing skittles at the crowd, my phone died. I couldn’t believe it. I still had 30% battery life, and my phone shut down and said it needed to be connected to a battery.
Later I found out that this happened to several people I know. I have heard many explanations, such as overloading of the towers, cold temperatures affecting battery life, the 911 system not working properly so callers were being asked to limit calls.
None of these explanations satisfy me. It was 26 degrees, and if phone batteries shut down when it’s 26 degrees, does that mean no one in the Midwest or east coast has been able to use their phones all winter?
I wasn’t making phones calls, or on Facebook. I wasn’t even sending texts. All I was doing was taking pictures. I wasn’t zapping cell strength or tower strength.
And shutting down the phones wouldn’t help the 911 problem, it would create a new one- people unable to call 911 because their phones weren’t working.
I plan on getting to the bottom of this, you have my word on it.
So I didn’t get pictures of the actual parade. I got pre-parade pictures.
The good news is that a lot of my friends got great shots, including my friend Gretta Kosanovich who got these shots of the actual parade:
But the best part was the look on Zoe and Parker’s faces when they came back in excitement to tell me about seeing Marshawn Lynch throwing skittles at them, Richard Sherman, “the coach” and everyone.
That’s what made it ALL worth it.
We walked with the crowds until we got to the street that we had come down in the morning. It loomed steeply before us, but we just started hiking.
Halfway up the street, we came across a rat. A squashed rat.
Parker insisted I take a picture, and I told him my phone had died. I pulled it out, attempted to turn it on, and well, whatta ya know? It turned on with 27% battery life left. Totally suspicious.
I think in Parker’s eyes, this rivals seeing Marshawn Lynch. boys.
It took us an hour to get out of Seattle yesterday afternoon. We were starving so we stopped off at a Red Robin- 45 minute wait.
I piled them back into the car, but by then we were all craving Red Robin. Next mall closer to our house? 45- an hour wait. At 330 on a Wednesday!
I hear that in Seattle alone, 13000 students and over 500 teachers were absent yesterday. No count yet on the outlying districts, or the amount of people who skipped work. A woman next to me said to her boyfriend, “My boss said not to come in if I don’t feel good. And I don’t feel good- I feel great!” Over 700,000 people were at the parade yesterday, and only 650,000 live in the city. No one was arrested and people remained mostly in good spirits.
We were surrounded by people of all ethnic, racial, religious and political backgrounds, cheering together, united. This place is special, and I’m glad we were a part of it.
It was a long day. It was cold. It was frustrating at times. I’m not saying I wouldn’t do it again if I had it to do over, but I’m glad I don’t have to do it over again.
Fans attempted to blockade the moving trucks with the Seahawks’ gear and equipment.
