If you don't tear up while watching the YouTube clip of Susan Boyle, then I'm pretty convinced you are a cold fish with no heart and are probably cruel to animals.
The YouTube clips are plentiful.
Monday, April 20, 2009
America's Birthday (not the 4th of July one)
Considering I'm from Aumsville, Oregon, it's surprising how many brushes with fame I've had.
My neighbors in Australia were rag-mag-worthy TV personalities. I helped them move in and they invited me to a party as thanks, where people couldn't figure out who I was and how I knew them. It went something like this:
How do you know them?
I helped them move in today.
No, seriously.
Seriously. I'm their neighbor.
Do you know who they are?
Nope.
They're famous.
So people keep telling me.
We got on fine for that reason. They knew I wasn't after anything, and I made good friends who regularly forced champagne at me at 8am. There was a slight hiccup when I mocked his singing voice and asked when his CD was coming out. And it already had. Thought the room full of people were going to simultaneously pass out.
The prince of Spain was one seat behind me on a chairlift in Baqueira-Beret, Spain. I was riding with his body guards and was *this close* to a party invite. Catherine Tate (if you don't know her, YouTube her -- I've done this for you -- and love her) was filming on our street in Cardiff and I was so surprised to see her -- and all of five feet away -- all I could uber-cool tell her was, "Catherine Tate! I love you!" She was very polite and said hello back, though no proclamations of enduring affection. Stevie Wonder's group tried to kick me off business class once, but I stayed on and sat next to his brother. Colin Farrel, Kristin Davis and Cynthia Nixon all walked by us at JFK.
Never in a million, however, did I ever expect to be on the guest list for America Ferrera's 25th birthday party. Libby, my bff from day-one of college, moved to NY to work in film and TV and by-golly she's only gone and done it. She's worked on the Ugly Betty set off and on during the last few months and scored the invite, plus one!
Needless to say, whatever I was supposed to wear to the party was neither in my closet nor in my budget, but I waded through the mom-fabric and found something that didn't scream old-fart, mother of 18 month old, needing to put down the cake. I spent a stupid amount of time getting ready and think it turned out OK.
It turns out, I needn't have worried. Though Pat Fields (stylist from Sex and the City) was there along with a range of high-end label people, there were also those wearing things I'm pretty sure they'd had on all day. And, shocker, no one was really looking at me.
Except, oddly, America and one of her friends. We were dancing and I looked over to find both of them staring at me. It could have been the foot height difference between us. It could indeed have been what I was wearing. Thinking back, it may have even been the large screen showing photos behind me...but it was my chance to wish her a happy birthday with a European hello kiss on the cheek. Eh, why not, right? I mean, I did contemplate whether one should bring a card to this kind of thing, and you can't really go and ignore the guest of honor especially if she's doing what looks like staring at you and talking about you.
Now, I am and am not impressed with fame. It's exciting to see someone, but I've never asked for a photo or autograph. The "they're just people" mentality in equal parts makes me leave them alone, and also not shy away if the opportunity presents itself.
However, as you can probably tell from the content of this post, I do love me some name dropping. You could hardly swing a cat without hitting someone you knew -- or thought you should know. Pretty much the entire cast of Ugly Betty was there, as well as America's co-stars in The Traveling Pants (though they had to be pointed out to me). We chatted half the night with Pat's Greek house guests and exchanged email addresses. Vanessa Williams was cutting a rug with us (and man, her scissors were fierce!). My only, very deep regret is that I did not muster the courage to say hi to the Karate Kid himself, Ralph Macchio. Though we did make eye contact on several occasions and the opportunity very nearly presented itself, it slipped through my fingers. I mean, come on. Who doesn't want to know where he's been since My Cousin Vinny?
At midnight, the club opened the doors to the general riff-raff and we left full of memories and bragging rights. I escorted Libby to her train stop, then I was escorted to mine by what I can only guess was an Ecuadorian gigolo or green-card seeker trying to convince me that at some point in my life -- sometime soon apparently -- the unbridled desire and curiosity to be with a short man would compel me to seek out someone of his description and break my happily married bonds.
Which pretty much brought me back to my normal reality of brushes with sick-o perverts that usually involve indecent exposure.
http://www.startracksphoto.com/site/Gallery/Gallery.aspx?ev=35263C1F31&ps=0&ix=0&ct=&tm=3
My neighbors in Australia were rag-mag-worthy TV personalities. I helped them move in and they invited me to a party as thanks, where people couldn't figure out who I was and how I knew them. It went something like this:
How do you know them?
I helped them move in today.
No, seriously.
Seriously. I'm their neighbor.
Do you know who they are?
Nope.
They're famous.
So people keep telling me.
We got on fine for that reason. They knew I wasn't after anything, and I made good friends who regularly forced champagne at me at 8am. There was a slight hiccup when I mocked his singing voice and asked when his CD was coming out. And it already had. Thought the room full of people were going to simultaneously pass out.
The prince of Spain was one seat behind me on a chairlift in Baqueira-Beret, Spain. I was riding with his body guards and was *this close* to a party invite. Catherine Tate (if you don't know her, YouTube her -- I've done this for you -- and love her) was filming on our street in Cardiff and I was so surprised to see her -- and all of five feet away -- all I could uber-cool tell her was, "Catherine Tate! I love you!" She was very polite and said hello back, though no proclamations of enduring affection. Stevie Wonder's group tried to kick me off business class once, but I stayed on and sat next to his brother. Colin Farrel, Kristin Davis and Cynthia Nixon all walked by us at JFK.
Never in a million, however, did I ever expect to be on the guest list for America Ferrera's 25th birthday party. Libby, my bff from day-one of college, moved to NY to work in film and TV and by-golly she's only gone and done it. She's worked on the Ugly Betty set off and on during the last few months and scored the invite, plus one!
Needless to say, whatever I was supposed to wear to the party was neither in my closet nor in my budget, but I waded through the mom-fabric and found something that didn't scream old-fart, mother of 18 month old, needing to put down the cake. I spent a stupid amount of time getting ready and think it turned out OK.
It turns out, I needn't have worried. Though Pat Fields (stylist from Sex and the City) was there along with a range of high-end label people, there were also those wearing things I'm pretty sure they'd had on all day. And, shocker, no one was really looking at me.
Except, oddly, America and one of her friends. We were dancing and I looked over to find both of them staring at me. It could have been the foot height difference between us. It could indeed have been what I was wearing. Thinking back, it may have even been the large screen showing photos behind me...but it was my chance to wish her a happy birthday with a European hello kiss on the cheek. Eh, why not, right? I mean, I did contemplate whether one should bring a card to this kind of thing, and you can't really go and ignore the guest of honor especially if she's doing what looks like staring at you and talking about you.
Now, I am and am not impressed with fame. It's exciting to see someone, but I've never asked for a photo or autograph. The "they're just people" mentality in equal parts makes me leave them alone, and also not shy away if the opportunity presents itself.
However, as you can probably tell from the content of this post, I do love me some name dropping. You could hardly swing a cat without hitting someone you knew -- or thought you should know. Pretty much the entire cast of Ugly Betty was there, as well as America's co-stars in The Traveling Pants (though they had to be pointed out to me). We chatted half the night with Pat's Greek house guests and exchanged email addresses. Vanessa Williams was cutting a rug with us (and man, her scissors were fierce!). My only, very deep regret is that I did not muster the courage to say hi to the Karate Kid himself, Ralph Macchio. Though we did make eye contact on several occasions and the opportunity very nearly presented itself, it slipped through my fingers. I mean, come on. Who doesn't want to know where he's been since My Cousin Vinny?
At midnight, the club opened the doors to the general riff-raff and we left full of memories and bragging rights. I escorted Libby to her train stop, then I was escorted to mine by what I can only guess was an Ecuadorian gigolo or green-card seeker trying to convince me that at some point in my life -- sometime soon apparently -- the unbridled desire and curiosity to be with a short man would compel me to seek out someone of his description and break my happily married bonds.
Which pretty much brought me back to my normal reality of brushes with sick-o perverts that usually involve indecent exposure.
http://www.startracksphoto.com/site/Gallery/Gallery.aspx?ev=35263C1F31&ps=0&ix=0&ct=&tm=3
Adventures in Potty Training: Volume 2
Obviously, Cam is a baby genius. From when I last wrote, we have gone from him pooping up the wall to saying (sometimes yelling), "poopie!" and him actually producing said item, as well as pee, in the toilet. Mitch discovered that he hates the potty we bought -- another product in a long line of bad baby investments -- and will only sit still on the actual toilet. He'd totally fall in if we didn't hold onto him, but he loves looking between his legs to see how well he's progressing.
We're certainly not 100% on this. A lot of the time he says poopie whilst doing poopie and we get to the toilet too late. Though it is funny to watch his dilemma about trying to say what he's doing while pushing and going red.
He's been remarkably good about doing both functions while out and about, which opens a whole new chapter in my life called "grotty public toilets." And what's really awesome about that, is how quickly Mitch developed his own response to potty training. Because when Cam says poopie at a restaurant or wherever, Mitch's response is, "Mommy, poopie. Good luck with that one." Sometimes he even follows that with, "Better go quick."
Were Mitch reading this or had any input on what I write whatsoever, he would say, "Hang on. I'm really good about changing his diapers and putting him on the toilet at home." As if this deserves a medal. But the most galling part of this, is that upon our return from Grottsville Toiletland, Mitch beams with pride and brags to whomever we're with how well Cam is doing and how we're so proud of him. Meanwhile, I'm the one who has rushed to the bathroom, wiped down all the surfaces I can manage while holding wipes and diapers in one hand, Cam in the other. Tried to keep his hands out of the water, off the seat, out of the feminine hygiene bin or away from the toilet brush. Tried to wrap the toilet seat in paper, but of course public toilets have that big gap in the front where all the gross stuff collects and that's inevitably where Cam slips into. Balanced everything -- including Cam -- on one knee so I can wipe him, and then manage to diaper him while he's standing. And then try to explain that he can't flush his poopie (a reward at home) because the germ-infested handle will only be touched by my foot. All the while missing a relaxing dinner with friends and returning to cold meals.
And Mitch takes credit for Cam's genius.
Back on the home front, today I'd just put him in his highchair for breakfast when he says poopie. So I took him out, put him on the toilet and nothing. I figure, I'll leave him without a diaper for breakfast, if he wees, he wees. And he wees. In a big puddle on the floor. He told me he was doing it, but there was no time. Put him on the toilet, nothing. Minutes later he does a big covert poo in his diaper, and after I wipe him down but before I get him in the shower, he runs to the oven -- his fave lookout point and play area as previously discussed -- opens the door and starts "cooking" on the stove. And as I'm watching him stir with a spoon in a frying pan, I see an arch of pee stream down the cracks of the oven and into the pan storage below.
In cleaning up, I've turned on the oven to burn off the pee, and as I type the whole house is filled with the aroma of hot urine.
As I said, we're not 100%. And Mitch really is good about changing his diapers and taking him to the toilet at home. And he also hopes that no one will have any qualms about coming over for dinner.
We're certainly not 100% on this. A lot of the time he says poopie whilst doing poopie and we get to the toilet too late. Though it is funny to watch his dilemma about trying to say what he's doing while pushing and going red.
He's been remarkably good about doing both functions while out and about, which opens a whole new chapter in my life called "grotty public toilets." And what's really awesome about that, is how quickly Mitch developed his own response to potty training. Because when Cam says poopie at a restaurant or wherever, Mitch's response is, "Mommy, poopie. Good luck with that one." Sometimes he even follows that with, "Better go quick."
Were Mitch reading this or had any input on what I write whatsoever, he would say, "Hang on. I'm really good about changing his diapers and putting him on the toilet at home." As if this deserves a medal. But the most galling part of this, is that upon our return from Grottsville Toiletland, Mitch beams with pride and brags to whomever we're with how well Cam is doing and how we're so proud of him. Meanwhile, I'm the one who has rushed to the bathroom, wiped down all the surfaces I can manage while holding wipes and diapers in one hand, Cam in the other. Tried to keep his hands out of the water, off the seat, out of the feminine hygiene bin or away from the toilet brush. Tried to wrap the toilet seat in paper, but of course public toilets have that big gap in the front where all the gross stuff collects and that's inevitably where Cam slips into. Balanced everything -- including Cam -- on one knee so I can wipe him, and then manage to diaper him while he's standing. And then try to explain that he can't flush his poopie (a reward at home) because the germ-infested handle will only be touched by my foot. All the while missing a relaxing dinner with friends and returning to cold meals.
And Mitch takes credit for Cam's genius.
Back on the home front, today I'd just put him in his highchair for breakfast when he says poopie. So I took him out, put him on the toilet and nothing. I figure, I'll leave him without a diaper for breakfast, if he wees, he wees. And he wees. In a big puddle on the floor. He told me he was doing it, but there was no time. Put him on the toilet, nothing. Minutes later he does a big covert poo in his diaper, and after I wipe him down but before I get him in the shower, he runs to the oven -- his fave lookout point and play area as previously discussed -- opens the door and starts "cooking" on the stove. And as I'm watching him stir with a spoon in a frying pan, I see an arch of pee stream down the cracks of the oven and into the pan storage below.
In cleaning up, I've turned on the oven to burn off the pee, and as I type the whole house is filled with the aroma of hot urine.
As I said, we're not 100%. And Mitch really is good about changing his diapers and taking him to the toilet at home. And he also hopes that no one will have any qualms about coming over for dinner.
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