What I Am In My Head

Among other things, like calm, cool, and collected, in my head, I am a master chef. The truth is, I really like cooking - I just don't have time to do it. However, because my vegetarian sister has requested more vegetable matter at the family Christmas table, I have delved into my vat of unused collectibles - my cookbooks.

I have a lot of them. The one I use a lot is called "The Zondervan Family Cookbook." My mom gave it to me years ago. I even adopted her practice of using a cookbook as a notebook. When I like a recipe, I label it "Good," or give it a big orange star. If the recipe yields horrifying results, I just cross it out - or write "ew" in the margins. It's handy, because I don't cook enough to remember...

Anyway, I'm sharing the recipe I'm making for my vegged-out sis:

Squash & Apple Bake

2 lbs butternut or buttercup squash (I've never seen a buttercup squash, but have no doubt Wegmans will know what I need)
1/2 c. Brown sugar
1/4 c. butter or margerine, melted
1T. Flour
1t. salt
1/2 t. mace or cinnamon (I only know one kind of mace - so I guess it's cinnamon!)
2 baking apples, peeled, cored, and cut into 1/2" slices

Cut each squash in half. Remove seeds, fibers, and peel. Cut into 1/2" slices. Arrange squash in ungreased 11.5" x 7.5" baking dish. Arrange apple slices on top of squash. Mix brown sugar, melted butter, salt and cinnamon (I'm not using mace) and sprinkle over apples and squash. Cover with foil and bake at 350 degrees for 50-60 minutes or until squash is tender.

I just need y'all to know that there are no notes on this recipe, so I'm not guaranteeing it's success. I just know that my sister will eat it, my nephew Ian won't - but TJ might because it's got sugar in it.

I thought I'd give you some recipes from other wacky cookbooks in my nearly unused collection:

Years ago, I did video for a prosthodontist. He did dental implants. His wife, the enterprising woman she was, created a cookbook for various stages of implant recovery. She even signed my cookbook... Where I'm tempted to share her many day after surgery recipes, like the Tuna Shake (no I've never made one), Here's my favorite recipe from her:

Banana Hotcakes

1.25 c. unbleached flour
2T sugar
2t. baking powder
1/4 t. salt
1/8 t. nutmeg
3/4 c skim milk
1 c. (roughly 3 medium) mashed bananas
2 T. oil
2t. Lemon juice
1t vanilla
2 egg whites

spray skillet or griddle with nonstick cooking spray and heat to 375 degrees. Lightly spoon flour into measuring cup. Level off. In large bowl, combine flour, sugar baking powder, salt and nutmeg. mix well.

Add remaining ingredients - stir just until dry ingredients are moistened.

For each pancake, pour 1/4 c. batter onto skillet. Trun when edges look cooked and bubbles begin to break on surface.

NOTE: I admit I use Bisquick for the pancake batter and just add the spices. I will tell you these pancakes are great with a little applesauce on the side.

Here's a recipe from my totally unused, yet read "Taste of the Outer Banks" cookbook:

Tomato Grunt (Yes, you get this recipe because I like the name)

3 large fresh summer tomatoes peeled, cored, and cut into chunks. You can also sub a 28 oz can of tomatoes cut up.
4 cold biscuits or stale slices of bread torn into pieces
1c brown sugar
1 stick butter, cut into chunks

Mix all ingredients together and pour into a greased casserole. Bake in a moderate oven until bubbly and light brown on top, about 45 minutes.

NOTE: This seems like it's not only a cool name for tomatoes, but a colorful holiday dish. I might sub this instead of the squash apple thing.

I'll also recommend the coolest cookbook I've never used: "Movie Menus" - a book that takes a film genre and creates a menu for a party. I swear I'm going to do it one day. Here's a sample. If you want a recipe, let me know.

If you're showing, for example, a war movie (cause Dave loves war movies. His daughter once noted, "Dad, your favorite movie would be 'Banjos of WWII.")

You might make these:

Coming Attractions: Victory Garden Salad
WWI Potato Soup

Feature Presentation: Cheese rarebit
Creamy Shredded beef with Almonds
Tuna a la King
Peanut and Cheese Macaroni
Woolworth Special

Closing Credits: Maple Glazed Angel Food Cake
Peppermint Devil's food Squares
Jam Triangles

So get cooking! If you make any of these, let me know!

Things I didn't Really Say, But Wanted To

Does anyone else get annoyed by things that should, on paper, thrill their souls? I do. One of them is that Dave really seems to like Will Ferrell movies - but I'll save that silver screen tidbit for another day (really, dear. Like whomever you want...)

Ok. In 1999, some friends and I produced a CD of Christmas songs as a fundraiser. It wasn't a big deal. I was convinced that if you didn't know us, you wouldn't want to listen to the CD - but people seemed happy to have a copy of it. It was fine, really.

Ok. It wasn't that fine. The production of the CD was difficult. The four of us who paid for the production decided that each writer could produce their own songs sans influence from the others. As fate would happen, um... a lot of people - one in particular - produced, influenced, and cajolled production onto other people. A writer who didn't pay, but whose work appeared on the CD complained the whole time about everything, noting how unprofessional we were (she was right. None of us were music professionals, and with the exception of one, still aren't)

The duplication house we chose didn't get their work done in the time they said it would be done. I had to call a lawyer friend of mine to get the product delivered in time to sell for Christmas. I hate being heavy-handed - and hate those who make me heavy handed even more!

So no one really knew what went on behind the music - but it was tough. I was gratified that people liked the CD. The problem was, in order to make them really valuable to us financially, we had to press 1,000 of them. Do you know how difficult it is to sell one thousand CD's made by non-professional musicians? If you don't know - it's hard. Each year, I was depressed when I saw stacks of them for sale... Each year the price dropped.

Each year, despite my best efforts to like the CD that I felt was fine - but not great - someone said something to remind me of all the crap associated with its production...

Each year, I had to hear from "Sally," one of the writers, about how much she hated the production of this CD - and how badly it sounded - and how blabbidy blah blah blah (One year, someone asked if they could sing a song I wrote. I said, "sure." - After the performance, Sally said, "That song has never sounded so good..." etc...

It's not that I'm not grateful to have had the opportunity - Really. It's just that now, after the CD was published six years ago, It'll never really go away... I guess it's kind of a "duh" moment I had. Whatever you record will never go away. It's like what Murphy once described as a "Pearl Harbor File."

Anyway, last night, as I was sitting in the parking lot in front of my neice's school (I was waiting for my parents. We were going to see her Christmas Dinner Theater), the phone rang. It was Bob, one of the pastors at my church.

"Kelly, who wrote 'Joseph's Blues?'

"Russ and I. Why?"

"Well, I'm using it in Sunday's sermon, and I wanted to give credit where credit is due."

"Bob, this CD will never, ever go away, will it?"

"Nope. It's a Pearl Harbor File..."

Ok, Bob didn't really say that last line. What he said was "Nope. I guess not."

Then Bob asked, "Should I tell people the CD is available if they want one?"

"I thought they sold out last year."

"No. I think John (another writer) has piles of them in his basement."

"bastard!"

Ok, I didn't really say that to the pastor of my church... But on the inside, I yelled it at the top of my voluptuous lungs.

What I said was, "Oh. I guess it really is hard to unload one-thousand CD's."

"Seems so." said Bob.

"Ok - do what you have to!"

This morning in church, just as if I'd just produced the album yesterday, people kept approaching me, "Kelly, that was a great song."

"Thank you."

"Are you writing songs still?"

"No, now I'm only writing about diesel engines and serial killers..."

Ok. I didn't really say that, but I wanted to... What I really said was, "No, I've moved on to prose. Not really doing much songwriting these days."

"Why not? You're really good."

"Well, thank you."

I really said Thank you. I really meant it, too, but darn it... That music was really a pain to produce...

I wonder if Bobby Rydell feels like this whenever someone says, "Hey, I really love that 'Volare..." I wonder if the making of the thing - no matter how great that thing is - no matter how long it's endured - just gets kind of 'been there, done that...' - And then I wonder if I should just quit my bitching... because the reality is - who really gets to make a CD? sigh.

Pearl Harbor Baby

That's right. It's my birthday. I have to tell you, aside from the fact that I have a sore neck, I don't feel any different.

Ok. Today, I got an e-mail from a friend, wishing me a Happy Birthday/Pearl Harbor Day (my Dad used to call me up and sing "Remember Pearl Harbor" every year. He hasn't done it today - but I'll see him this evening.)

She also asked if Mary Q. (not her real name) had sent me birthday greetings.

Mary Q. is a woman both of us used to work with. She's a veteran on-air personality of the area I live in. I call her "The Goddess of the Lehigh Valley..." She smokes a lot, wears so much perfume, I always smelled her before I saw her, and was generally... well, kind of scatterbrained.

Her birthday is today. I know this - because, well, don't you kind of know who's birthday is on the same day as yours?

Each year, I'd say "Happy Birthday" to her and each year - she'd stare at me incredulously. "How on earth did you remember it was my birthday?" I'd remind her that it was my birthday too. The next year, the cycle would repeat.

It was a little embarassing.

So. Just so I don't miss anyone, Happy Birthday to the state of Delaware, Tom Waits, and Larry Bird. Many Happy Returns.

Claw Machines (Among Other Exercises in Stupidity)

This am, over breakfast, I had a long chat about gambling. (New PA state legislation is allowing slots parlors at several locations - at the Horse Races, etc... Currently, two local towns are competing for a license, so everyone's talking about casinos.)

Personally, I truly believe that Gambling is an exercise in stupidity. If every dollar I made bought me a feather - and if stood on a windy mountain, stacked all of those (*millions upon millions*) of feathers in my hand, and blew hard... Well, that's kind of how I view what happens when one gambles.

This is just a personal judgement call. I'm not telling anyone else what to do with their personal feathers. For me - It's the windy mountain scenario...

I have to predicate this by an admission: I have gambled - just a little... I once put money in the nickel slots while on a cruise ship, and didn't win anything. I've also participated in the office lottery pool a few times, with no payoff to speak of. My best gambling story, however, had a happier ending. For fun, I once heeded the advice of my friend Heidi's very elegant Floridian grandmother. She was sharing her secret for success at the dog track, "Ah Always bet on numbah fiiihve."

Heidi and I bet Five dollars on Dog Number Five (Hurricane Lil) in the Fifth race. We both won 20$... When the cashier/bet lady asked if we'd like to place another bet, we just laughed and laughed hysterically as we walked away... We knew when to say when.

Anyway, that's my dark history. Now you know.

Back to the diner: As my colleague and I were leaving, we ran into a man I knew of - but hadn't met... There he was, a reporter from the local paper, standing at the diner's claw machine - and he was going in for the kill.

We stopped to cheer him on. The claw machine grabbed a Dallas Mavericks Teddy Bear (What the DMTB was doing in Pennsylvania was beyond me) It hoisted it up above the other toys - about eight inches before the claw gave way. The teddy bear fell back on Bart Simpson.

"I've got to try this again," said the reporter. He couldn't find change, so I offered a quarter. My colleague looked at me suspiciously, "Here's a girl that doesn't like gambling - yet she's supporting this!"

"But he's THIS CLOSE," I squeezed my thumb and index finger tightly together. I think I may even have grimaced a little, just like a three year old who keeps saying, "PLEEEEEEEEEZE!"

To make a long story short, the reporter - in five tries (investment: $2.50) accidentally hooked the claw through the Dallas Maverick Bear's headband. The bear systematically fell through the chute. The reporter triumphantly handed me the bear.

"Why, thank you!" I gushed. It isn't every day a near-stranger gives you a Dallas Mavericks Teddy Bear.

We then had a short discussion about his job, "I'm just lucky to be working at all! I left my last paper after 33 years of writing... Then I discovered that $800/month health benefits made retirement kind of unattractive... So I came here... What I'd now like to do is take one of those 'will work for food' signs, cross off the 'food,' and write "Health Insurance."

I commented, "That's a great editorial cartoon. You should draw it up."

As he waved, I carred my teddy bear to the car. I couldn't help but think that this man, who is a very successful writer with a long career tenure - admitted to feeling lucky he had a job. In a way, it seemed that he felt employment was a bit of a gamble. It also seemed that having a job with insurance was the big jackpot.

I wonder if this is why people gamble - because in some ways, betting - or playing slots - is a metaphor for life... There's always hope for the payoff that will keep us financially fluid.

Kind of deep for the Dallas Mavericks Teddy Bear - but true nonetheless.

How My Honda Failed Halloween

Last night, I went to my first Halloween Parade in who knows how long... I went because the parade route passed right in front of Dave's place - so it seemed good to step to the end of the driveway and watch. I stood next to an older couple. The husband - likely in his mid 70's - was wearing a moose hat - the kind that surrounded his face like a ski mask. Atop his head, two plush antlers protruded - and the moose nose grew out of the man's forehead. I thought it was cute that he came to the parade in costume. Most adults didn't.

"That's a nice hat," I commented.

"You know," He replied, "This is the best hat. I was somewhere last year where it was so cold, that only this hat would keep me warm. It covers my whole face and chin, as you can see."

Oh. So I was wrong about the costume aspect of the hat. This was common winter wear. My mistake.

His wife was really sweet. I thought it was kind of fun that she brought her digital camera - and spent the evening taking shots of the unadorned fire trucks and requesite ambulances that drove by (I have to note here that unadorned municipal vehicles in parades have always baffled me. I want bands, dancing, singing and floats - with the occasional Macy's-type balloon floating by...)

Anyway, the parade went like this: Ambulance, Fire truck, cop car.... big gap (10 minutes)... Ambulance, Jr. High Marching band that looked cold, police car.... cub scout pack, pack of adults not in costume with a small sign that I couldn't read... The mayor in a classic convertible (huddled in the front seat by the heater).... High school band... Then occasionally, a Brownie troop would go by, tossing candy. One even threw a piece of candy at the lady I was standing next to.

I went to get Dave, who was still in his house. He wasn't into standing in the cold. As I was leaving, a man approached the door. "Hi, I'm from (blah blah) Tow truck service, and we're pulling a float, and we've got a dead battery... Can you give us a jump, if you happen to have cables?"

Do I have cables???!!! I have an excellent set of jumper cables... Because I used to have an '83 Toyota that I commonly left the lights on... My father was so sick of hearing stories of how I got my car started, that I received my very own Jumper cables for Christmas that year. "Why, yes, I have cables." I answered.

To make a long story short, my car apparently didn't have enough juice to start the tow truck. (Isn't the irony just amazing?) - It actually took a fire truck to jumpstart the tow truck.

After that, some girl scouts threw me a Butterfinger, and this gummy candy that was shaped like a disembodied and bloody ear (who knew David Lynch was now making candy???) There were some other candies thrown but some boys at the side of the road scooped them up before I could get them and lobbed them back at the screaming girlscouts.

I was too cold to stay outside watching the poor kids freeze their little baton-twirlig butts off - so I went inside, where Dave was watching TV. "Dave!" I exclaimed... I tried to jumpstart a tow truck!"

"Really?"

"Yes, but it didn't work..." I can't help but think that my Honda failed Halloween.

Incongruous Juxtapositions

This morning, I passed a Starbucks that sits right next to a McDonalds... And it made me think a minute about how different those two shops are - One has cheap coffee... One has expensive coffee... One has cheap food that clogs the arteries, one has expensive food that ... clogs... the....arteries...

Wait a minute.

It then dawned on me that even though McDonalds and Starbucks are at two ends of the scale - yet are the same. I don't like either brands of coffee... Both sell extremely unhealthy food... Both cater to drive-through clients in a hurry. I've slowly grown to dislike both of them, yet I will admit that once in awhile, when in a hurry, (or with people) I will purchase both of their products - then often regret it (no matter how much or litte I've spent)...

I can just picture the two buildings having a chat after hours (except that McDonalds is open 24/7...):

Star: Slow night, eh?

Mick: Yeah... You okay?

Star: Hangin in.

Mick: But you look good.

Star: Well thanks...

Mick: You and I? We're not so different, you know.

Star: Maybe not.

The Deaf DJ & The Tophographer

That's what the flower girl at today's wedding asked me, "Are you the tophographer?"

"Yes, I am. Do you know what a photographer is?"

"No." she answered.

"I take the pictures..."

"Oh," she said, "That's why you have that thing (the camera) around your neck..."

Yeah. I guess having that thing around my neck gives me the right to do cool things like poke fun at the DJ. It's not something I often do, but as one who firmly believes that a DJ's job is to play music, make the occasional announcement, and stay in the background, I must say that I believe I've found the most obnoxious DJ on the face of the planet. His name is Brian - and he reminded the crowd of that fact every time he picked up the microphone - which was often.

The first thing that annoyed me about Brian was that he was late to the reception. When I walked in, mid-cocktail hour, after photographing the bride and groom at the church, the lobby of the venue was full of amps and a hand truck. "Excuse me!" said Brian, pushing his way through the entering bridal party. He grabbed the handtruck and promptly ran over the bride's train.

Ok. So I asked him to go over the schedule with me. He said he didn't have time because the banquet manager was being pushy... So I just kept an eye on him, and could pretty much figure out what was going on.



He did come up to talk to me, but much later, after the introductions and first dance... And when he did, I found it curious that he had a very loud, very monotone speaking voice - as if he were sitting in a subway with all the windows blown out, and needing to be clear when he asked the person sitting next to him for directions: "HEY! I'M REALLY SORRY I DIDN'T HAVE TIME TO TALK TO YOU EARLIER. I'M REALLY, REALLY GOOD AT COMMUNICATING WITH THE PHOTOGRAPHER, BUT THE BANQUET MANAGER WAS BEING REALLY PUSHY ABOUT STARTING INTRODUCTIONS..." (Which was true - but she was pushy because he was late in setting up and beginning the proceedings...)

He also had hearing issues. I realized this because a) he was wearing a hearing aid, and b) because he mentioned to me that he was surprised the sound was so good - usually it wasn't this good (I didn't think it was that good, but what do I know?) I understand hearing loss is probably normal in the industry, but it may be time for Brian to choose another career - like Line Dance instructor (oh, wait - he taught that too last night)

At one point during the evening, he approached me, looked over my shoulder as I was photographing a wedding guest laughing. "HEY THAT'S A REALLY GOOD SHOT RIGHT THERE - SHE WAS SMILING!!!" He then asked if he could see the digital picture. I reluctantly showed him - and he slapped me on the back and said, "GREAT WORK! NICE SHOT!" He later explained "WE'RE DOING THE Y-M-C-A SOON. I HAVE TO TELL YOU, I GO ALL OUT. SOME DJ'S JUST DO THE HATS - BUT I DO THE WHOLE OUTFIT - AND NOT IN THAT CHEAP PLASTIC STUFF EITHER! I'M ALSO GOING TO SHOOT CONFETTI STREAMERS INTO THE CROWD. BE READY! OH - AND BY THE WAY, DID YOU KNOW THAT I STARTED THE WHOLE DRESS UP Y-M-C-A THING? EIGHT YEARS AGO, I WAS THE ONLY ONE DOING IT - BUT NOW EVERY DJ IN WEDDINGS IS DOING IT... BUT I WAS THE FIRST ONE!"

I mentioned this little tidbit to the banquet manager... Just for fun. "Wait. That song is 25 years old... Hey everyone, the DJ started the YMCA costumes! How BOUT that?!!

Then he began doing the things that I hate - and even though I may be a litte grinchy on this issue, as kids DO need to be entertained - but I hate it nonetheless... He started giving out toys - neon whippy things, Cat-In-The-Hat Stovepipe hats, feather boas, plastic tamborines, neon whippy glasses, fairy princess headpieces, magic wands, inflatable microphones, inflatable hands, cowboy hats - and scarecrows for Halloween. It was a little overkill.

Throughout the course of the evening, he also donned an Elvis costume. That's about when I left... The banquet manager and one of the two bartenders that evening were sitting on the outside stoop. "Hey, Kell! We gave the DJ your card and suggested you two work together all the time..."

"Wow. He was really juiced, wasn't he?" I asked...

The other bartender ran out the door - "You have GOT to see this!" he exclaimed. Like fools, we all rushed in.

Brian was standing on the front of the stage. He was playing "That's the Way..." by KC & The Sunshine Band. In his right hand was a card that said "That's the way" - Which he raised with the lyric. He lowered his right hand - and raised his left, to show the lyric "UH-HUH, UH-HUH."

He then flipped the card in his right hand to reveal "I LIKE IT" - followed by the re-raising of his left hand sign.

(On the back of the left card, by the way, was "Doo Doo Doo Doo...." etc...

It takes a lot of planning to be this self-absorbed, doesn't it? I'd always figured that the job of the wedding support staff was to support the bride. After all, it's her day - followed by the groom's, and their family... That's why everyone cringes at bad toasts, obnoxious tophographers, and well, Brian.

I guess I've always felt that the best DJ's around are those who are seen but seldom heard - and unless you're the resurrected Wolfman Jack well, shut up and play the songs... And that's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh - I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.

Ay-Chee-Wow-wah!

Fully Loaded

I recently had lunch with a former co-worker of mine. We worked at a television station together - and had a lot to catch up on. For example, he told me he purchased a replica Volkswagon Beetle Herbie the Lovebug. He takes it to charity events, and was recently invited to the premiere of "Herbie Fully Loaded," along with all the other replica Herbies across the nation.

I asked, "Um, Bob - after the event, I assume you walk into the parking lot into a sea of Herbies. How do you know which one is yours?"

Bob: "Well, on MY Herbie, the interior is wrong..."

Oh how I miss Bob.

My favorite Bob story happened about 11 years ago. Bob agreed to go with me to pick up a manequin a that a local department store was willing to sell. I wanted to use it on a show set. Before we left, I grabbed a football jersey (so I wouldn't be driving through the streets of Allentown with a naked manequin in the back seat of my recently purchased car. It just didn't seem like a good idea). "Kelly," chided Bob. "You don't need that silly shirt. We'll be fine."

I stuffed the shirt into a bag anyway. I'm no dummy.

We parked in the department store's deck, and went to retrieve the manequin. There she was, in a seated position, with her head propped on her hand. She was as bald and naked as the day she was manufactured. I pulled the shirt out of my bag as Bob picked up the manequin.

You must, at this moment, imagine the scene: Picture a seated manequin in the arms of a live man. Bob looked as though he was about to carry his plaster bride across the threshold. It was more than a little unsettling, yet hysterically funny at the same time. "Bob, please let me put the shirt on her."

"Don't be ridiculous, Kelly! I'll put the manequin in the car... You get the parking ticket validated, and we'll go to lunch!"

"Oooooookaaaaay..." I watched as Bob carred Nudie Trudie to the elevator.

Moments later, I validated the parking ticket, and rode a crowded elevator to level four of the parking deck.

The door opened.

There stood Bob... Manequin in arms.

Time stopped. The people in the elevator froze. This cleary was not what they were expecting to see in a parking deck.

Bob looked sheepish: "Kelly, I couldn't find your new car!"

I bit my lip, but it did no good. I burst into hysterics - which of course, freed the rest of the elevator riders to do likewise. My eyes were watering, my stomach ached, and yet the sight of that man carrying that naked manequin kept me laughing all the way to the car.

"Do you mind if I put the jersey on her now?"

"By all means, Kelly... By all means."

House Hunting (or "Looking For A Place To Roost")

Did I tell y’all that I’ve been starting to ponder the possibility of looking at houses? I actually made my first call to a realtor the other day to look at this cool little house. It’s in a town I like, next to a little creek. The main house is small, and next to a busy road – but it has a guest building, a 2 car garage with back-room storage, and a fourth building behind the garage. (In my mind, I decided that it would make a great studio. Dave exclaimed, “BAND ROOM!”). I had high hopes. The little compound had potential.

In my mind I picture the great parties I could throw in the beautiful back yard. I’d finally have enough room to get a dog! Dave, on the other hand, reminded me that having a dog at that locale would be bad… “Kelly, are you prepared for that dog to get killed on that busy road?”

“There is no dog... You’ve just killed my imaginary dog. How dark are you?” I asked.

We walked back to the driveway. Suddenly, a little black rooster appeared. “Hey,” said Dave observantly, “A little black rooster!”

I moved away from the bird. Birds aren’t my thing. I have nothing against birds in the wild – I like looking at birds in bird feeders, I've held birds, I've spread peanut butter and birdseed on pinecones to feed birds. I've allowed my father to listen to bird call tapes in the car... but to be honest, ittle birdy feet just gross me out. I am not, I repeat, am not petrified of birds. They're just not my thing.

“You’re afraid of roosters?” asked Dave.

“Not really. Their feet gross me out, and I’d much prefer to live and let live,” I explained. I silently wondered if Dave was making fun of me… Ok, I actually knew he was making fun of me. The rooster WAS only about 8” high at the top of the comb.

“Stop making fun of me!” I said, responding to the look of mockery on his face.

(Non sequitur bird story #1: Once, I had to free a sparrow who flew into a deli I was going to buy my lunch from. The bird was freaked out, the deli ladies were ridiculously unhelpful - and the thought of a bird pooping on my chicken salad was just unbearable. It was clearly up to me - I caught the bird, released it, and sanitized.)

The rooster, meanwhile, was checking out the car. He strutted by the tires nonchalantly as I walked to the front of the house. The rooster then moved towards us somewhat purposefully. “He's coming after us. I really think he's following us.”

Now, Mr. Smirkity Smirk was just loving this.

“You’re afraid of roosters!”

I gave up the normal explanations, and wasn't in the mood to proove my history with birds. I muttered something about bird flu and walked around the front of the house, peeking into the front windows.

(Non sequitur bird story #2: When I was young, my father, rescuer of animals in distress, acquired a crow who couldn't live in the wild due to some injury or some such thing. The crow's name was Jasper - and he lived in a cage in our backyard. Eventually, for some reason I can't remember, we gave the crow to our vet, who was really happy to have him.)

As we left the property that evening I just want you to know that I checked to make sure we didn’t run the stupid rooster over.

(Final non sequitor bird story: Years ago, my parents went to dinner at a now defunct restaurant called "The Golden Goose." The place was by a pond - and naturally, had a few geese hanging around. As my parents approached the restaurant, they were surprised to see another patron get too close to one of the geese. It reared up it's wings, lowered it's head and ran right towards the guy. My father, rescuer of humans in distress, ran towards the goose, and in one fell-swoop, grabbed the goose, diverted it from it's near-victim, and once again, saved the day - sans injury to himself, the goose, or the other patron. True story)

A few days later, we returned to see the house with a realtor. She was kinda cranky, if you ask me. “You know," she started, "You really should have bought a house three years ago…”

What does one say to that? I nodded and smiled politely - I have to be honest here - the realtor didn't really earn my confidence that afternoon. She sort of waved around the house pointing out the obvious, "This is the bathroom. This is the master bedroom. Here's where you can hook up a washing machine."

It didn't bother me much... It took a mere ten seconds to realize that even if Mrs. Realtor crankypants handed me the deed for free– this wasn’t the house for me:

1) The walls were painted paneling – with stenciling… Large swags of stenciling everywhere you looked. I cannot tell you how painted paneling grates my Trading Spaces/Vern Yip sensibilities. I can't tell you how 96% of all stenciling gives me great pause.
2) The drop ceiling was low enough to reach flat-footed… at my height. Ridiculous. I'm 5'5".
3) The only bathroom in the house was miniscule, had no tub, and was located directly off the living room.
4) The master bedroom had no door.
5) The central air never worked – “And don’t ask the owner to fix it. He said under no circumstances would he fix anything…” explained the realtor.
6) The second bedroom had a very, very low ceiling. Lower than the living room.
7) Need I mention that the carpet was bright blue?
8) And in loving memory of the imaginary dead dog, I must say for the record that the road was awfully close to the house, and the traffic was awfully loud.

I was annoyed and disappointed - so I'm not proud to say it, but I began pointing the more hideous features of the house to the lack-luster realtor: "Um, where's the DOOR?" "This doesn't make sense." "Where does one take a bath?" "And Where did the rooster come from?"

Then she told me the worst thing of all - that the rooster lived in the storage room behind the garage - and at one point attacked a fellow house hunter the other day. I looked at Dave triumphantly.

To be honest, the property was so lovely that I was disappointed… But the good news is – I fully enjoyed fussing about how bad the house was – it’s kind of therapeutic in that odd neurotic sort of way… And – the better news? It’s still a buyer’s market. I'll find another place to roost.

Brow Beating

I just read this little tidbit - for the Perfect Eyebrows... Mind you, I take the time to shape my brows. I shadow and line - when they get weird looking, I do get them waxed... However -I had no idea how badly I was neglecting this clearly underattended to body part (price of all the advice below is $88, a small price to pay for flawless brows):

All this from Helen Andreos, Brow Specialist... Andreos has worked with celebrities such as Allison Janney from The West Wing, Angela Bassett, Tori Spelling, Doris Roberts Everybody Loves Raymond, Debra Messing, Cheryl Hines Curb Your Enthusiasm, Kathy Bates and the Fab Five from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.

Helen offers these brow tips:

Powder skin. This helps brow pencil go on smoothly and evenly. Apply powder with the Blending Brush #4.
Find the right brow pencil shade. Try Le Crayon Poudre and select a shade that blends with your hair color, not one that is too dark.
Keep brow gel on hand. It can slightly deepen the brow hair color if brows appear too grey or too light. It also helps control and hold brow hair in place.
To define the brow, use the flat edge of Precision Brush #14 plus a concealer of your choice. To soften the definition, apply a touch of powder over the brow using Blending Brush #4.
Highlight the brow bone by applying a lighter shade of Color Design Eye Shadow in Daylight or Filigree using Precision Shadow Brush #12. Apply color both under and over the brow bone.

Hip to Be Square

Yesterday, Dave asked me to take a drive with him - he was playing a gig in Delaware with our friend, Don. I thought it was going to be interesting - Don asked a bunch of musicians who never play together to come and play together... I always wonder why that works out - but in Don's view - he only asks musicians he thinks are the best (which thrills Dave's bass-playing soul to know he's included in that category). Anyway - it usually works out pretty well for Don, so I kind of admire the hootzpah he has for not going through the work of having to do band practice every week - yet always being asked to come back and play again...

Anyway, I looked at the directions - it said they were playing at St. Andrews School... It said they were providing the background music for a square dance. It was all instrumental.... Isn't that crazy? Who's ever heard of a private high school sponsoring a square dance. I immediately discussed the matter with Audrey, salsa dancer extraordinaire... "It makes sense. America doesn't really have it's own group dance. Those kids NEED square dancing."

Ok. Before I get any further, I have to tell you what I only found out when arriving at St. Andrews - it was the school "Dead Poets Society" was filmed at. Isn't that weird? It's a lovely place - lots of lush lawns and gothic architecture... looks like a lot of schools in the east coast prep-type school region... (Here's a production still I found on the web - I have more photos -but I took them with Don's camera - and will post later when I get them back... And the dancing photos came from St. Andrew's website)

Back to the issue of high school students and square dancing. I met the caller, a guy named Alan - who liked to talk - so I asked, "Do students really like this?"

"Oh yes, he said, "When the Student Activites committee started this, they needed something to wear the kids out on their first night before classes. So they simply went around, told the kids they'd have a good time - and ever since then, the upper classmen just told the new students it was fun..."

I don't know that I believed him - but at 7 pm sharp, the hoarde of 300 or so students rushed the field, stood in a big circle, and waited for instructions. After the prerequesite do-si-do, prominade left and so forth, the kids enthusiastically formed squares and danced for the next few hours. They were so into the square dance, that even after their breaks, they, without being called, returned to the field, stood in squares, and waited for the caller to begin again. Who knew?

Dave: "If they asked my kid to do that, she'd be standing off to the side with her girlfriends thinking it was stupid..." But the truth is, if square dancing IS indeed, stupid, it's also fun - or so it looked from the faces of the kids who not only did the dance, but did all the dances, and loved doing them. They even made their best attempts at looking "western..." (which in some cases meant rolling up jeans and wearing wife beaters.)

So swing your partner, do-si-do - carpe diem and away we go...

_________

PS - On a final note of how different this shool was from MY school experience, the weekend "Dead Poets Society" hit the theaters was also the weekend I was slated to march in my high school graduation. I BEGGED my mother to let me go to the movies and skip the ceremony... But alas, she said the same thing when I volunteered to skip my college graudation, "Kelly, I did not suffer through four years of your education to miss your graduation..." So I had to wait until later to watch Robin Williams stand on a Desk at St. Andrew's School. I guess I'm just not a joiner - is that so wrong?

Look, Mom! I'm 20!

I must be 20 years old. Why else would I stay up till 4:30 AM and keep my 7:45 AM haircut, followed by meeting a bride to deliver her wedding album - and oh, by the way - I didn't finish the album...

So, what happened was - I spent the day at the Philadelphia Folk Festival (more on that later, when I'm not so bleary I remember that Tommy Hilfiger spells his last name with only one "L") - and everytime Dave and I got up to leave, someone else entered the campsite. At midnight, Scott came by with his family... Then, all of our Festival buddies showed up - by 3 AM, our campsite was packed full - and the happy inebriates in the back kept yelling, "Kell! Sing us a song!" (flattering, I'll admit - but y*a*w*n!)

Ok. So I got home at 4:30 and looked at the wedding album I had to fill. I did a few pages, then thought, "I'll just get up at 6, finish, get my haircut, and deliver..."

Just FYI, on the ride home from the festival, Dave wondered aloud why I just didn't cancel my appointment (I have this hairdresser I'll blog about someday - but suffice it to say that once you get an appointment, you keep it. Once Kelly Jo is your hairdresser, you may find that - even when you move two hours away, you still drive back for haircuts - and bring your friends)

So I wake up at the same time my cut is supposed to begin. I call Mike, the salon owner (he's straight - isn't that weird?) - Mike - I can reschedule if Kelly Jo is jammed, or come now."

"Come with a wet head," suggested Mike.

This leaves the issue of the empty album. I did the following. I'm not proud, and I will note this disclaimer: Do NOT attempt this yourself. Don't do it. It's really really stupid...

I put the book together en route to the salon - on highways, on side streets... I stuffed an entire album while driving - and as fate would have it - I am alive to tell the tale. Don't do it. Really. It's dumb.

But the book is delivered. I'm seriously going to bed now.

It's My Loss

I lost about 8 lbs. over the past nine months or so... I know this doesn't sound like a major accomplishment - Especially considering that gaining well over 30 lbs. over the past three years seems so much more monumental... but I seem to have crested the hill (and hallelujah for that...)

I'll keep you posted.

Signed,

Still in the same pants size, yet breathing a little easier.

Ew... but Aaah Hah!

This from my friend, Eric - Ew, but aaah-ha! Click on this to be able to read the copy. It's a good one. Gives the term "Briefcase" a whole new meaning. I wonder what the ladies' version looks like? Never mind - I already know!

Why oh "Y?"

Has anyone notyced that "Y" is the new "I?" I've met lately a pyle of people who spell theyr names with "Y's" where "I's" once reigned... Alice is now Alyce... Melissa - Melyssa... Even my friend Kevin got in on the action. For awhile, I noticed he'd sygn his letters to me, "Kevyn" I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to ask:

Kelly: Kev, what's wyth the "Y?"

Kevyn: I don't know - I'm embarassed now!"

My name has always been spelled with a "Y" - yet somehow I don't thynk it's made me any cooler.

What gyves?

Smelling the Summer

I had an unexpected "surprise" of sorts the other day... It's been so hot and muggy and unbearable outside, Dave and I have been doing nothing but walking from air conditioned car to air conditioned house to air conditioned office, etc... (Today, however, was so lovely I ate lunch outside!)

This is hardly the time for the fan in Dave's car to die... Poor Dave - We've all been in that position when we just dread having to spend several hundred dollars on something as frivolously necessary as our freaking vehicles... Isn't it bad enough we have to pay them off every month? (sigh)

Anyway. One interesting thing came from this. The other night, Dave was driving a distance. He called me and said, "You know, my air conditioner isn't working, so I drove home with the windows down... and I forgot all the cool smells that come with the summer... grass and the warm air... It reminded me of growing up...

So yesterday, despite the heat, I rolled the windows down and inhaled... Hot pavement reminded me of playing on my grandmother's driveway. Fresh cut grass with the hint of wild onion reminded me of summer camp... Summer does have a scent... and it's warm air, grass, and dirt... That smell of heated asphalt also reminded me of my stupid days in college. I drove home from Michigan in June - and completely forgot my old Toyota Tercel (named 'sheba') even HAD an air conditioner. (I think that may have been the time when I arrived in PA sans any brake fluid... which really angered my father.)...

Last weekend, I was at a party - and the glow of tan skin reminded me of the smells at the beach - sun, surf, with the aroma of coconut oil...

I'm sorry Dave's AC had to break for me to be reminded... but at least one little good thing came (Dave, I'm so sorry for your ridiculous auto bill)

Tonight, since the heat's died down, I'll be outside at a music festival - playing, singing, and smelling the summer.

What's in a Name?

This from Yahoo News:


Malaysia Draws Up List of Unsuitable Names for Children
Sun Jul 30, 3:58 AM ET
KUALA LUMPUR (AFP) -

Malaysian parents will no longer be allowed to give their children names deemed unsuitable by authorities, a report says.

According to the New Straits Times, the National Registration Department will not allow names with undesirable meanings in the languages used by the country's three main ethnic groups.

Malaysia's population of 26 million is dominated by some 60 percent Malays, 26 percent Chinese and eight percent Indians.

Department spokesperson Jainisah Mohd Noor was quoted by the newspaper as saying the list was compiled following input from various religious and cultural groups.

"We are just helping to disseminate the information we have," Jainisah was quoted as saying in the report.

Among the Malays, names such as Zani -- which means male adulterer, and Woti -- sexual intercourse, were banned, the report said.

For Indians, Karrupan, which means black fellow, is equally as taboo as are names which denote "fair skin," such as Sivappi and Vellayan, it said.

Jainisah said parents could not name their babies after colours, animals, insects, fruits or vegetables.

In the past, some in the Chinese community gave their children inauspicious names believing it would ward off evil spirits and bad luck.

Now, names such as Ah Kow -- dog in the Cantonese dialect, or Ah Gong -- unsound mind, are prohibited. Other Chinese names on the banned list included Chow Tow and Sum Seng which mean smelly head and gangster respectively.

Parents who insisted on bestowing names on the list could appeal to the department, Jainisah said.

"We can only advise them, but if they are insistent even after knowing they are unsuitable, they may be allowed to use them," she said.

Hide The Stache

Please tell me that moustaches won't be in style for long... sigh.

Summer of stache
There's a fine line between the boy and the man. In some cases, that line is lopsided and hairy.
By Monica Corcoran, - Thurs., Jul. 13, 2006
There's a fine line between the boy and the man. In some cases, that line is lopsided and hairy.
"Every guy wishes he could grow a mustache," says Jay Della Valle, 26, an actor and filmmaker who devoted a documentary, "The Glorius (sic) Mustache Challenge," to spawning a furry revival in the under-30 generation. "I plan to bring the stache back. It's a revolution."

Not exactly. But clearly, there is a movement afoot--or aface. Jack Black's bold inky mustache nearly stole "Nacho Libre" and Adam Brody has recently been spotted with a fuzzy upper lip. In the new French film, "La Moustache," a Parisian architect shaves off his trademark mustache to cause a stir, but no one -- including his wife -- takes any notice.

People are duly noting Colin Farrell's Fu Manchu on billboards for "Miami Vice," though. It's the type of droopy, lascivious mustache that likes to peel out of parking lots and lurk near high schools.

"Personally, I don't want to see a movie star covered up with facial hair unless it's for a Western or a period piece," says one studio exec. "And I don't like the stache."

Neither does Jim Wiatt, apparently. He disdains facial hair so much that he once sent a WMA employee home to shave. ICM, too, has an unspoken rule against hirsute agents.

Surely, CAA partner Rick Nicita must be more sympathetic to the cause; he sported a Barney Miller-like stache for almost a decade.

The agency declined comment.

If you're aspiring to grow your own hood ornament this summer, start small. "Keep it trim and close, so you won't look like one of the Village People or a porn star," says stylist Martin Samuels, who has groomed Johnny Depp for recent photo shoots.

Depp could become the next Charles Bronson, who once deemed his mustache his "meal ticket." Richard Donner has admitted tricking Gene Hackman to get him to shave off his mustache to play Lex Luthor in "Superman."

"For me, the stache is like my business card," says Della Valle. "When I was with ICM, my agent wanted me to shave it off, but I refused."

Clicking My Heels - There's No Place Like Home

Has anyone read "Life of Pi" by Yann Martel? I checked IMDB to verify a rumor I heard that M. Knight Shymalan secured the rights to this book and wrote the screenplay - I'm interested.

Here's a cool excerpt from "Life of Pi..."

"What is the meaning of freedom in such a context? Animals in the wild are, in practice, free neither in space nor in time, nor in their personal relations. In theory - that is, as a simple physical possibility - an animal could pick up and go, flaunting all the social conventions and boundaries proper to its species. But such an event is less likely to happen than for a member of our own species - say a shopkeeper with all the usual ties - to family, to friends, to society - to drop everything and walk away from his life with only the spare change in his pockets and the clothes on his frame. If a man, boldest and most intelligent of creatures, won't wander from place to place, a stranger to all, beholden to none, why would an animal, which is by temperament far more conservative? ... There is no more happenstance, no more "freedom," involved in the whereabouts of a lizard or a bear or a deer than in the location of a knight on a chessboard. Both speak of pattern and purpose. In the wild, animals stick to the same paths for the same pressing reasons, season after season....

But let me pursue for a moment only one aspect of the question.

If you went to a home, kicked down the front door, chased the people who lived there out into the street and said, "Go! You are free! Free as a bird! Go! Go!" - do you think they would shout and dance for joy? they woludn't. Birds are not free. The people you've just evicted would sputter, "With what right do you throw us out? This is our home. We own it. We have lived here for years. We're calling the police, you scoundrel."

_____

I've lived in the same place since 1994 - the same region anyway... I never thought I'd root here. I had no intention of staying. I thought my first job in the area would last just a few years.... It lasted many more than it should have. After I left there, I tried to fly the coop. Honest, I thought DC would be a wonderful place to live. I thought life in NYC would have a shelf life, but I could probably survive a few years there... I even pondered Philadelphia (a city I don't have a great affection for - although it's growing on me). For the right job, I might even experiment with Boston or Chi-town...

But I never left. When offered a poor paying job with a less than living wage in Virginia, I actually thought about taking it. I figured I could always freelance and survive and within a year or two move onto bigger I found new jobs right here. I made my friends right here. I fell in love here (I can remember a time when this occurred several times a day)

It seems that in my make-believe fantasy Johari window quadrant labeled "unknown bird flipped to everyone," I believe I'm a transient, world traveler, with interesting stories to tell - Well... In the words of the immortal Howard Hill, "I got my foot caught in the door."

I don't think I'm going anywhere - I think I've found my territory - and I doubt I'm moving. Despite all the things going on at work that I don't always like - despite all the people I don't understand - and despite my desire to see the world and make an impact everywhere I go...

So I guess my band's world tour consists of Eastern PA, New York and New Jersey...