Mumbling Madly

The blue angels are practicing. I hate them. Call me unpatriotic, a noise-freak, etc. but screaming military jets messing up our skies bug me. Today the little boy I take of on Thursday was enjoying his swing when the jets screeched across the sky over his house. The poor little guy almost shit his pants (’almost’ because I checked). He started shaking in his swing, his little heart pounding. I tried reassuring him, “Don’t worry, they’re just loud,” I tried reasoning with him, “They’re like a big noisy plane.” I tried empathy, “Are you nervous?” He looked at me with watery eyes, “Yes, they make me nervous.” I pulled him out of his swing and we went inside. “I not scared, I nervous,” he enunciated, clearly thrilled with his new word. He looked out the window warily. It was interesting trying to communicate with a two-year-old about fear. Clearly, he was disturbed by the noise of the blue angels. However, his lack of language left him helpless to communicate exactly what he was feeling. When I tried to talk strategy with him (”next time they come we’ll put our hands over our ears and look up”) he seemed distracted. Finally, the little guy curled up against me and we read book after book. I’ve never seen this kid slow down long enough to snuggle. Every time the angels went over the house he shouted, “I’m nervous!”

With all the attention on soft rocks hits in my life lately I started thinking: what song really made a difference in my life? What song really ’spoke’ to me? Other then the usual punk rock hits, of course, since I certainly didn’t lean towards that type of music typically. In fact, I was raised on a pretty healthy dose of nothing but classical music, opera, and my Dad’s old Beatles albums. It wasn’t until sixth grade when I finally got a little radio for my bedroom that my music tastes started opening up. During most of my early adolescence, you could find me in my room, blasting Casey Kasem on the radio, and drawing.

Recently I checked out the Casey Kasem cd set, “America’s Top 10 Through the Years.” This is a five cd set, starting from the 50s and careening through the 90’s. WOW. It’s amazing how much more tolerant I am of the 80’s hits versus the songs from the 90’s. It was just so, so, bad…like Amy Grant and Wilson Phillips bad. Anyway, I stumbled on “One More Try” and was immediately transported to my bed room during 7th grade. (His music was so true! I mean, if I ever got a boyfriend, I was sure that this song would sum up our inevitable break up). What I really love about this music video (and subsequent videos from the early 90’s) is the incredible styling, dance moves, and back up dancing. I mean, really, do we need several people swaying in the background? Do we need mock turtle necks paired with gold chains? Were white jeans on straight men ever appropriate? Apparently so…I mean we must have needed it because the early 90’s were my slow introduction to sub-culture. Anyway, I really love this video:

Side note: in an attempt to convince Mark to include this gem in our upcoming Soft Rock show I made Joey sing it with me at The Hideout last night. I sang it badly, but I’d had a few drinks and thought I sounded awesome. Josh pointed out the repeated rhyming of the word ‘you,’ and I think Mark might have actually considered it. Then I stumbled on this live version and OMG, the choreography is PRICELESS:

A day after my Big Block Watch Meeting I’m in Queen Anne, experiencing the awkward feeling of approaching my last few hours at the preschool, when I am approached by a man. He is a rough around the edges type of man, terrible teeth, scraggly hair, bleery eyed with a piece of lettuce stuck to his lip. He immediately launches in as if we’ve been having a conversation all morning, “My friend has lived at this house for YEARS and never had a single problem!” I said, “Well, that’s Queen Anne for you…I live in the south end and I wish I could say that.” His eyes brightened, “I lived there when I was a little boy! You’ll never believe me but I used to walk to school, down Rainier Avenue when I was in kindergarten.” I was amused, “Wow…that’s young.” He looked me over and said, “Are those your real teeth?” I smiled instinctively, “Yes.”
“They’re just beautiful,” he admired.

This is not my cat…however, this is my car.

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My South Lake Union Trolley shirt came in:

Refer to this post for further details.

I have paid for three manicures in my life, (and I got a free one years ago from a Starbucks client) The first one was with Kimberly two summers ago and it was a great experience. My mani lasted a full week, despite how hard I am on my hands. The second time was right before Sam and Erin’s wedding. I went back to the same place and asked for a mani/pedi. It was a terrible experience; they were hasty, made fun of other customers while I was sitting there, and seemed annoyed the whole time. One woman painted my toes while the other grabbed my hand and started slathering paint on my nails. This was my first pedicure and I found it to be extremely tickly and uncomfortable and it certainly didn’t help that someone was occupying my hands at the same time. I had really hoped the mani/pedi would be done one after the other instead of simultaneously. It sucked. It didn’t help that I foolishly put my shoes and socks on and completely ruined the pedicure. I had stuck my toes under the dryer for a full fifteen minutes but it didn’t matter…I wrecked it.

I decided yesterday that my character in I Feel Fine should have dark, creepy, nails. So, I decided that I was going to splurge on a manicure and went to a nail place two blocks from the one I had previously gone to (both are on Broadway). It was three dollars cheaper (12 instead of 15) and I should have known better. The following is the review I wrote on Google:
It took me over an hour to get a simple manicure. The job was split up between two employees. The male employee did the prep work (trimming, filing, etc), the female employee did the polish. The guy cut my cuticle too close, causing it to bleed slightly. He apologized but it was very awkward situation. I should have left. When the girl took over she has to redo most of his work, including evening out my nail shape which he had left lopsided. She was split between myself and another customer, so I received a very hasty polish job. I had hoped some recognition of my bleeding cuticle would have occurred but she remained oblivious and took my money without offering any incentive. I suppose it was ambitious of me to hope that she would recognize that paying someone for damage to my finger might not be the best customer service. This manicure lasted less then 24 hrs with most of the polish chipping off within the first few hours. I suppose you get what you pay for ($12) but I am never going to Nini’s again.

There is a small part of me that is terrified I’m going to develop some horrible skin disease. The other part just wants to put the whole experience behind me. (Besides it was a tiny amount of blood and a lot of alcohol was applied after it happened). Sure, I debated going back there today and saying, “Look, this is the worst manicure ever, it’s chipping and you owe me.” However, I would probably just be subjected to continued crappiness. I had always viewed a manicure as an incredibly frivolous expense, something that I always thought was silly and unnecessary. However, my own attempt at painting my nails has been disastrous (and believe me I’ve gone through phases). Paying someone for longevity seemed worth it: I’ll get my nails done and they might actually last a week. However, this was certainly not the case. I think I’m going to go to a beauty supply store and buy some good supplies: a nice topcoat, some hardcore polish, and a good clipper. I’m not willing to pay $30 bucks for a mani and I’m certainly not going to suffer a cheaply done job again…so, I suppose it’s up to me.

Yesterday I reached such a giant state of fatigue that in the middle of some pointless meeting I almost keeled over and fainted. I actually had to put my head between my legs. While examining my shoes (i really need to polish my danskos) my eyes swept over my blue/green/yellow colored thumb and I almost passed out right then and there. Nothing is more nauseating then one’s own discoloration. Were people alarmed? No, in fact the woman I was having a meeting with said, “Well, we can stop now, OMIGOD I’m going to be late to pick up my daughter from school! The parking lot is going to be a nightmare! Oh, and today is the day she has a playdate too…”

Now, the worst thing about being hurt/sick, etc. is feeling people’s pity. A little pity is ok, right, we all like people empathizing with us. It does not feel good, however, to have people look you over with a mix of dismay, pity, and slight irritation. So, I’m not saying that I want people bending over backwards, sharing with me their own tragic tales of sprained limbs, or hell, even cooing, “Awwww.” However, yesterday I was surprised at how much negative insensitivity was thrown at me. Sure, we’re overworked and underpaid. We’ve already plowed through four office managers in one year and now we’re priming a fifth one. Me walking in with my hand in a splint, eyes fogged over from yet another late night rehearsal, almost passing out is looked at as merely halting productivity. The weak do not survive. No one has time.

Today I bought some dark chocolate, left work at a reasonable hour, and folded a mountain of laundry. This is the last week where I will endure rehearsals every night from 7pm-10pm. Soon, my sister will move out. Before you know it Josh will stop working at night. Hopefully, things will feel more normal…in the meantime my thumb looks awesome!

Saw it first on smarmy but babies laughing is really worth watching.