Posts from — July 2006

Crocs. They’re here, they’re HIDEOUS, get used to it.

And then a funny thing happened. Amid all the hoopla, I did. Get used to ’em, that is. And then an even funnier thing happened. Funny-strange, not funny-haha. I became a little intrigued.

The thing is, I am and always have been a clog girl. My faves were my old brown ultrasuede ones with the raffia band over the top. Fabulous. I had black suede ones too. Showed dust something awful. And of course who can forget the true classic: treetorn clogs. Come on people, you know the ones: navy or white leather…A sleepover camp staple if there ever was one. Until they were banned. ‘Cuz all the girlies (and some boys) were tripping over their feet and spraining their ankles. But still, dragging your heels, clip-clopping along in your clogs…nothing beat it.

Until now. The clog, in the form of the almighty croc, is back. And, tho’ I hate to admit it, I’ve kinda jumped on the bandwagon…

WAIT!!! It’s not like I’m wearing them – puh-lease. They’re revolting. But at least now I get it. Sorta. You see last week family friends came to visit us at the cottage. I hadn’t seen them in years. And there they all were: Mama Croc, Papa Croc and two little Baby Crocs. The only one NOT in the damn shoes was the baby. And he might’ve been had they come in smaller sizes. After many furtive glances at the family’s feet I had to ask: Why? They rsvp’d with the usual litany of praise – they’re so light, so comfy, so cheap.

So what? They’re ugly!

But then I watched the ease with which Mama Croc got her babes to put their shoes on. Saw the pleasure Papa Croc got from whipping ’em off to jump on the trampoline. My man thought maybe he’d like a pair and I realized:there really was no escape.They’re here to stay.

And if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.

After hitting the streets to track down a couple of pairs – one for the Boy, one for the Man, I realized not only were they hot – they were sold out. Everywhere. DEVASTATION! And now I’m desperate. And have hit the world wibe web to track down any non-beige ones. No, no, not for me. Why would I subject my size 9’s to such fashion agony? It’s not winter. For me, the quick-fix-all-purpose-summer-shoes have been around forever. They’re called flip flops.

But I reasure myself that I mst be the perfect wife and mother. Not only letting my boys be seen in such fashion fiascos. But encouraging it.

Hey, it’s not like I’ll ever be caught dead in a pair. Not yet anyway….

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Wake me when it’s over.

Is it just me, or is American Idol’s result show getting more boring? Last week, as y’all know, I missed it due to technical difficulties. Turns out I was even luckier than I thought, ‘cuz last night was a yawn-fest. A bore. A drag. It was American Midol – a real pain, may cause drowsiness.

I’ll admit it: I find the faux-mercial amusing. I do. But the group-hug gospel song? Ernie Earnesto, you’ve gone too far! I’d much prefer aging rockers and middle aged balladeers any day of the week. OK, not any day, but for sure on Wednesdays.

My theory goes something like this: when the duds get dumped, the show gets dull. Think about it. We tune in to make sure the good ones don’t get away. Without at least one lame-o to root against, the show’s a snooze. Remember the “3 divas” from two seasons ago? Each one more spectacular than the next? Two get booted and the country’s in an uproar. The third and most talented is left with a redheaded crooner from hell, a sap with a flower in her hair and a couple of forgettables. “Racists!” charged Sir Elton. “Loser American voters” said I. We sat at the edge of our seats as the competition got too close for comfort. Vindication and relief came when Fantasia won.

Last year, it was the opposite – one talent amid a sea of mediocrity. But it still made for good TV. That is until Constantine got ousted and, horror of horrors, we were stuck with a little bit country and a little bit rock ‘n roll. And Fat Felon Scott. Suddenly the show, well, sucked. Without Connie making love to the camera, there was no one left to root for. Sure, we still had Simon Says, but mostly we tuned in because we’d already committed. More might-see than must-see TV.

This year is a little different in that the remaining contestants are all good. And that’s what’s making the show, well, less good. There’s no one left to really hate – so no outrage when a lesser talent wins out. The anti-idol website votefortheworst.com is now backing Taylor. Yeah, I checked. I actually like the Silver Fox. Sure, he’s a bit of a dad, maybe George Clooney’s dad, but his Ray Charles-isms and chunky dancing crack me up. If he beats out a more talented Chris, who cares?

Ditto Elliott the underdog. He’s always had my vote, though I’m kinda surprised he’s still kicking around. Call it the pity vote. Despite that Stevie Wondery voice of his, he’s far more radio than TV. Growing his hair has helped, but he’s got a ways to go. I even discussed it with my oral hygienist and she agreed: the guy’s a dental surgeon’s wet dream. Now that he’s famous now, the dream’ll come true. (American Dental anyone?)

I’m betting on Rockin’ Chris and Pipes McPheever for the final two. Sure, her Sally Field “you really like me” smile is getting tired, and he’s as serious as a heart attack, but they’re young, hot and talented. No outrage, scandals, or secret criminal pasts. Just clean family fun.

And the talk round the water cooler? It won’t be about American Idol. All we’ll be left with is one burning question: when is Nip/Tuck coming back? Now that’s entertainment worth talking about!

On no, wait. After a small prompt, he told me all that he was doing, ending the soliloquay with “single, no kids”. I said I was married, two kids. And then the conversation kinda stopped. In fact, it was less a convo than me asking the how’s, where’s and what’s. Is it just me? Answer, answer, answer…Doesn’t anybody ask anymore?

I started doing a bit of research. A teeny, tiny, bit. And it’s not just me at all. Apparently there are several factors to the non-question convo.

There’s the dud conversationalist. You all know ’em, you’ve all been ’em. For whatever reason, they – or you – have pas de interest. ’nuff said.

There’s the cover up. Either you really couldn’t give a rat’s ass (see above) or perhaps you’re kinda curious but cannot for the life of you remember who this person is or how you know them and so you refrain from asking. AFter all, you don’t want to bust yourself. In this case, one often overcompensates by rambling about oneself, convinced it’s a convo rather than a speech. Then one takes off. Fast. It happens. Or maybe one just wanted to boast. That happens too.

There’s the don’t-want-to-be-rude non-asker. You don’t want to pry. ‘Cuz you think it’s rude. Yep, there are folks out there who feel it’s rude to ask too many questions. They think they’re stepping over some imaginary line. Or they don’t want to potentially embarrass the unemployed. Actually, many underemployed cats I know would give their left arm to tell you about all the things they aren’t doing. Which is maybe why no one wants to ask. Fair enough to some extent, but you gotta ask something. Me, I think it’s rude not to. Show an interest, people. Or at least fake it. No one’s asking how much you’re earning or how much your bag costs (besides, if you have to ask…)

And then….there’s the mom thing. This is the worst. And, worryingly, it’s quite common. Once someone hears you’re a mom they kinda clam up. Have no interest in parenting? Who does unless it has to do with your own issues??!! Few are the ladies who will open up about their sleeping/feeding/toilet issues to someone who ain’t in the same boat (unless of course that’s the question being asked – then the floodgates have been opened. Open ’em at your own risk!) But come on – you can still ask about the rest of the life!

My friend yesterday is a mom. And a very successful book editor (the editrix, remember?!). And she lives abroad. And is totally glamorama. And she told me people often hear the mom part and clam right up. Another friend of mine is on the cusp of something huge – business-wise. She said people have only started asking her questions since she’s told them that yeah, she’s a mom, but also starting this business…Then they’re interested. Or maybe they want discounts. Whatever.

CONVERSATION = communication between two (or more) people. If you don’t want to chat, fine. Wave, smile, kiss, whatever… Move on. Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies. But ask me no questions and think I won’t notice? I will.

Yep. It’s one of THOSE days. And not only because of the kidlets…Museums (shouldn’t it be ‘musia’?), indoor playspaces and basements – even damp and possibly moldy-god-forbid ones – are good on days like today. Remember? No pressure to be outdoorsy and summery and fun? But on days like these when the kids are napping and your house is somewhat in order and you can’t deal with crawling into your bed because of guilt issues, on days like these the mind wanders to that special place affectionately known as Plan B .

Aaaah Plan B, we barely knew ye. In fact, you never really know your Plan B because if and when Plan B becomes Plan A, it’s not Plan B anymore. Geddit?

Remember back in the day when you were young and foolish? There was always the Plan B-er. The boy –or girl – who was besotted with you. The insurance policy. So what if (in the land of teen flicks) you didn’t have a prom date? You had the back-up. And then (in the land of teen flicks) you end up falling for the back up, realizing the homecoming queen and the quarter back were really meant for one another – and chances are they’d peak in high school anyway. In real life, you probably never thought twice about the loser who was into you. Until you got dumped and turned to them, only to find they’d moved on. And then you pined. In part because your Plan B back-up had split, but also because you felt like a bit of a…shall we say…loser. But that was then. Back in high school. This is now. And it’s still the same.

Only now, for me, it’s jobs. A the beginning of the summer there were some potentials, just shy of a handful. One I wanted. Three I didn’t. I was quite cocky about the one I did want. I’d met the gang, fit right in. For sure I’d get it. For sure. And so right off the bat I ditched Potential Job #2. Didn’t pursue it and didn’t think twice. Then came PJ #3. An editrix (love that word) friend of mine was looking for someone to write a book about Karaoke. Yes, Karaoke. And she so kindly thought of me. The money was crap, the gig was harder than I thought and writing a sample was incredibly frustrating (tho’ somewhat illuminating – did you know that the guy who invented Karaoke never made a dime? Or, rather, a yen?) I prayed I wouldn’t get it. And when they went with a Karaoke expert (huh?!) instead of an enthusiastic faker like me I was relieved. After all, I was a shoo-in for the dream job and, besides, I had a Plan B.

Plan B was writing for a TV show I was beyond qualified to work on. It wasn’t my first choice, hence the moniker Plan B (duh.). But I was pretty sure I was pretty perfect for it. Before you think I’m way too cocky for you to stomach, please understand, you know when you’re “in” and you also know when you’re right for something. Mutually exclusive, sure, but instincts count for something, right? WRONG. I was way off-base. Like out-of-the-ballpark-in-the-worst-possible-way kind of off-base.

I didn’t get either job. And I was devastated.

I was beyond pissed that I lost out on the Dream Job. But even worse was the sad and sorry fact that my Plan B didn’t want me. They didn’t want me. First I was irate. Then I was depressed. And then I got desperate. I wanted to call, write, grovel. Beg them to change their mind. Thank goodness my agent kept me in check. Gave me a telephone slap-in-the-face and told me to get over it. I had less than a 1-in-10 chance of getting any of these gigs. Move on. And I did. Or at least I pretended to. Sure I was sad about the A-list job, but it was losing the Plan B-er that really put me over the edge. I know, I know, neither one was meant to be. When (if?!) the right thing comes along I’ll know. Blah blah blah. How does that help me cope now??!!

I’ll tell you how. The weeks have passed. It’s been a glorious summer and I have actually enjoyed being unemployed and spending time with my babes. But on rainy days like today, I still try and picture myself doing something else. And when nothing comes to mind, I scramble to think up a Plan B. And, of course, on days like today, I draw a big, fat, blank.

I guess I could always crawl back into bed and wait for the sun to come out. It always does….

And now Jenny and I are definitely back together. Rachel Green is dead. Long live Rachel Green. Or any romantic comic heroine our Jenny chooses to play. Is it any wonder her career was flagging? This is her genre. She’s the Meg Ryan for the noughties – even if they are half over. Was it a perfect movie? Mais non. But did I laugh and, dare I say, even choke up a teeny tiny bit? You betcha.

OK. The Vaughn may have had a little something to do with it. I love him. I feel like I know him. And I love him. Actually, I kinda feel like I’m married to him – making me love him more. And no, I am not completely delusional, nor am I a stalking freakazoid. He just reminds me of the man I happen to be married to (in real life). You get the picture. Point is, Vinnie wrote it, produced it, and, duh, starred in it – how bad can it be?

Yes they had reshoots. But what movie doesn’t? And yes, those reshoots were a wee bit too obvo. They were in Chicago. In winter. And sure, it left me wondering what the real ending could’ve – and should’ve – been. But Vinnie winks for the camera and it’s worth the price of admission. And parking.

WAIT! Before you rush out to buy your tix, be warned – it’s no award winner. It’s just better than I thought it would be. Oddly enough, it’s the casting that was make or break… up (hee hee). You see, for every great performance, there was an equal and opposite sucky one. Jason Bateman? Barely there. Jon Favreau? Scenery muncher (last scene aside, that is: he’s hi-hi-hi-larious in his own – and only – subtle way). Joey Lauren Adams? Snip. Judy Davis? Keep. Sure she’s hokey and shticky and can’t pronounce the simplest of yiddisher terminology. But so what? That beats the earnest, raspy (but-not-in-a-good-way) squirrelyness of Ms. J.L.A. Ye olde Ann Margrock has a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it cameo. Maybe blink a bit. But in the other corner is the man who steals the show: John Michael Higgins. You’ll know him – and love him – when you see him. The man’s a comic genius. GENIUS.

So it wasn’t the buzzy movie of the week. Or last week’s buzzy movie. Or even the week before’s. Yep, I’m a little behind the times. But it was good clean fun nonetheless. And with no great expectations, it was bound not to disappoint. So I say thanks Vinnie! Way to charm. And thanks Jenny! Way to dress. Gather round children, it’s time for a group hug. VV – you’ve still got it. J’aniston and me? We’re back together.

Meryl? I’ll see you next week.