Lost Loves Week: Water-Packed

Of all the break-ups of my life (and there have been many), there’s only one I truly regret.  One breakup I tried mightily to stave off, stalling for time, hoping that somehow, someway, I could figure out just how Mike made that absolutely perfect tuna sandwich.

Oh, the relationship was kaput.  Mike was quite a bit older than me, a little lost in life, a server at Houston’s like me.  Nice guy, always wanting to cook for me – but when we watched the Oscars and he scoffed loudly when Johnny Depp mentioned the “art of acting,” wellll, we clearly didn’t see eye-to-eye.

But oh! That sandwich.  The most perfect tuna sandwich I’ve ever tasted in my life.  When I realized that I wouldn’t be able to fake it much longer, I requested the sandwich as often as possible.  He served it with tortilla chips and Diet Coke – to this day one of the best meals of my life.

Perhaps realizing the tuna’s hold on me, Mike was very secretive about the recipe.  I got to him to confess that he used chopped green olives, and I could see that Swiss cheese was key, but beyond that I was clueless, and my waning ability to be in the same room with him for very long meant that I didn’t accomplish any quality spying.

Finally I couldn’t hide my feelings anymore, and Mike and I had a terribly awkward mid-shift break-up at the restaurant.  A week later he gave me a Pete Yorn cd, telling me to listen to it, “and maybe you’ll learn something.”  I learned that Herbie and I love listening to it on lazy Sunday mornings while we drink coffee and Bailey’s on the couch.

I also learned that, though I’ve tried again and again, I cannot recreate Mike’s perfect tuna sandwich.  Mike’s tuna is lost to me forever, and no matter how many different brands of olives I chop, I can never quite capture that perfect, unknowable tuna essence.

I’ve even thought of looking up Mike on Facebook and sending him a message, something like: “Hi!! How are you!! Oh my gosh, it’s been so long – your children are sooooo adorable!  Wow, we had some fun times, didn’t we?  Remember that tuna sandwich you used to make and how I was totally obsessed with it?  Like in a crazy Ali Larter way?  Ha ha, ha ha haha – TELL ME WHAT’S IN THE TUNA.  TELL ME NOW.  I still have your beloved copy of “Aliens” and I will SHIT ON IT if you do not tell me.  I will SHIT ON SIGOURNEY WEAVER’S FACE.  You don’t want that to happen. Take care!”

Good tuna.

Plaid Skirts

Rosalind and I went to see Snow White last night.  I wish I could say that she’s doing SO much better and will be heading home at any moment to snuggle her babies, but that’s not the case yet.

We mostly chatted with her husband about stupid things like how boring what’s-his-name is on The Bachelor while staring at Snow White while she slept.

Radiation is a bitch.

Rosalind and I drove home together, very blue.  Not even heart-shaped cookies cheered us.  And then I got on Facebook and discovered that an old high school classmate posted a note about Snow White and her tiny twins.  I’d seen a similar note posted a while back, and it just sat there sadly with no comments.  But perhaps people just missed it, because this time around, the note about Snow White was flooded with comments.  Everyone wants to help.  Everyone is promising prayers, diapers, formula, and tiny pajamas.

I cried and cried.  Sometimes it’s overwhelming to stumble upon so much kindness in the midst of so much pain.

Maybe Snow White would be mortified at being the object of so much concern and attention.  But if any one of those ladies – even the ones she hasn’t seen a single time since graduation – if any of them got sick, she would be the one leading the charge.

It’s so odd that this technological application, pretty much a preemie baby itself, has allowed such support to grow and thrive.  Without Facebook, the news about Snow White would trickle slowly through email chains and phone calls.  

Also, I have to say – if you are religiously inclined (or even if you’re not) and financially able, send your daughter to an all-girls Catholic school, preferably Xavier College Prep here in Phoenix.  Sure there are some mean nuns, and yes she’ll have to wear the cardboard-like plaid skirt, but she really will be part of a lifelong, supportive community.  If we had a fight song, I’d quote it now…

25 Random Things

I keep getting tagged on Facebook to do one of those “25 Random Things About Me” notes, so I thought I’d finally give in, but I’ll do it here on my blog so I don’t have to tag innocent people.  I’m going to try and be as random as possible, because really, don’t you all already know enough about me?

1.  I’ve never really cared for The Beatles.

2.  I do, however, greatly enjoy the sweet music stylings of The Monkees.

3.  Once I made an independent movie and got to live in Maine just over a month during filming.  We lived in a cabin and ate a lot of stew.  The movie was terrible.

4.  When I turned 30, I suddenly learned to love baseball, red wine, and blue cheese.

5.  The answer is 10.

6.  I have never smoked a cigarette.

7.  I have, however, eaten lots of cheese.

8.  I used to pretend to like Guiness beer because I thought it would make guys like me, and also to try and impress my sister.

9.  Herbie and I have “laminated lists” (inspired by an episode of “Friends”) with a list of celebrities we’re allowed to make out with, should the opportunity arise.  Among my make-out-able celebrities:  Colin Firth, Daniel Craig, and Conan O’Brien (so that if I am ever on his show, I will have a hilarious anecdote to tell him about how I’m allowed to make out with him, and he will growl at me, and it will be delightful).

10.  I’m afraid of the ocean (although will concede its beauty) and the things that live in it, especially stingrays, jellyfish, sharks, and most of all, whales.

11.  I used to have a habit of dating older guys, which was fine except that they never got my pop culture references.

12.  Right now, there is a dog barking next door and I would like to hit it with a stick.  I usually want to hit dogs with sticks.

13.  Iced grande non-fat chai latte, please.

14.  Once I put off breaking up with a guy because he made such good tuna sandwiches.

15.  My cockatiel Doc is…27? years old.  When he met Herbie he drew blood.  He knew that Herbie was a threat to his bachelor lifestyle.

16.  I cannot keep plants alive.

17.  I miss living in New York every single day, although I don’t miss being so cold in the winter.

18.  I cannot resist purple.

19.  Thanks to Moo, I am learning to love pink more and more.

20.  I grew up in Phoenix, yet I don’t speak Spanish.  This is shameful.

21.  My first roommate in New York was a stripper.  I went with her to work once and took an elevator ride with her boss-lady, who wore a sheer unbuttoned blouse with her boobs hanging out, and she told me I would make a wonderful stripper and offered me a job.  I consider that one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received.

22.  When I was a waitress, I once carded a kid who asked for “Coke with grenadine.”

23.  I really enjoy doing laundry.

24.  I love hair bands/butt rock – whatever you want to call it.  I just call it AWESOME.

25.  I really think men should open the door for me, especially when I’m pushing a baby stroller.  Happily, they usually do.  Women are the worst - stroller right-of-way, people!!

A Bit of Housekeeping…

Just thought you might want to know that there’s a new(ish) feature on the ol’ blog.  Apparently, now you can subscribe to receive updates on comments.  (Perhaps some of you have already figured this out?)  What’s nice is that you don’t receive an email for every single comment made on every single post, only when there’s a new comment made on a post on which you’ve already commented.  Just like Facebook!

Next time you make a comment, you’ll notice that below your comment, it says “subscribe to comments?” (or something like that) with a little box to check.  If you want to subscribe, check away.  If not, just ignore.  And please be aware that your “subscription” applies only to that post.  Each time you want to be updated on comments on a particular post, you have to check the little box again.

Hope that makes sense.  I have only been awak 25 minutes, and I’m attempting to cobble together complete sentences without any coffee.  I can hear the sweet nectar dripping away in the kitchen, and I, it’s humble servant, await its pleasant beeping…

The General

As we sat in the Green Room eating pizza pre-show one night, the General paused between bites of pepperoni to tell me he enjoyed my blog.  (I wonder how he’ll like it now that I’m talking about him?)  The General found my blog during an innocent search on Google, and very kindly complimented me on undertaking this quest.

“I admire you for doing this while your daughter is still so young,” he said.  He himself gave up theatre to devote himself to his children, and jumped back on stage after they were all grown up.  Now he does three or four shows a year.  He wasn’t so sure, he told me, that he made the right decision.  He wanted to be there completely for his kids, but he has some regrets about his choice.

It’s kind of an loaded question – if you give up something you love to be with your children, are you helping or hurting them?  Or should the question be, are you helping or hurting yourself?  I have no idea.  On one hand, Moo loved going to my show (three times!), talking about my costumes, and playing “mommy’s show” with her toys.  She even has some new dance moves as a result of all this show biz business.

But on the other hand, there’s bedtime tantrum baby, all-night screaming, and cries of, “No, Mommy, Nooo!” when I left for rehearsal.  I’m missing things – she’s turning into a toddler in fits and bursts, and there were times when I’d leave my baby at 6 in the evening and find a little girl in her bed the next morning.  My baby is growing, and I’m loathe to miss a moment.

But I am more whole.  Herbie has noticed that I’m more confident.  I’m dancing again.  I tell more jokes.  I follow my instincts.  I no longer feel ashamed.  I no longer feel such great regret.  I am hopeful and excited for the adventures that lay ahead.  And that’s a woman I think my daughter could look up to.

Remove Friend?

I dropped my very first “friend” on Facebook today.  And this from a woman who recently gave her husband and best friend a 10 minute lecture on why dropping friends on Facebook is cruel and unnecessary.  It’s not like you’re going to hang out with all of these so-called “friends” – what’s the big deal if someone with different political ideas, etc. is one among a list of 82 others?

“Greyson Smith-Johnson” is a guy I knew in grade school.  In 8th grade, I went skiing with Kelly Lewis, and I remember I’d never thought much about Greyson before he skied up to us at the top of the black diamond run we were pondering nervously.  “I get nervous, too,” he said sweetly, and for the first time I realized that he was totally ohmygosh SO supercute, and that maybe he and I were destined to be together forever.  Greyson offered to go first and promptly tripped over his skis and rolled halfway down the mountain, which made him even sweeter.  I never really talked to him after that, because there was only a short time before graduation, but every once in a while I’d think about the sweet boy who gallantly took the first dive on the black diamond at Snowbowl.

So when Greyson requested me as a friend on Facebook, I didn’t hesitate to accept.  Then I saw his profile picture – in full bowhunter regalia, with the caption “Bowhunters never quit…NEVER.”  And his second profile picture, charmingly flipping off the camera.  Then a status update - ”Greyson is having a bbq! Beer babes and burgers!” And a second status update – “Greyson went hunting today in the rain and fog and saw four nice bucks!” Then another: “Greyson sold the Porsche!”  And another: “Greyson is doing shots of Jager!”  And another:  “Greyson getting truck washed making sure they do good job.”

When I saw he’d posted pictures of his most recent kills, I knew our relationship had to end.  I know that hunters and people in their 30’s who do shots of Jager aren’t necessarily evil people.  But I also know that if I met this person at a party, I would find him totally revolting and have to fight the desire to stab him in the eye.  So goodbye, Greyson Smith-Johnson. I hope it’s true that you can’t tell I dropped you, and if you can tell, I hope you don’t lose any sleep over some girl from 8th grade dropping you as a Facebook friend. 

I wish you’d stuck to skiing.

Bad Wife

Oh, I am a mean, mean wife.  Bad wife!  My gorgeous husband has been tirelessly promoting my bloggity-blog everywhere he can, and telling me repeatedly how excited he is for me, and filling my glass of wine, and staying up until midnight trying to get all those annoying techy doohickeys to work (RSS feed, whaaa?) even though he has to get up early and go…engineer software or something.  And what did I do to show my appreciation?  I came home tonight cranky and hungry, spooned myself up some cold spaghetti (with chopped up broccoli mixed in, ha HA take that veggie-hating daughter!), plopped down on the couch and glowered at Herbie.*  He finally noticed, which is when I asked in that whiny passive-aggressive tone that even drives ME nuts, “Huuunny, it would be really nice if maybe when I come home late like tonight, you could make up a plate for me instead of the food just sitting there cold on the oven…?”  And he gave me that weird look, like a sad puppy that also might want to strangle me.

So then I hopped on the computer and checked Facebook (I’m new), where suddenly I have like 345 friends, even though in the real world, I only have, like… sevenish.  Fascinating thing, Facebook.  Suddenly people that never would have talked to me in high school are literally requesting my friendship.  There’s a part of me that wants to shun them like they shunned me in P.E., but I’m trying to be all loving and open n’ stuff, plus I’m not quite sure if these girls actually shunned me or maybe were just kinda busy worrying about possibly being shunned by other girls.

Anyway, on Facebook I found out what Herbie had been up to instead of serving me up leftovers – adding albums of pictures of Moo and me to his profile page.  Awwww.  There we are, smiling and grinning and loving dear ol’ Daddy like we do, and there I was, mean and cranky and whining about cold spaghetti.  Honestly.  I am so lucky to have this man – not only does he not snore, but he occasionally provides hilarious bed-time theatre.  Like the time I woke up to Herbie sitting up in bed shouting, “Abort! Abort!”  Or the time after a middle-of-the-night feeding that he tried to swaddle a pillow instead of the newborn baby squirming in my arms.  Or the time he woke up and accused me of eating all the chicken, when in fact we had pepperoni pizza that night.

Point is - good guy, my Herbie.  Bad, bad wife.  I mean, really – I even cut off his head in pictures – see?  So mean.  Nice legs, though, babe.  And check out those awesome robot pajamas!

So sorry, dear Herbie.  I love you.

* I decided to change Ken’s name to Herbie, because that is the name of Mama Rose’s true love in Gypsy.  I know it doesn’t make sense when I’ve already used his real name, buuuut I don’t care.