Introducing Ellie

Why do I call Monica "Ellie"?  First of all, it rhymes with "smelly" and who can argue with that in middle school?  Of course, my name rhymes with the unfortunate "queasy", "cheesy", "easy", and "sleazy", so don't feel too bad for her.  Seriously though, in the adolescent quest for cute, my friends Alicia and Monica Elaine picked the nicknames Allie and Ellie.  Oh, how I wished my middle name was Olivia or Iliana!  I don't know where Allie is these days, but I think it is fitting that Ellie gets the final blog, seeing as she is my oldest friend. 

Ellie played violin in orchestra and danced in ballet.  We were in all the same gifted classes.  We both liked jean jackets, perms, swimming, and boys.  Many a foot fell asleep sitting cross-legged under her Ouija board.  Her mom called me "hija".  Ellie and I did a lot of laughing and crying together.  Our era of sleepovers is the last time I remember carefree childhood.  We always had someone to eat lunch with.  We had great secrets and inside jokes.  We had major crushes that we discussed endlessly.  We could have fun doing anything. 

A typical sleepover at Ellie's consisted of an afternoon of bike riding, nail painting, hair-doing, gossip, a movie rental/Saturday Night Live, and surrender to sleep.  The next day, we would start with potatoes and eggs in a tortilla with garlic salt, salt, and pepper (I am salivating, currently).  We would then walk to the Ladera Theater to see a movie or go swimming at the Y or loiter at the nearest Walgreens.  I liked Days and Ellie liked All My Children (both of which aired at 11am on rival networks), and unable to compromise, mid-morning TV was really out of the question. The only thing I don't remember is a single quiet moment.  We could analyze, deliberate, and pontificate upon any subject ad infinitum. 

The start of high school marked the end of our era.  Ellie went to West Mesa, and I went to Highland.  They were just so darn far away.  We still made time to see each other, but it wasn't the same.  Then college rolled around, and we simply lost touch.  No hard feelings, it was just kinda over.  My whole life, I have been guilty of this out-of-sight-out-of-mind projection thing.  When people are out of my sight, I figure I am out of their mind.  I got a wedding invite from Ellie when I was working for my mom one summer, at the end of my college stint.  Feeling responsible for our distance, I resisted attending.  Besides, after all the years and miles, I assumed she wouldn't recognize me anyway.  My social anxiety convinced me that attending the wedding would only lead to awkwardness--she invited me because she had to.  My mom pushed me to go, though.  Remembering all the daydreams Ellie and I had about falling in love with with the perfect man, what our weddings would be like, having our kids grow up like cousins, I relented. 

I didn't RSVP, and I made mom sit with me in the back.  The church was packed with hundreds of relatives and friends.  The happiness of this wonderful ceremony was buzzing.  Before the happy couple entered the room, the priest got everyone's attention.  He welcomed us and asked that we turn to our left and our right, and greet the people sitting next to us.  Mom was on my right, thankfully, then I turned left.  A vaguely familiar woman lit up when I turned to her.  She introduced herself as the aunt of the bride, and I stammered, "I'm Ell--Monica's friend from middle school."

The woman nodded, told me she remembered what good friends we were, and expressed how happy Ellie would be that I was there.  She even remembered my name.  I thought it was a fluke.  Then the mariachis started.  The congregation stood up.  Ellie, led by her mom and dad, began walking down the aisle.  She looked beautiful and composed as she entered the church.  It may have been my imagination, but it seemed her eyes found me before anyone else.  I felt a flood of emotion, and we both burst into tears.  There was Ellie, my dear friend, like no time had lapsed.  She looked just the same.  Some bonds you can never break. 

Introducing Janet

I am pretty picky about friends.  My close friends are good, solid people.  That being said, I am not the type of person who can say, "Any friend of Joe's is a friend of mine."  It doesn't usually work that way.  As much as I like my friends, they are drawn to people like me, and I don't get along with other Sagittarians.  Ok, that's not always the case, but I am guarded when meeting a close friend of a close friend.  Then there's Janet.

Janet is nacho average friend.

The first time I met her, Sheppy and I had just worked through Gay Pride.  We took a cab to the Sullivan's and Janet made sure we ate and drank to our hearts' content.  She then asked us a favor, "I'm going to ask that you don't give me any money, because this isn't a big deal.  Just keep your money."  The next time I saw Janet, she came to The Back Room, exhausted after a long shift at Carmine's.  Fully expecting her to poop out after an hour, she not only stayed with us to the end of the set, but then went out with a group of us until something like 4am.  It was a really fun night that I won't forget. 

Janet and Sheppy are quite a team, having been roommates for years, and sharing a similar sense of humor.  They worked their tails off gathering donations at the Friends of Marky fundraiser.  A couple of times, I offered to relieve them of their duties, seeing that they were stuck at a table in front of a seemingly endless stream of people.  After several offers to take over, Janet explained to me that she actually had the best seat in the house, and she wanted to stay there all night, if that was okay.  She showed the same friendly work ethic when it came to Sheppy's going away party.  For a couple weeks, we schemed via telephone to convince an unwilling participant to go to her own farewell celebration.  Janet booked an awesome venue, brought people, and provided hilarious decor for the Mexican-themed "Nacho Average Going Away Party".  I guess I can take credit for somehow getting Sheppy there, but it was Janet's baby--I never could have planned something like that. 

Then there was the last time we went to Andy's together.  I don't even know how to describe why it was so special.  If it hadn't happened already, that night sealed the deal that Janet and I would be friends--and not just friends because we have a friend in common.  We easily could have been done with each other after the going away party, but, darn it, I just adore her. 

Janet has started a new journey (outside of Chicago) in her life, and I think about her often.  She is always the thoughtful one who remembers to call or text me.  It's too bad it took us so long to hang out, we were right under each other's noses for the longest time.  I know I will see her again. 

Introducing Santino

Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, they both, oh yes, they both, oh yes, they both, reached for, thegunthegunthgunthegun, oh yes, they both reached for the gun, FOR THE GUN!  Pop, six, squish, uh-uh... Cicero, Lipschitz.

The day Tom decided I should move to Chicago, I asked him for some contacts in the Windy City.  The first option, Santino, was the brother of a friend of mine (Marco).  We really didn't know each other well, but since we had been in a couple plays together, we had a short history that made it easier to ask him for help.  According to legend, Santino had to live in a friend's closet when he first moved to Chicago.  Hoping he would extend the same charitable hand to me, I made the phone call.  Santino was very nice and offered to let me stay in his studio while I got on my feet.  The first night Chris and I were there, we hopped on the el and went to Pizza Capri and The Green Mill.  We were nearly shot by in drive-by while walking to the jazz club.  When we heard the gunshots, Chris and I hit the sidewalk, and Santino threw his body on top of us.  Very manly.  Isolated incident.  Not the manliness, of course.  That was the first time Santino saved my life.  For the next couple of weeks, we reviewed our days, ate, and rented movies together.  We were strangely obsessed with memorizing "The Cell Block Tango" and "Both Reached for the Gun".  That studio was tiny, and I am forever thankful that he let me stay as long as I needed. 

I didn't bring much stuff, and tried to cook and clean as much as possible while usurping Santino's A/C.  He accompanied me in finding an apartment, and was supportive while I searched for a job.  Santino was a great influence on me during my early days in Chicago.  He didn't let me get my hopes up for a huge apartment, and told me that it was going to be a struggle to get a job.  He also encouraged me to drive around and get to know the city.  When I asked him if my driving was ok, he suggested, "You could punch it a little more," and I keep that in mind every time I am behind someone turning left at a green light. 

I know Santino's mom hates this story, but I have to tell it.  My first apartment was a shithole studio in Uptown.  I never had any trouble walking to and from the train, I got along with my neighbors, and lived a very peaceful existence... until one night.  About 2 in the morning, I heard commotion in my hallway.  I double-checked to make sure my door was locked, but there were obviously several men trying to break into a room on my floor.  All I could hear were thumping footsteps and men's voices yelling.  It was the scariest moment of my life.  I dialed 911, but my cell phone was not getting service.  I turned off my dial-up internet connection, and waited anxiously as my landline slowly became available.  Once I heard a dial tone, I tried the cops again.  The yelling was becoming increasingly threatening.  I told the operator that someone's life was in danger, and I was terrified.  The operator systematically regurgitated her spiel, "We will send someone out, thank you for your call, blah blah..." 

I whispered, "Wait!  I'm really scared, can't you stay on the phone until they get here?"

"We'll send someone out as soon as possible.  Good-bye." Click. 

 

My mind was a blank.  I wanted to call my boyfriend.  I wanted to call my mom.  But they were both a million miles away in New Mexico.  I wanted to run out of the building, but I lived in a studio on the 8th floor with no back door.  The only route to the fire escape was through the hallway.  There was no exit.  Feeling sure there was at least one gun on the other side of my wall, I decided to lay down in the bathtub.  If a bullet was going to come through a wall, maybe an extra layer of porcelain would slow it down.  My heart was beating out of my chest, and I was starting to hyperventilate.  The yelling was getting more intense, and it was right next door.  Santino!  I could call Santino!  He would know what to do.  I didn't want to move from the shelter of my bathtub, and I wasn't sure if the cell phone would work, but I gave it a try.  I dialed Santino's number and held my breath. 

 

In a sleepy voice, Santino answered, "Mmmhello?"

 

"Some guys broke into the apartment next door to me, and I think they are going to shoot this guy, I don't know what to do, I'm scared..." I blabbered.

 

Suddenly alert, "Just give me a minute to find my car, and I'll be there in a few minutes," Santino hurriedly answered.  He hung up before I could protest his coming out.  I laid in the bathtub and waited. 

 

About 10 minutes passed, and Santino magically appeared at my door.  I don't remember him buzzing my apartment, he just materialized.  He told me that he couldn't remember where he parked his car, so he just ran from Irving Park to Foster.  He let me tell him the whole story again.  When I apoligized for calling so late, he explained that he had been at a party anyway, and had barely closed his eyes when I phoned him.  He reassured me that he would stay all night, and if I wanted to go to sleep, he would be up keeping watch.  Once we started talking, I realized that the voices from next door were gone.  I fell asleep and life went on the next morning. 

 

That was the second time Santino saved my life.

Introducing Ben

This is another one of the toughest blogs to write.  I have sat down several times to attempt it, but I'm just not satisfied with what I have to say.  Well, last night, I had a dream about Ben, and I think it is time to just bite the bullet.   I'm making this sound like it is a chore to write about Ben.  That is not the truth.  Can I just get on with it?  My topics today will be Danger, Music, and Warm Fuzzies. 

Danger.  It is dangerous for me to work with Ben.  Dangerous for my productivity, dangerous for my vocal cords, dangerous for the Kleenex fund, because I had to wipe away so many tears of laughter.  Ben is one of the funniest humans I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.  Luckily, he worked an office away from me for the beginning of my employment here.  Then he moved to my office for awhile.  It is best that he left after a few short months.  How I didn't wet myself at some point is beyond me.  I can imitate just about any singer's voice, but I stink at adolescent boy sound effects.  Ben was patient enough to teach me to make a high pitched farting sound with my mouth.  Unfortunately, I didn't have enough time with him to teach me the sleepy dog sound.  Maybe someday we can have a pickup lesson. 

Music.  Ben is one of the best musicians I know.  He is a hell of a front man, singing and playing guitar for his rock band.  His CD is totally enjoyable, and he actually asked me to sing backup for him on a couple gigs in town.  Ben provided me with a feather boa and several very productive rehearsals.  It is really nice to work with someone who is musical, kind, and has a definite vision.  They weren't the easiest gigs in my life, but they were super fun.  Ben also introduced me to "Serenade" (Steve Miller) and "Custard Pie" (Led Zeppelin), which always make me happy when I hear them on my stereo. 

Warm Fuzzies.  The moment I met Ben, he made me feel like I had a big brother in the office.  He made sure I didn't hesititate when there was free pizza in the lunchroom.  He counseled me when I couldn't deal with the taste of green tea, despite its antioxidant powers.  He loaned me a DVD that I still haven't returned to him.  He can elicit laughter with a mere smile.  He is an excellent hugger.  I miss him. 

Introducing Jessica

Looking back, I think Jessica and I made very weird first impressions on each other.  She appeared in Uni Singers as a much younger, much more musical individual than I, and I couldn't help but be intimidated.  And her first impression of me?... Well, you can ask Jessica and see what she admits.  Of course, after letting ourselves get to know each other better, we overcame those impressions. 

Jessica and I only went to school together for two semesters, but that was quite a school year.  That was the era of weekly parties, Corpus Christi, Italy, our short-lived jazz trio, and general mania.  She and Don could often be spotted choreographing the perfect cheer.  No matter how hard we danced, how much we frolicked, Jessica always smelled good and her makeup remained intact.  She was so confident and capable, sometimes I would forget that I was older than her.  When Jessica and Don left for Colorado, I was pretty sure the good times left with them.  However, they visited often, and it really felt like they never left.

On one particular visit home, Jessica brought along 3 other fabulously talented friends from her school.  The presence of my guitar was requested at this evening gathering.  Feeling a little nervous in front of her new friends, I played a quirky folk song or two for the singers, violin guy, and concert pianist.  Then violin guy picked up the guitar and played some much more complicated Dave Matthews and Led Zeppelin songs.  What was classical violin guy doing, knowing how to play hippy dippy music?  My iconoclast hustle wasn't working the way it usually did.  Although I loved what he played, I felt outdone and didn't dare pick up the guitar for the rest of the night. 

The next day, the same group gathered for a sunny afternoon of swimming at Jess's pool, and they wanted me to bring the guitar again.  They asked me to sing Bobby McGee.  Right when I wanted to lock up the guitar forever, Jessica told me that she and her friends decided something the night before.  I was ready for their scholarly advice.  Maybe they thought I should take some classes in flamenco.  Perhaps an etude or two could supplement my standard crappy Joan Baez songs.  Jessica took a deep breath, looked at her friends (who were looking at me intensely), and said, "We have decided that we could listen to you sing the phone book!"  Of course these people were just as nice as Jessica.  She wouldn't waste her time with anything but. 

Luckily, I still have a lifeline to Jessica, since her mom and dad have a home in the burbs.  I hear from her now and then, weddings, trips, milestones, etc.  It's nice to have her in my life--she is a friend who can easily pick up where we left off.  I hope to see her again soon. 

Introducing Zach

Ah, yes, the last of the high school boyfriend blogs has come.  As horrible as I am at staying friends with the horde1 of exes, Zach not only befriended me on the 'Space, but he initiated a follow up phone call, which was pretty amicable.  I mean, after 14 years, if you can't be friendly, then, well...  then you're probably a lot like me.  Needless to say, I have been racking my brain trying to think of the perfect anecdote to share about my first major boyfriend.  On to the blog.

My junior year, Zach was a new student from Georgia.  He played soccer.  He drove a red pickup truck.  He somehow found himself lunching with my crowd rather than the super-cool soccer peeps.  The first time I remember really hanging out with Zach was at my stepdad's 40th birthday party2.  He was dressed as the jock.  After all of my friends left for the night, and the party was winding down, Zach and I found ourselves alone on the back deck, trusted with the task of emptying the keg.  If we had been really boring teenagers, we would have guzzled a ton of suds and let our raging hormones take over, but we didn't.  We just chatted, laughed nervously, and that was that. 

That same month, I was performing in Kiss Me Kate in theater, and I was singing Led Zeppelin's "Going to California" in guitar class.  Zach came to one night of the musical, and I think we went out for coffee afterward.  What I didn't realize until he reminded me later in our relationship, is that he wore a purple shirt because it was my fave color, and he fast forwarded his Led Zeppelin tape to the exact moment Robert Plant sings, "To find a queen without a king, they say she plays guitar and cries and sings," so that when we got in the truck, that is the first thing we would hear.

I was not the typical soccer player's girlfriend, and I was painfully aware of that.  The girls' and boys' teams were on this upper eschelon of cool that I could never achieve with my handpainted guitar case, geeky choir get-up, and inexhaustible mental database of Monkees repertoire.  I fantasized that jocks were born with the psychic ability to predict where the wild parties were held, innate fashion sense, and enough charm to talk their papers up from a B- to a solid A3.  This cool deficiency deemed that our relationship was to be short-lived.  Alas, we had some good times together, and in addition to teaching me some important lessons in life, he was truly kind on many occasions.  I don't know if, to this day, he gives himself enough credit for being a nice guy.  I have seen it, though. 

1. Okay, maybe not a horde, but definitely enough to form a basketball team.2. See "Introducing Aaron"3.I was never privy to a single wild party in high school, wore jean jackets way past their expiration date, and was so fearful of my teachers that I would take whatever grade they gave me, no questions asked.    

Introducing Georgette

Marky and I walked past the produce section this evening when a pro-veggie poster caught our eye.  The sign read, "Sneak A Snack!"  It's the kind of catchphrase you can't help but verbalize. 

We walked to the bread aisle muttering "Sneak A Snack.  Sneakasnack," and I had deja vu. 

"Snicker Snack.  One two, one two, and through and through, the vorpal blade went snicker-snack!"  I recited. 

"What is that nonsense?!" Marky demanded. 

I'm not much of a poem reciter.  But I know me some Jabberwocky.  It's the heroic nonsense poem from from Alice in Wonderland, and I not only performed an arrangement of it in the Highland Concert Choir, but Turtle (our commando theater director/narcotics agent, who really preferred to be addressed as "John," but for the purpose of this colorful story, he shall remain "Turtle") also inserted this poem throughout a night of one-act plays.  The one acts were sadly forgettable.  I have zero recollection of the plotlines, much less the names of the pieces.  However, Georgette, I, and another actor performed Jabberwocky in various styles between them. 

I opened the night as a hunched over, frail, old woman.  Following Turtle's strict direction, I silently hobbled through the darkness toward center stage at a snail's pace.  Once I finally arrived, I exploded into storytelling, leaping about, and wielding my walking stick as the aforementioned vorpal blade.  Maintaining the hunch, my little old lady was powerful and boisterous.  After the final borogoves and mome raths, the little old lady weakly retreated with the aid of her trusty walking stick. 

Georgette possessed the amazing ability to defy gender onstage.  Don't get me wrong--I say this in the spirit of admiration.  She is really be a lovely flower (I have super girlie pics of us from prom), but she had the theatrical fortune to strip down and pass for a dude.  George stood behind a pulpit and preached her Jabberwocky as a vestment-clad southern preacher man.  It was funny and stirring.  This was the gem of the evening.  She banged her fists, thrust her finger in the air, wiped the sweat from her brow.  Royal purple raglan sleeves danced as she lunged to and fro.  Not a single performance went by without at least one "Amen" or "Hallelujah" from the audience.  Against Turtle's insistance, everyone sneaked out from backstage to watch George in all her Carrollian majesty.  Her performance never got old.  You never knew how the audience would react, so every night was a little different. 

Of all of the plays, choir pieces, guitar etudes, and trigonometric equations I memorized in high school, Jabberwocky is what I took with me.  And it is largely due to Georgette.  I hope she still remembers it, too.   Hopefully she recites it to her baby, who will undoubtedly inherit her mother's wonderful sense of humor. 

Introducing Alice

Alice is the superfoxy wife of the guitarist/pianist from my former band, BooN.  She is not only wonderfully liberal and artistic, she is a terrific mother and a supportive groupie.  There really should be a special award for the woman who lets her spouse not only hold noisy weekly rehearsals in the basement, but also attends every seedy gig with a proud smile on her face. 

My story is a little hard to admit.  I am not a thief, by any means.  However, I have acquired a stuffed animal, a bracelet, and 3 CDs, (all of which are still in heavy rotation in my life) by *ahem* dishonest means.  The Gallery Cabaret was one of the seediest clubs at which the illustrious BooN performed.  It was certainly the darkest.  As we set up equipment in the noisy bar, Alice showed up wearing a beautiful dark red jacket--everyone who knows Alice is aware that she is quite the fashionista.  A few minutes after she got settled, we exchanged hellos and I got to work onstage.  BooN played for an hour, and then took a break.  I found a table in the front, and spied a lovely, unattended velvet scarf.  Most of the crowd had left for the evening, and I was sure someone had forgotten this little piece.  I touched the crushed velvet designs.  It was the perfect medium weight.  The perfect burgundy color.  I looked about, and saw no one who belonged to this accessory.  My acquisition instinct kicked in.  Sticky fingers.  Who would know?  For some reason, though, I had an attack of conscious.  I decided to wait until the end of the second set.  If the scarf was still unclaimed, I would take it home.  Back to the stage. 

After the last song, we disassembled our gear and made our way out the door.  But, oh!  The scarf!  I had forgotten to grab it.  I ran to the front table, and it was gone.  Heartbreak.  But it was probably taken home by its rightful owner.  After I said goodbye to Steve and the other guys, I hugged Alice.  She told me that her scarf had disappeared.  She described it as a dark red velvet with fringe.  It matched her jacket perfectly.  Apparently someone had the same inclination I did.  I would have felt horrible if I had been the one to take it, but I would certainly have given it back to her.  But someone got to it first.  Every time I see lovely scarves in department stores, I look for one that could be a replacement.  It has been two years, and I still haven't found one.  But my misplaced guilt drives me to keep looking. 

Introducing Thera

I cried the first time I heard Thera sing.  I cried the last time I heard Thera sing. 

Thera and I were both in John's studio in college.  For the most part, performances in studio were uninspired, partially memorized songs that made you struggle to keep your head from falling on the table in boredom.  When Thera started to sing the spiritual "Ol' Jim", I felt tears welling up, but I tried to control it.  When it came time to critique, I just started to sob.  I'm sure I made quite the first impression on Thera. 

It always felt good to make Thera laugh.  When you really wind him up, his hysterical laugh is one the Top 3 I have ever heard.  We had some serious fun when we went into Chris's studio.  Ah, that was the era of choir trips and parties.  I drove one of the two white campus vans to Corpus Christi, and Thera was in my group.  Hand sanitizer was a relatively new idea in the world, and we decided to slather it on all of the passengers in our mighty whitey.  Our group narrowly escaped the stomach flu that devastated the passengers in the other van. 

Our choir also went to Italy that year.  After everyone tried their best to alert their banks, get traveler's cheques, bring enough cash, etc, Thera's debit card was the only one that didn't work in the Italian ATM machines.  It wasn't a huge problem, because there were so many of us, someone could always buy him an extra slice of pizza, but he just wasn't going to have any spending money.  When we arrived in Siena, a big group of us sat in Piazza Del Campo, eating gelato.  There were hundreds of people milling around, being touristy, and we dared Alexis to sing "O Mio Babbino Caro".  She did it, and some people stopped to listen.  Don decided to sing, then Jessica, and more people gathered.  Almost all of us got up the nerve to sing solo (I chickened out, of course), then Mike conducted a group piece, and there was a huge group watching at that point.  We passed a hat, and collected about 200 dollars in Lire.  We considered it a boon, and gave the money to Thera.  Problem solved.  Later that night, a few of us assembled outside the kitchen of our hotel.  Thera insisted that I redeem myself for that afternoon by singing.  I protested.  He wanted to hear me do the Joan of Arc aria.  So I did it.  It's a looooong song.  It was the first time I did opera stuff in front of people outside of my studio, and I shook the whole time.  When I was done, Thera jumped to his feet, grabbed me and hugged me.  He was crying, and I thought that even if it was just the Grappa talking, I still felt special. 

The last time I saw Thera, it was years later, after we had both left school.  I was hanging out with my friends from the recently deceased Cider Jazz.  Thera stood in with a jazz band in Las Cruces and got up to sing "My Funny Valentine" in a very scatty, beboppy style.  I came full circle when I found myself sobbing uncontrollably at the sound of his voice.  Maybe it was the Corona talking, but I sure miss that voice.

Introducing Beau

There are only two reasons I am friends with Beau.  I need to break into the movies, and his sister is hot. 

Beau makes me smile.  He is a warm fuzzy.  When you sit down with Beau, you feel like you are a kid, and not in a naive-awkward-teen way.  We're talking about a milk-and-Golden-Grahams-sitting-in-front-of-the-TV-watching-Saturday-morning-cartoons way.  He just makes me feel comfortable.  Beau has this way of making you feel like you are smart and talented, and that you are the first person to have the thought you are sharing with him. 

He is talented, himself.  Beau is one of those rare gems who could easily be a shameless name dropper and self promoter, but he isn't.  He just fires up that wildly expensive steadicam, flashes his boyish grin, and runs like hell.  After seeing his demo of steadicam work, I look at every television show and movie differently.  Although he doesn't take credit for taking a great still, Beau also spent some time taking photos of my jazz band.  I really don't care if he thinks they aren't his best work, when I showed the pics to the other guys in the band, they LOVED what he captured. 

I don't know anything about the movies, I don't know anything about photography.  What I do know is that I respect a person who passionately pursues their dream.  Beau has a pretty darn good dream, and I believe he is going to succeed. 

Introducing Michele

Michele has got MoJoe.  Well, I suppose MoJoe has Michele.  She is the assistant to my mom's real estate team (Mo and Joe, get it?), and they are lucky to have her. 

Although Michele and I have spent all of 15 minutes in the same room together, I feel like we know a bunch about each other.  I know for that she loves Duran Duran and red hair.  Who doesn't love Simon LeBon and a nice henna?  Now, Michele's most important gift to the world was getting my mom more acquainted with MySpace...  Ok, maybe that's not her most significant contribution to life itself, but it sure made me happy.  Check out her pictures of the city in her profile.  Kinda makes me want to buy a house out there! 

I like her sense of humor and her smile.  You better know how to smile if you are going to survive with the mighty MoJoe.  Michele adds some zing to that alliance.  I like zing.

Introducing Maureen

Alright, this is the 5th time I have started this blog.  I think it fitting that I finally gathered the courage to write a story about Maureen today.  It is her birthday!  Happy Birthday, Mom.

We were in a hurry to get me into this world, and the two of us have not slowed down since.  Mom is a doer.  We couldn't even wait for my dad to park the car before I popped out of her belly.  She took me Christmas shopping and had my ears pierced before I was one week old.  I'm not sure if she had a name for me by then (the birth certificate still says "Female Del Campo"), but we spared no time in getting on with life.  Birth Schmirth. 

Fun plates, stationery, and embroidery are my favorite memories of childhood.  Fun plates were dinner creations that usually included Triscuits topped with cold cuts and mustard, and oranges sliced in half, dipped in powdered sugar.  They were served on our colorful Heller dishes, and were accompanied by Sprite, dyed any color we wanted.  At what age do we realize that our favorite meal was really a cleverly-named fridge-cleaning session, or lack of resources?  Either way, I think I might make fun plates for dinner tonight. 

My mom worked at The Looking Glass, a gift shop that sold high-end home accessories, paper goods, candles, etc.  In the back room, she and her coworkers had access to an engraving machine for brass items, and an imprinting machine to personalize stationery.  Mom always made sure Chris and I had our own stockpile.  We left professional, envelopped notes for each other every morning.  She saved a lot of them.  It's funny and touching to see her children learning to express themselves through the written word.  Every parent should do this.

I cannot take credit for being the original Crafty McSchnafty.  With the aid of her enlarging projector, iron-on pencil, and endless bag of embroidery thread, mom could recreate Peter Rabbit's garden on broadcloth in what seemed like minutes.  If mom's friends' kids weren't waking up to an embroidered nameplate hung on their wall, they were definitely falling asleep under a quilted canvas of her French knots, satin stitches, and lazy daisies.   

Everyone goes through a time when they want to break free and piss off their parents.  Mom made it tough.  When I told her I wanted to dye my hair purple, she grabbed the gloves and dyed it for me.  When I wanted to get more ear piercings, she sterilized the needle and pierced.  When I decided to paint my room black, she grabbed the paint roller.  We had our share of disagreements, but that just what happens when you place two strong, sharp women in the same house. 

Things you might not know about Maureen:  With the right partner, she is the best jitterbugger on the dance floor.  She is left-handed.  In addition to starring in countless radio and TV commercials, she hosted TV's Romper Room, a chat show called "Everybody's Talking", and puppeteered Sissy on "Captain Mac and Sissy".  Mom loves ketchup.  She knows how to tell one joke in Spanish--the punchline is, "Meatballs, didn't you know?"  The day she was to be crowned Homecoming Queen, Kennedy was assassinated, and the ceremony was cancelled.  She was finally crowned 20 years later at her high school reunion.  She has seen Phantom of the Opera over 25 times.  Maureen played nickel slots with Emilio Estevez, flirted with Trent Reznor, interviewed George Peppard, and slept with Tom Selleck...  Okay, she fell asleep on a plane, and Tom Selleck sat beside her.  She didn't know he was there until the plane landed! 

Things my mother taught me:  Fake it till you make it.  Don't sleep past 9 on the weekends.  You can make a game out of any chore.  Pay in cash.  Getting a bad grade on your report card for talking in class isn't the end of the world.  Write Thank-You notes.  Clean as you go.  Follow your dream.  And most importantly, Life is an adventure. 

Introducing Annette

Annette wants you to think she is a tough girl.  She is really nice.  I mean, she is tough at work, but she has a big heart.  And the thought of Annette and Michele having keggers when their parents were out of town is just so adorable to me.  Shoot, I hope their parents aren't reading this, they'll be PISSED!

I like the fact that when I page downstairs, Annette sounds genuinely happy to hear my voice.  She also calls me for craft trivia.  Recently she inquired how to cut plexiglass.  Annette also offered me her not-so-oft-used embroidery stand.  If only I had jumped on that offer.  Crafty McSchnafty might have been traveling a much different road.  Anyway, Annette is a very supportive friend as far as my creative endeavors go.  She is also supportive of my fashion decisions.  There are not many people from whom I appreciate a public wolf whistle. 

I suppose I could use my knowledge for evil, because Annette isn't a MySpace addict and she probably won't ever see this.  However, I don't want to put any keys in jeopardy.  So... In conclusion, Annette is wonderful and nice and kind.  Please page 268.

Introducing Michele

Hi Pretty Lady!

Just to get this part out of the way, Michele walks 7 1/2 miles to work while reading a novel.  I call her "Hot Legs" behind her back... Oops!  I guess the secret is out, Michele. 

Michele is nice.  Always.  She has time to smile every time I see her.  She likes to laugh.  Michele likes to shop at Uncle Fun, and brings the key department toys like meat magnets, grow your own alien, and various action figures.  We're not talking about birthday presents, either.  No, we get presents when we least expect them.  That's when you really need them, anyway. 

This lady travels.  She goes everywhere with her gal clan from high school (hope I'm getting that right), and takes fabulous pictures that make us all jealous.  In addition to Wisconsin and Louisiana, this year, she, Amy and Marissa traveled to fair Chicago.  She realized that despite living in Chicago, a ton of tourist traps she had yet to see. 

 

Most importantly, Michele gave Marky and me a gift for which we could never repay her.  Just when we needed it, Michele brought me a photograph.  I went to her house a couple nights later, picked up the gift, and surprised Marky.  It was the perfect color and size for our house, and we were overjoyed.  At first, it would roll under the couch and make weird hissing sounds, but eventually Roger became the love of our lives. 

Introducing Mark

Mark used to be a hand model.  That was after the Cirque du Soleil days.  What can a guy do after dropping out of elementary school?  This is all true.  According to Mark.  Here are the facts:

Favorite color: Purple

Favorite Vegetable: Do Natural Cheetos count as a vegetable?

Favorite TV shows: Survivor, The Amazing Race, Judge Judy

Favorite singers: Boo Boo, Linda Eder, Patti LuPone, Michael Ball, Cynthia Lauper, Bernadette Peters, Colin Farrell

Favorite way to get Amy's goat: Take her to a musical/Cat-sit

Favorite way to get Andrew's goat: Sing something from "By Jupiter"

Favorite way to get Bree's goat: Ask if she is knitting booties for "Little Boo"

Favorite place to get action figures: Archie McPhee

True Calling: Party Planner

Little known high school fact: Crowned Prom King

Artistic outlets: Photoshop, CD cover artwork, acrylic painting, gnome gardening

Most disappointing UPS delivery: toilet in a million pieces

Favorite comment after hearing reception page to tell you that you have a big package: "Why thank you"

Favorite Ice Cream Flavor: Prune

Best Halloween Costume: Neo from the matrix

Favorite dinner: Prime Rib at Charlie's

Percentage of a capella vocal group auditions have you nailed: 100%

Favorite fish at Long John Silver's: Chicken Plank

Favorite beverages: Mountain Dew and Screwdrivers

Best Music to Frug to: That's a toss up between "The Heavyweight" from Sweet Charity and Herb Alpert's "Taste of Honey"

Beloved movie character you auditoned for: Cameron in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off"

Little known stand-in work that ended up in a movie: Drummer in the Joan Jett/Michael J. Fox opus "Light of Day"

Thoughts on stand-up comedy: No problem.  I actually won a trip to New York based on my mad stand-up skills!

If you could only eat one snack food for the rest of your life, would you choose Pringles, Mrs. Field's Cookies, Mountain Dew, or M&M's?  I can't answer any more questions.  I am too offended.

Introducing Joey

More high school hair.  I know.  It's just that Joey's hair was not only long, it was red!  Joey was a really sweet, happy-go-lucky guy in guitar.  When he played, though, he was all business.  All of my still pictures of Joey make him look very serious.  That's a bit of a crime, since all any of us did in guitar class was make each other laugh.

I have two great memories of Joey.  First, he could play that renaissance-y intro to "Love Song" by Tesla.  I loved that intro.  LOVED it.  When I bought my Reality Bites-inspired camcorder, I nervously asked Joey to play the intro for posterity.  He agreed, and we set up shop in the hall between woodshop and guitar.  Never more than now do I wish I could transfer all those hours of tape to DVD, so that I could share that little moment with everyone.  Someday, I will do it.  I knew so many talented people at Highland. 

Number two.  How did Joey, Zak, Will, and I convince Mrs. Hunnemueller that we should play at the Homecoming assembly?  I suppose the other question we should have asked ourselves was what we should name our little band.  We learned one song, "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd, and we auditioned for the principal, the activities director, and someone from the homecoming committee.  They liked it, and Hunnemueller asked what our band name was.  I jokingly answered, "Bree and the Banditos," knowing that we would have time to change it to something like "Torrent" or "Death Baby" before the assembly actually took place.  We never changed the name of the band, much to my embarassment, because those guys worked way harder than I did.  We should have named it "Joey, Zak, Will, and the Gal Who Learned the Words".  The assembly happened, I wore a dress, and the guys all wore nice button up shirts.  I was so proud of my friends.  I think we even got a spot in the yearbook for that gig.  There was something really wonderful about playing for the homecoming assembly, because we really didn't belong there otherwise.

Looks like Joey straightened up and joined the military, but he will forever be my long-red-haired friend from high school.  And I will always cherish the Joey video. 

Introducing Mariella

Mariella is an old friend from NMSU.  She and I were always in the same studio, and we both had a pop music jones.  We both had a hell of a time getting through piano and ear training, but trudged through our degrees successfully.  With all we had in common, we looked out for each other in a sisterly way.  In studio, when one of us was singing, the other was following the sheet music, ready to mouth the words if she had a lyrical lapse.  We performed in the same numbers in the variety shows, roomed together in Italy, made costumes (thanks to Mariella's sewing machine), and eventually ended up in Cider Jazz together. 

Mariella, Della, Mary, and I performed "I'm a Woman" in one of the variety shows.  We each took a verse, and sang our own style.  Mary was jazzy, Della country, and Mariella and I did our big-voiced mama styles.  It was super fun, but it was also the first time we had thrown function out the window and went balls-out in front of faculty.  I was a little scared to hear what Dr. Rowe would have to say, and we knew she would say something.  She found us in the green room after the performance, and sternly said, "I don't know what you all were doing out there," then she smiled, "but keep doing it!" 

Mariella and I took that song to Las Cruces Community Theater where we auditioned for Little Shop of Horrors.  We were so hoping that everyone would audition so that NMSU folks could take over the cast, but we ended up being the only gals who did it.  It was a great way to spend the summer, though, singing the music that inspired us to be the mamas that we are.

Introducing Christine

I know the "friend" is really Steve Smith and Hard Road, but the only reason I have that friend is because Chris is a part of it.  Take that, Steve. 

Here is the short version of this blog:  Chris taught me to sing.  Chris is talented.  Chris was the pastor at my wedding.  Chris is my Guru.  And she likes turtles.

At first, I thought Chris was a man.  When I nervously switched majors and auditioned for the vocal program at NMSU, the only familiar face was that of my high school friend, John.  John was 3 years older, a music T.A., and whenever he saw me on campus, he bugged me about not pursuing music.  So I finally caved.  A few days later, I got a call from John.  He told me that he would be my voice teacher.  He told me that originally, I was signed onto Chris's studio, but there was a mixup, and he would be my guy.  I was so relieved, because John already knew me, and I didn't want to be stuck in some male teacher's studio.  Stranger danger. 

I cut my teeth with John for a year, and when he graduated, it was time for a new teacher.  Again, I was placed in Chris's studio, and I was nervous.  She was a real teacher, and I was nervous that I wouldn't measure up.  My first day of class, I wore my new pink blouse with nice shorts, and pretty shoes.  About an hour before class, I visited my boyfriend's dorm, and spilled water all over my blouse.  The water would not dry on it's own by the time I had a lesson, so I did what any ingenuitive person would.  I microwaved the shirt.  Just for 15 seconds.  I'm not sure if the big brown burn mark or the smell of singed nylon was more offensive.  Without time to run home, I asked to borrow a shirt from Marky.  The only halfway thing we could find was a faded Tori Amos shirt.  Aside from the fact that I HATE Tori Amos (don't try to talk me into her--it won't work), I now was left with no confidence.  I had ruined my shirt and now looked like a bum for my real lady teacher.  I think I blacked out the first three or four lessons out of sheer nervousness.  Once I became conscious, I cried 5 out of 6 times I stepped into her office.  Chris is eternally patient. 

Once we got more acquainted, Chris and I started to collaborate.  When I would get a little guitar gig, she would accompany me with her piano and harmony.  Chris Fun Fact: As long as I learned my Mozart, Chris would coach me on Janis Joplin.  She encouraged me to skip a semester of school to do an opera apprenticeship.  After that, she pushed me to join her revived vocal jazz group.  She forbade me to pursue a master's degree from NMSU.  It seems like she was always pushing me to do something amazing, or holding me back from potentially deadly disasters. 

Chris is the most amazing jazz director ever.  She had us lay on the ground and moan whatever tone we wished as a warmup.  We arranged most of our music as a giant collective around the piano.  Chris, Elena and I arranged "The Star Spangled Banner" without a piano, while we colored Easter eggs.  Chris would give us entirely too much credit for our roles in Cider Jazz.  Most of us tried our hand at arranging melodies, but Chris refined them for performance.  Also, if Chris wasn't such a good interpreter, half of our music wouldn't have come to fruition.  She can play absolutely anything.  My Favorite Chris Joke: When asked if I arranged a song, I would say, "I wrote down the notes, and Chris put them all in the right place."   Once, the group assembled at Isaac's house, we drank some beer, and everyone wrote an idea on a little slip of paper.  A sentence, a word, anything.  "Elvis is the king of Rock and Roll," "My Best friend is an Asshole," "Cherries," "I love Tequila," "Africa" and so on.  Then we put the ideas in a hat, and everyone drew a slip.  We took our slips and individually wrote poetry about that subject for 10 minutes.  Next, we folded up our poetry, put those in the hat, and everyone drew again.  We revised each other's writings for 5 minutes, and put them back in the hat.  The last time we drew, we had 15 minutes to add music and arrange the song.  We performed our songs for each other, and found ourselves with 6 new wonderful creations.  I remember Chris's the best, the chorus "Africa-ca-ca" causing me to laugh so hard I fell off the piano bench.  We never actually used any of the songs outside of that night, but it was a wonderful creative venture. 

When Chris heard that I was driving to Chicago, she snatched up a one-way ticket from Chicago.  We had a three-day conversation that happened to take place in my Toyota Echo, spanning a 1500-mile trek across Southern and Midwest America.  We sang on the stage in Nashville, visited Graceland during Elvis Week, ate Chicago pizza and listened to jazz at the Green Mill.

Chris was ordained as a pastor for our wedding.  She jokingly refers to herself as "Pastor Prime"...  Say it out loud, or it isn't funny.  Chris gave us marriage counseling a day before the wedding.  We all sat on the bed of our little hotel room huddled around a three-wick unity candle. 

Currently, Chris is working on a musical about Enron, writing the soundtrack for an independent movie, touring with her bluegrass band, and enjoying the euphoria associated with recently becoming a former-NMSU faculty member.  She recently visited me in Chicago, a trip that was all too short.  We did our share of painting the town red.  I miss her on a daily basis, and look forward to VH-1 interviewing us for "Behind the Music".

Introducing Amy

I recently changed my top friends, and it got my friend list all mixed up.  Without realizing my new "Toppies" had moved in the grand scheme, I went forward with blogs.  Before I knew it, a couple friends had been left in the dust, including the ebullient and effervescent Amy.  In the interest of order and sanity, I shall backtrack and catch up, but I will also derive personal devilish satisfaction from this debacle, because Amy is the one friend who predicted I would give up on my blog project before reaching her.  Onward.

Amy and I met at the office.  She was busy servicing landlords while I serviced guests.  A beloved office mate, the day her kitty was diagnosed with cancer, and amputation was imminent, we pulled together to think of a way to pay the exorbinant vet bills.  I felt very proud of our walkathon ideas, such as "Pussyfootin' 2004" and "Walk for the Pussy".  Alas, a private donor helped Amy, but we were ready to strut our paws for the cause.  I learned Amy's love for animals then, but that love was reinforced when I learned that Amy is the president of the "Vegetarians for Pork" Campaign.  She is also one of the few outsiders who Roger truly adores.  She calls him a "beautiful boy" and she is right.  She is easily his favorite cat sitter.  Although I have oft been called upon to catsit for Amy, I'm not sure she actually has cats. 

This office is prone to bouts of SBD-itis.  A small group gets together and trudges through the South Beach Diet, then after 2 weeks, it's so done for.  Well, the first time I ever did SBD, Amy was also in the trenches, and we planned to celebrate by having a special lunch together.  I didn't know Amy all that well, but thought it would be nice to get away from the office.  We went to a restaurant that is famous for its wonderful desserts.  We were disappointed with the service and the selection, but we had a lovely conversation.  After that luncheon, we had several other engagements at what became our regular booth at Stella's. 

Every time I get together with Amy, we have a good time.  She can be quite the confidant.  And our outings are usually ripe with adventure.  "Fun" shots at Kitty Moon, getting kicked out of Champions because I have no I.D., and trying in vain to catch a cab from Edgewater Lounge.  From the list of venues, one would think both Amy and I imbibe more than the average person.  It's just not true.  Even if you have read her comment to me threatening to appear on my couch to share some cabernet with Roger.  I told you she's an animal lover.  She would never hold out on Rogey. 

There you go Amy.  Did I leave anything out?

Introducing Aaron

My first jam session was in high school with Aaron.  Mr. Nielsen, our guitar teacher, tried to get all of us improvise, but I would not budge.  If it wasn't laid out on the sheet music, I refused to play it for fear of humiliating myself in front of cool kids.  Not long after that silent week, Aaron invited me to hang out one night at a friend's house, and we all went into this guy's bedroom, got out a keyboard, a bass and a couple guitars.  Rather than label it as "improv" Aaron would occasionally lean over and mutter chord names he knew I could play.  I had no time to get nervous because he threw me right into the thick of it.  Even though I had only been playing a short time, Aaron made me feel like I could play anything I wanted to. 

I don't remember meeting Aaron.  I just remember his being in my life all of a sudden.  We hung out a good deal, too.  I took him fish shopping one day.  I needed some new fish for my aquarium.  I am terrified of fish.  Why I had an aquarium is beyond me.  Anyway, when I got this new orange fishy home, I slung the bag into the warm aquarium water to get him acclimated.  When it was time to drop him in there, though, I cut the bag open, and the contents of the bag splashed onto my bedroom floor.  Fish and all.  If I had been alone, that fish would have died a horrible death, gasping for water in the suffocating air.  Aaron, without thinking, just scooped up the fish and tossed him into the water.  The fish lived, possibly with a small amount of mental trauma, but he never mentioned anything.  I thought Aaron was pretty much a hero that day. 

Aaron, Joe and I started a band.  Of course, we never actually got to play out, but we had our sights set on a gig at Powdrell's BBQ.  Those two boys went way back, and could play anything.  They just let me pick a bunch of songs, and they let me sing while they played.  Looking back, we probably only had 5 or 6 rehearsals, but it felt like a real band.  It was at Aaron's house where I first touched a 12-string guitar.  I felt like I was playing a harp.  And Aaron could really play it.  We did get one gig, come to think of it.  For my stepdad's 40th birthday party, my mom revamped the living room a la gymnasium, and had me and a bunch of my friends dress up like archetypal high school characters (school nurse, jock, beatnik, geek, etc.).  Aaron and I also sang a very sweet song about high school reunions--check out "Last Chance Waltz" by David Wilcox if you have ever experienced unrequited love.  It was my first real independent gig, and I had a blast. 

And now for my favorite memory of Aaron.  It was his Lloyd Dobler moment.  Well, I guess it was more my Andie Walsh moment, but either way...  My family and I were leaving for a 3 1/2 week tour of England, Scotland, and Wales the summer after my sophomore year of high school.  The morning we were to leave, Aaron showed up at our door.  He had his guitar, and we sat in my bedroom while he played "Leaving on a Jet Plane" with slightly modified lyrics ("You're leaving... Don't know when you'll be back again," etc.).  I was compeletely floored.  I had never been serenaded, and that is something that should absolutely happen in every girl's life.  I get all fluttery when I even think about it. 

I am so glad to see that Aaron is doing fine.  I was always a little worried about him.  He was very much the tortured artist, the type I loved to be around.  Aaron instilled in me a confidence in my musicianship that I will never lose.  Even though I have come a long way from sophomore year in high school, I think my era with Aaron definitely contributed to my ongoing desperate need to perform.  I hope he has kids and teaches them to play guitar and sing.