I asked Monica this, in lieu of saying hello, on gchat yesterday morning. I was going to tell her about how Lui and I had spent the long weekend printing and assembling wedding programs, only to have our soloist (my boss' daughter) cancel on us Tuesday night, leaving us with just over five weeks to find another soloist, not to mention no more long weekends to redo the programs. I was going to tell her about how I'd come in to work yesterday and interrupted [boss] in the middle of her would-be apology and explanation about intensive-high-school-student-summer-courses at Princeton, and scholarships lost by missing a day, and her daughter's future as an over-pressured over-achiever, to tell her that I didn't even want to hear about it, and that now I was doing a pretty good job maintaining my pissed-off-faced-silent-treatment in my short-skirted, high-heeled, proper secretary ensemble. I was going to tell her how now I was finding out that two of my friends were pulling out of coming to my bachelorette party this weekend, because one can't find anyone to watch her dogs-that-look-like-mops, and the other can't find anyone to watch her baby, since baby's daddy is afraid to be left alone with his own daughter...
But before I had a chance to rant about any of the above, Monica answered my question, "What's with today, today?", by saying,
"I'm applying for jobs on cruise ships."
...
"Ok, you might win," I conceded.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Right place, but...
I've been working late a few nights a week because the choir has been auditioning new students after school, and I'm the lucky one who gets to run the office during those auditions. I enjoy it for the most part; it just means that my schedule gets a little flipped around, so that instead of going to work and then the gym, I'm going to the gym and then work. That being said...
I don't think I like going to BodyPump at the wrong time. This morning, some woman in the class came over and started telling me how to set up my bench. I then proceeded to match or beat her weight on every track. Bet she felt stupid.
I don't think I like going to BodyPump at the wrong time. This morning, some woman in the class came over and started telling me how to set up my bench. I then proceeded to match or beat her weight on every track. Bet she felt stupid.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
The "nu" plan
I keep telling people I'm thinking about going back to school to become a nutritionist. Writing just seem so... impractical, hit-or-miss, and devoid of a 401K. Maybe I should've listened to my childhood friend, Barbie (so dubbed because it's thanks to her that I hate the dolls of the same name), when she told me in sixth grade that I would need a back-up career, such as pediatrics, if I didn't want to end up "relying on a rich husband" my entire life. (Turns out that this was the sort of thing her parents used to tell her all the time, and yes, it made her grow up to be just this side of certifiably crazy.) This isn't to say I'm giving up on writing, but I've sort of stopped fooling myself into thinking I can turn it into a career.
So why nutrition, when we all know that Elle is not-so-much with that new-fangled science stuff? Well, since we're all friends here, I feel that it's about time I discussed my bowels with you people (and by "you people", I mean "everyone other than C-List, who already gets to hear about my bowels on a near-daily basis").
I started getting IBS symptoms around my sophomore year of college, just a few months after I'd lost my virginity (coincidence?). I remember walking back to my dorm one night and having such bad cramping that I had to sit down on the curb. I remember more than one instance, my senior year, where I had to to surreptitiously kick friends out of my apartment ("It's getting late and I have homework to do") so I could sit on the toilet in peace. In France, I called off a dinner with my mom and Sunshine, who were both visiting, at my favorite Lyonnais restaurant, because I couldn't trust my stomach to cooperate in the humid weather.
And last year in Wales, I hit my all-time low. I can hardly remember a day when my stomach didn't hurt, and instances like that of the Lyonnais dinner became all too frequent. Medicine recommended starving myself for a few days. More knowledgable medicine wanted me to get a colonoscopy that would've cost upwards of 800 quid and which I really felt I didn't need - because if there's something seriously wrong with you, you know it in yourself, and I didn't (so I opted out of that fun-filled procedure). Homeopathy wanted me to take peppermint oil and charcoal tablets with every meal, and start a course of accupuncture. Alternative therapy allergy testing put me on a wheat/gluten/potato/onion/coffee-free diet for three months, and when I started feeling sick again after the first five weeks or so, recommended cutting out starches altogether, for the rest of my life; I became so paranoid about what I could and couldn't eat that, by the end, my diet was pretty much restricted to rice cakes with peanut butter and jelly, and I was floating through the days like a zombie, with zero energy. I joked that IBS had given me an eating disorder, but have since learned that there is such a thing as food disorders, and that the latter was much more accurate, and not a joke at all.
So one desperate afternoon, Lui, my eternal hero, looked up nutritionists in the phone book - "real nutritionists, none of this hippie shit allergy testing," he said - found an ad he liked, and called. The woman told him she'd send a packet that I needed to fill out, about my medical and dietary history, and send back for her to review before we could set up an appointment. That in itself was comforting - that I was a real person again, rather than a set of molecular frequencies - but I still called her back after Lui had left for work, and, nearly hysterical, told her that if she was going to make me cut out entire food groups, I wasn't going to bother. She reassured me that that wasn't her intention; that it's about incorporating good things rather than removing all the bad ones, because depriving yourself of things that make you happy will only put more stress on your body and thereby make things worse. "Most of what I tell you is going to seem like common sense anyway," she said, "but sometimes it takes hearing it from someone else to make it really click."
A few weeks later, Lui's mum took me to [nutritionist]'s house for my appointment. [Nutritionist] lived out at the end of a nearly un-navigatable dirt road, which under normal circumstances would've made her a hippie. But this was Wales, and pretty much everyone lives out at the end of a nearly un-navigatable dirt road. ...Ok, so she was kind of a hippie anyway, but the kind that you figure at least believes in deodorant. We sat at her kitchen table sipping water with lemon slices in it, and she told me all sorts of reasonable and comforting things, but kept coming back to the point that what was causing my IBS symptoms was most likely my birth control pill.
It all checked out: the onset of symptoms coinciding with the loss of virginity (and therefore the pill), the excess hormones and other harsh drug material waging war on the flora in my GI tract, the symptoms worsening over the years as my poor friendly bacteria lost the war. So in August, I decided to stop taking the pill, just to see if that would work when nothing else had. (I vowed to try eating better too.)
The result was like night and day. I no longer feel like the bad days outweigh the good, like my stomach is upset all the time for no reason; I feel like a normal person, who occasionally gets an upset stomach from something obvious, like drinking, or fast food, or not getting enough sleep. My Imodium intake has reduced dramatically, too, which is in keeping with the whole "not letting pills invade my body" approach I've since taken to my overall health. And the fact that no one - medical doctors, alternative doctors, or crazy hippie allergy testers who were trying to talk me out of deodorant - had thought to suspect the pill, completely baffled me (well, ok, except for the medical doctors, who seem to generally like pills). Because yes, it just seems so damn obvious that putting something foreign into my body on a daily basis for almost six years would fuck with my system.
So I switched to chiropractic. I switched to real butter. I switched to green tea. I switched to wheat bread. (Yes! Bread!) I didn't need to switch to working out regularly, because in that department, I was already awesome. But I know I can do better, and I fear for Lui and his refusal to eat raw vegetables (did I mention we registered for a bamboo steamer and a soup cookbook so that at least he'll get some nutrients out of his cooked ones?) So really, I want to study nutrition for my own selfish needs. But I also want to do nutrition because - and I know how this sounds - I want to help people like someone finally managed to help me.
So why nutrition, when we all know that Elle is not-so-much with that new-fangled science stuff? Well, since we're all friends here, I feel that it's about time I discussed my bowels with you people (and by "you people", I mean "everyone other than C-List, who already gets to hear about my bowels on a near-daily basis").
I started getting IBS symptoms around my sophomore year of college, just a few months after I'd lost my virginity (coincidence?). I remember walking back to my dorm one night and having such bad cramping that I had to sit down on the curb. I remember more than one instance, my senior year, where I had to to surreptitiously kick friends out of my apartment ("It's getting late and I have homework to do") so I could sit on the toilet in peace. In France, I called off a dinner with my mom and Sunshine, who were both visiting, at my favorite Lyonnais restaurant, because I couldn't trust my stomach to cooperate in the humid weather.
And last year in Wales, I hit my all-time low. I can hardly remember a day when my stomach didn't hurt, and instances like that of the Lyonnais dinner became all too frequent. Medicine recommended starving myself for a few days. More knowledgable medicine wanted me to get a colonoscopy that would've cost upwards of 800 quid and which I really felt I didn't need - because if there's something seriously wrong with you, you know it in yourself, and I didn't (so I opted out of that fun-filled procedure). Homeopathy wanted me to take peppermint oil and charcoal tablets with every meal, and start a course of accupuncture. Alternative therapy allergy testing put me on a wheat/gluten/potato/onion/coffee-free diet for three months, and when I started feeling sick again after the first five weeks or so, recommended cutting out starches altogether, for the rest of my life; I became so paranoid about what I could and couldn't eat that, by the end, my diet was pretty much restricted to rice cakes with peanut butter and jelly, and I was floating through the days like a zombie, with zero energy. I joked that IBS had given me an eating disorder, but have since learned that there is such a thing as food disorders, and that the latter was much more accurate, and not a joke at all.
So one desperate afternoon, Lui, my eternal hero, looked up nutritionists in the phone book - "real nutritionists, none of this hippie shit allergy testing," he said - found an ad he liked, and called. The woman told him she'd send a packet that I needed to fill out, about my medical and dietary history, and send back for her to review before we could set up an appointment. That in itself was comforting - that I was a real person again, rather than a set of molecular frequencies - but I still called her back after Lui had left for work, and, nearly hysterical, told her that if she was going to make me cut out entire food groups, I wasn't going to bother. She reassured me that that wasn't her intention; that it's about incorporating good things rather than removing all the bad ones, because depriving yourself of things that make you happy will only put more stress on your body and thereby make things worse. "Most of what I tell you is going to seem like common sense anyway," she said, "but sometimes it takes hearing it from someone else to make it really click."
A few weeks later, Lui's mum took me to [nutritionist]'s house for my appointment. [Nutritionist] lived out at the end of a nearly un-navigatable dirt road, which under normal circumstances would've made her a hippie. But this was Wales, and pretty much everyone lives out at the end of a nearly un-navigatable dirt road. ...Ok, so she was kind of a hippie anyway, but the kind that you figure at least believes in deodorant. We sat at her kitchen table sipping water with lemon slices in it, and she told me all sorts of reasonable and comforting things, but kept coming back to the point that what was causing my IBS symptoms was most likely my birth control pill.
It all checked out: the onset of symptoms coinciding with the loss of virginity (and therefore the pill), the excess hormones and other harsh drug material waging war on the flora in my GI tract, the symptoms worsening over the years as my poor friendly bacteria lost the war. So in August, I decided to stop taking the pill, just to see if that would work when nothing else had. (I vowed to try eating better too.)
The result was like night and day. I no longer feel like the bad days outweigh the good, like my stomach is upset all the time for no reason; I feel like a normal person, who occasionally gets an upset stomach from something obvious, like drinking, or fast food, or not getting enough sleep. My Imodium intake has reduced dramatically, too, which is in keeping with the whole "not letting pills invade my body" approach I've since taken to my overall health. And the fact that no one - medical doctors, alternative doctors, or crazy hippie allergy testers who were trying to talk me out of deodorant - had thought to suspect the pill, completely baffled me (well, ok, except for the medical doctors, who seem to generally like pills). Because yes, it just seems so damn obvious that putting something foreign into my body on a daily basis for almost six years would fuck with my system.
So I switched to chiropractic. I switched to real butter. I switched to green tea. I switched to wheat bread. (Yes! Bread!) I didn't need to switch to working out regularly, because in that department, I was already awesome. But I know I can do better, and I fear for Lui and his refusal to eat raw vegetables (did I mention we registered for a bamboo steamer and a soup cookbook so that at least he'll get some nutrients out of his cooked ones?) So really, I want to study nutrition for my own selfish needs. But I also want to do nutrition because - and I know how this sounds - I want to help people like someone finally managed to help me.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Yeah baby!
This just went to press:
15 May 2007
Dear SDCC Board of Directors,
As many of you already know, I will be getting married this summer. I am writing to inform you that I will not be returning to work in the office after my honeymoon, and that my last day here before the wedding will be Wednesday, June 20.
I am giving much more than a two-week notice, because I care about the choir immensely, and want to make every effort to ensure that it succeeds: I am willing to dedicate my remaining time here to helping to find, interview, and train my own replacement, so that the office is not left understaffed in my absence.
In the meantime, I will also continue answering the phone and responding to email enquiries, scheduling and overseeing the office side of May and June’s auditions, and maintaining the music library. I will also help with the next mass mailing (of registration packets), provided that this project takes place before the 20th of June. I do request that I not be asked to start any projects other than those stated above in the next five weeks, as the stress of the wedding will be mounting considerably and I may therefore find it in my best interest to finish working before my intended date.
I wish the choir all the best as it continues into its 18th year and beyond. This amazing organization changed my life, and I have faith that it will continue to do so for many more children for many years to come.
Sincerely,
Elle-Meme
Administrative Assistant
I think it sounds fair. The meeting just ended, so I've yet to hear the reaction to it, but the few people I ran it by (namely my Dad, [finance manager], and the Board Chair who also happens to be my God-Uncle) seemed to think it was good. On verra...
15 May 2007
Dear SDCC Board of Directors,
As many of you already know, I will be getting married this summer. I am writing to inform you that I will not be returning to work in the office after my honeymoon, and that my last day here before the wedding will be Wednesday, June 20.
I am giving much more than a two-week notice, because I care about the choir immensely, and want to make every effort to ensure that it succeeds: I am willing to dedicate my remaining time here to helping to find, interview, and train my own replacement, so that the office is not left understaffed in my absence.
In the meantime, I will also continue answering the phone and responding to email enquiries, scheduling and overseeing the office side of May and June’s auditions, and maintaining the music library. I will also help with the next mass mailing (of registration packets), provided that this project takes place before the 20th of June. I do request that I not be asked to start any projects other than those stated above in the next five weeks, as the stress of the wedding will be mounting considerably and I may therefore find it in my best interest to finish working before my intended date.
I wish the choir all the best as it continues into its 18th year and beyond. This amazing organization changed my life, and I have faith that it will continue to do so for many more children for many years to come.
Sincerely,
Elle-Meme
Administrative Assistant
I think it sounds fair. The meeting just ended, so I've yet to hear the reaction to it, but the few people I ran it by (namely my Dad, [finance manager], and the Board Chair who also happens to be my God-Uncle) seemed to think it was good. On verra...
Friday, May 11, 2007
Nail Shoppe
In case anyone hasn't seen the clip of comedienne Anjelah Johnson talking about her visit to the nail salon, I highly recommend you go look it up on YouTube, like, now. (Unless you're at work, and, like me, have no speakers on your computer - it loses something without the sound.)
So yesterday, I had a few hours between work and rehearsal, but didn't want to spend the majority of it in rush hour traffic to go home and back, so I just hung around down here, to look for that perfect pair of white peep-toe pumps/strappy sandals for summer. All shoe-vending stores were a bust - there was a cute pair of kitten-heeled flip-flops in a really soft white leather, but that isn't really the look I'm going for here... but I digress. So finding myself with some extra time to kill, I decided to go get a pedicure, in much the same way that some people would use their lunch breaks to go get a new tattoo.
I went to a nail place I'd never been to before, but, much like Starbucks, they're really all the same: Vietnamese women who probably don't have greencards, who probably don't get paid enough to touch people's gross feet all day, and who all have the incredible ability to shamelessly upsell, upsell, upsell. Stupidly, I let this one upsell me from "pedicure" to "spa pedicure"; usually I'm pretty good about just saying no, but yesterday, for some reason, she caught me off guard.
What I want to know is what happened to the spa pedicure? What am I really getting for my extra $5? In the good old days of yore (when I was in college), a spa pedicure meant not only sitting in the massage chair, but also getting a peppermint foot mask, paraffin dip, or sea salt scrub. Now it appears to be just the chair. I have a massage chair at home, people; if you're going to upsell me something, upsell me something I can't do myself, like the flowah that I now have to specifically request every time I go for a pedicure, because apparently it's not worth upselling anymore. Also, the chair is loud, and makes it even harder for me to understand what my pedicurist is saying to me, as if I don't already feel bad enough for not understanding her accent.
Le sigh.
So yesterday, I had a few hours between work and rehearsal, but didn't want to spend the majority of it in rush hour traffic to go home and back, so I just hung around down here, to look for that perfect pair of white peep-toe pumps/strappy sandals for summer. All shoe-vending stores were a bust - there was a cute pair of kitten-heeled flip-flops in a really soft white leather, but that isn't really the look I'm going for here... but I digress. So finding myself with some extra time to kill, I decided to go get a pedicure, in much the same way that some people would use their lunch breaks to go get a new tattoo.
I went to a nail place I'd never been to before, but, much like Starbucks, they're really all the same: Vietnamese women who probably don't have greencards, who probably don't get paid enough to touch people's gross feet all day, and who all have the incredible ability to shamelessly upsell, upsell, upsell. Stupidly, I let this one upsell me from "pedicure" to "spa pedicure"; usually I'm pretty good about just saying no, but yesterday, for some reason, she caught me off guard.
What I want to know is what happened to the spa pedicure? What am I really getting for my extra $5? In the good old days of yore (when I was in college), a spa pedicure meant not only sitting in the massage chair, but also getting a peppermint foot mask, paraffin dip, or sea salt scrub. Now it appears to be just the chair. I have a massage chair at home, people; if you're going to upsell me something, upsell me something I can't do myself, like the flowah that I now have to specifically request every time I go for a pedicure, because apparently it's not worth upselling anymore. Also, the chair is loud, and makes it even harder for me to understand what my pedicurist is saying to me, as if I don't already feel bad enough for not understanding her accent.
Le sigh.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Emo Monday... and Tuesday...
I'm sorry, because I hate to be the girl that posts things like this, but my self-image has been at a low for the past two days, and it really sucks. I kind of feel like enumerating everything that's wrong with the way I look, but I'll try and save you that. Suffice it to say that the laser treatment I had didn't work, and the red marks are not gone - if anything, they're worse - from the sides of my nose... which is too big to begin with. And my hair is constantly flat, and feels heavy - almost sticky - like I need a lighter conditioner (getting one this weekend for sure). And the facials and microdermabrasion that I've been getting in preparation for the wedding are only serving to convince me that my skin is in bad shape: clogged pores that I never would've noticed without scrutiny, I'm now specifically looking for, and of course, finding. Which leads me to believe that the facials and microdermabrasion aren't working either.
So I guess I listed it all off for you anyway. Fuck.
I don't know what brought this all to the surface - my best guess is that I was playing with photos from the past six months and really not finding many tolerable ones. I used to consider myself photogenic; now I wish I was. I was telling Lui about it before we fell asleep last night, and of course he was saying all the things he's supposed to say, about how I'm the most beautiful girl he's ever been with, and how could I, "of all people," have misgivings about the way I look? Um... Because I'm human?
He then went on to remind me that I tend to use other people to boost my confidence, and that I'd just posted a couple new myspace photos, so I should just wait for the comments/compliments to come rolling in. Except that I don't think they will, because the usual suspects (mostly B and W) don't really give me compliments anymore, unless I go fishing for them.
"Why not?" Lui asked.
"They've both backed off because of you."
"Me?"
"Yeah... They're afraid of how you'd react. B even said it to me once: after we were getting ready at his house before Monica's pirate party, I sent him a message telling him he forgot to tell me how hot I looked, and he said he'd noticed I lost weight, but didn't want to say anything in front of you because he knows you get weird and jealous."
"I'm sorry, sweetie..."
"Well, it's just because B likes you and wants to be friends with both of us now, and doesn't want to rock the boat or whatever."
"But what about W? He must say things to you when you talk to him on gchat or whatever." It's obvious that Lui thinks that W is this horrible womanizer, that because W flirts with me in front of him, that he must be ten times worse about it behind his back.
"Not really."
"But didn't he tell you how great you looked on New Year's?"
"Only when pressed." Truth is, when W and I talk on gchat now, it's kinda boring. He refuses to flirt or joke about trading pictures with me, thanks to what happened last time. And mostly, he just talks about his girlfriend, so... boring and ew.
That's sort of where we left it, except that this morning Lui held a sign up to the glass shower door saying, "YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL. I LOVE YOU." Knowing him, he'll send some email to all my friends telling them to compliment me, but that's really not what I'm going for here - cos if I'm not gonna feel it, what good will it do me to hear it?
I'd blame PMS, but I haven't had a period in six months, so that's not really a viable scapegoat anymore... It's just one of those days where I just want to go home and cry.
So I guess I listed it all off for you anyway. Fuck.
I don't know what brought this all to the surface - my best guess is that I was playing with photos from the past six months and really not finding many tolerable ones. I used to consider myself photogenic; now I wish I was. I was telling Lui about it before we fell asleep last night, and of course he was saying all the things he's supposed to say, about how I'm the most beautiful girl he's ever been with, and how could I, "of all people," have misgivings about the way I look? Um... Because I'm human?
He then went on to remind me that I tend to use other people to boost my confidence, and that I'd just posted a couple new myspace photos, so I should just wait for the comments/compliments to come rolling in. Except that I don't think they will, because the usual suspects (mostly B and W) don't really give me compliments anymore, unless I go fishing for them.
"Why not?" Lui asked.
"They've both backed off because of you."
"Me?"
"Yeah... They're afraid of how you'd react. B even said it to me once: after we were getting ready at his house before Monica's pirate party, I sent him a message telling him he forgot to tell me how hot I looked, and he said he'd noticed I lost weight, but didn't want to say anything in front of you because he knows you get weird and jealous."
"I'm sorry, sweetie..."
"Well, it's just because B likes you and wants to be friends with both of us now, and doesn't want to rock the boat or whatever."
"But what about W? He must say things to you when you talk to him on gchat or whatever." It's obvious that Lui thinks that W is this horrible womanizer, that because W flirts with me in front of him, that he must be ten times worse about it behind his back.
"Not really."
"But didn't he tell you how great you looked on New Year's?"
"Only when pressed." Truth is, when W and I talk on gchat now, it's kinda boring. He refuses to flirt or joke about trading pictures with me, thanks to what happened last time. And mostly, he just talks about his girlfriend, so... boring and ew.
That's sort of where we left it, except that this morning Lui held a sign up to the glass shower door saying, "YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL. I LOVE YOU." Knowing him, he'll send some email to all my friends telling them to compliment me, but that's really not what I'm going for here - cos if I'm not gonna feel it, what good will it do me to hear it?
I'd blame PMS, but I haven't had a period in six months, so that's not really a viable scapegoat anymore... It's just one of those days where I just want to go home and cry.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Dear Taylor Hicksth...
It wasn't until almost 5:00 yesterday that I realized, "Ohmygod, Amanda and I need 'Soul Patrol' shirts!" So I popped over to Michaels on the way home from a four-hour wedding-planning session and got two plain black t-shirts (youth mediums, to give the illusion of stylish baby tees) and iron-on rhinestone letters.
Amanda was a little late coming to pick me up, which gave me time to make the shirts and put on, like, a ton of makeup. When we got to the casino, the valets dicked us around for a while, so that by the time we got in to the concert, we'd missed about the first 15 minutes. So instead of showing us to our real seats, the ushers put us in the most convenient seats, on the end of the row - two rows back from what I'd paid for! We quickly remedied this, joking with one usher in particular, a robust black man with a lazy eye, that we'd happily sit in any empty seats he had even closer to the front, because "Taylor needs people up close!" We didn't win that one, but we did climb into our own seats, between two little old ladies, in front of a couple "hip and fifty"s, and behind a guy with a big, bald head.
And that was pretty much the demographic for the show. What happened to all Taylor's young, American-Idol-loving fans? Don't get me wrong, the old people were totally into him: the lady next to me had binoculars (which she offered to share with us) and kept waving at the stage and yelling "Taylor!", much in the manner of the gay guys who'd been calling out "Britney!" at Tuesday's show. But it was sad, and kind of awkward, that we were pretty much the youngest people there.
At one point, we decided to get up and dance, because nobody really was, except some girl on the end about 10 rows in front of us, and a group with neon-poster-board signs that we couldn't read from across the lawn. We felt like idiots, dancing to a song that was slow in the verses and picks up for the chorus, but we went with it - at least until the women behind us asked Amanda if we could please sit down, because they couldn't see at all. Amanda tried explaining that we were dancing, and that they should too, because it was a concert. "Well, no one else is, so please sit down," one of the women retorted. Amanda was furious. We kept thinking of things to say to them, like could they please stop taking pictures, because the flash was reflecting off this guy's shiny bald head and blinding us; or could they please stop singing along because we just want to hear Taylor. Towards the end of the concert, Taylor encouraged everyone to get up and dance, and we overheard one woman say to the other, "Well I guess we just have to stand up, since everyone else is." Ha! In your face!
Taylor gave an encore number (unlike Britney), and then, as the crowd was dispersing, we formulated a plan to find and meet him - since we'd just missed doing so after the American Idols tour last August. We approached our usher friend and asked, "So is Taylor jumping right back on his tour bus, or should we go try to find him hanging around the casino?"
"Actually," our friend said, looking both right at me and off somewhere to stage right, "there is going to be a meet-and-greet tonight!" He then went on to explain that it was by wristband only, and that he didn't know how we could get a wristband, but that we should go ask the people inside. So we got bounced around from authoritative-looking person to authoritative-looking person, until we finally found a group of people with big red stickers standing in a roped-off area by the stage door. They were headed by a little man with a taupe suit and a Napoleon complex, who was asking that anyone who had a V.I.P. sticker put it on and line up over there, and that the rest of us needed to exit the lawn so his staff could start breaking down.
We found the nearest usher, a young, relatively attractive Latino named Felix, and asked him how we could get V.I.P. stickers. He explained that the stickers had all been given out already, to people who had arrived early (not us) or who'd been in the right place at the right time (curses!); then he talked to us for a while, heard our sob story about how this was going to be the second time we'd just missed Taylor, and apologized, really seeming to mean it, saying that if there was any way he could get us in, he would.
We were amongst the last of the people being corralled out of the theatre, and just as we were going to check out the merchandise (not that we needed t-shirts; a few people had already commented on, even asked us where we got, the ones we already had), cut our losses, and go home, Amanda noticed who she thought was Taylor's guitarist, walking out behind us. "Maybe he can hook us up to meet Taylor," she said. "Should we go flirt with him?"
So we did. The guy, who turned out to be the sax player, not the guitarist (we obviously misjudged the size and shape of his instrument case), also turned out to be really nice - and cute - and much older than he looked (myspace stalking reveals early 40s). We complimented him on the show, asked about the ups and downs of being on tour with Taylor, asked him what he really wants to do with his career... and then got to the point.
"So... Can you help us get V.I.P. stickers?"
He couldn't. And he wasn't going to see Taylor again that night to be able to hook it up for us later. "Are you staying here tonight?" he asked. We weren't. In retrospect, maybe we should have: had we really just turned down breakfast with Taylor? "If I could help you out, I would," he said. Second person of the night to tell us that. At least that felt good.
It was hard, standing there talking to Taylor's sax player, trying not to seem like crazy psycho fangirls. Amanda's shining moment of the night was when she asked if we gave him our email addresses, maybe we could be Taylor's "email pen pals." My shining moment was when I sort of blurted out that I was getting married soon, and that my first dance song with my groom was going to be "Places I've Been" (a Taylor Hicks song, obviously). We both did a lot of backpedaling, trying to reinstate that while we're fans, we're not crazy fans, and if we ever do get to meet Taylor once, we swear we'd leave him alone afterwards.
"I know, I believe you," [sax player] said. "You two are sweet as sugar." And he meant it. Awesome.
In the end, we did give him our email addresses - just in case - and our snail addresses, because he'd promised he'd "get us something" - presumably a signed photo or the like. And he gave us his email address, so we could look him up and friend him on myspace. Which is why I need to get those trenchcoat-and-underwear photos uploaded stat, so that Amanda and I can have cute new profile pics, so that [sax player] will be reminded of how adorable we are. He is, after all, our prime connection to Taylor Hicks.
Yep. Not crazy fan girls at all.
Amanda was a little late coming to pick me up, which gave me time to make the shirts and put on, like, a ton of makeup. When we got to the casino, the valets dicked us around for a while, so that by the time we got in to the concert, we'd missed about the first 15 minutes. So instead of showing us to our real seats, the ushers put us in the most convenient seats, on the end of the row - two rows back from what I'd paid for! We quickly remedied this, joking with one usher in particular, a robust black man with a lazy eye, that we'd happily sit in any empty seats he had even closer to the front, because "Taylor needs people up close!" We didn't win that one, but we did climb into our own seats, between two little old ladies, in front of a couple "hip and fifty"s, and behind a guy with a big, bald head.
And that was pretty much the demographic for the show. What happened to all Taylor's young, American-Idol-loving fans? Don't get me wrong, the old people were totally into him: the lady next to me had binoculars (which she offered to share with us) and kept waving at the stage and yelling "Taylor!", much in the manner of the gay guys who'd been calling out "Britney!" at Tuesday's show. But it was sad, and kind of awkward, that we were pretty much the youngest people there.
At one point, we decided to get up and dance, because nobody really was, except some girl on the end about 10 rows in front of us, and a group with neon-poster-board signs that we couldn't read from across the lawn. We felt like idiots, dancing to a song that was slow in the verses and picks up for the chorus, but we went with it - at least until the women behind us asked Amanda if we could please sit down, because they couldn't see at all. Amanda tried explaining that we were dancing, and that they should too, because it was a concert. "Well, no one else is, so please sit down," one of the women retorted. Amanda was furious. We kept thinking of things to say to them, like could they please stop taking pictures, because the flash was reflecting off this guy's shiny bald head and blinding us; or could they please stop singing along because we just want to hear Taylor. Towards the end of the concert, Taylor encouraged everyone to get up and dance, and we overheard one woman say to the other, "Well I guess we just have to stand up, since everyone else is." Ha! In your face!
Taylor gave an encore number (unlike Britney), and then, as the crowd was dispersing, we formulated a plan to find and meet him - since we'd just missed doing so after the American Idols tour last August. We approached our usher friend and asked, "So is Taylor jumping right back on his tour bus, or should we go try to find him hanging around the casino?"
"Actually," our friend said, looking both right at me and off somewhere to stage right, "there is going to be a meet-and-greet tonight!" He then went on to explain that it was by wristband only, and that he didn't know how we could get a wristband, but that we should go ask the people inside. So we got bounced around from authoritative-looking person to authoritative-looking person, until we finally found a group of people with big red stickers standing in a roped-off area by the stage door. They were headed by a little man with a taupe suit and a Napoleon complex, who was asking that anyone who had a V.I.P. sticker put it on and line up over there, and that the rest of us needed to exit the lawn so his staff could start breaking down.
We found the nearest usher, a young, relatively attractive Latino named Felix, and asked him how we could get V.I.P. stickers. He explained that the stickers had all been given out already, to people who had arrived early (not us) or who'd been in the right place at the right time (curses!); then he talked to us for a while, heard our sob story about how this was going to be the second time we'd just missed Taylor, and apologized, really seeming to mean it, saying that if there was any way he could get us in, he would.
We were amongst the last of the people being corralled out of the theatre, and just as we were going to check out the merchandise (not that we needed t-shirts; a few people had already commented on, even asked us where we got, the ones we already had), cut our losses, and go home, Amanda noticed who she thought was Taylor's guitarist, walking out behind us. "Maybe he can hook us up to meet Taylor," she said. "Should we go flirt with him?"
So we did. The guy, who turned out to be the sax player, not the guitarist (we obviously misjudged the size and shape of his instrument case), also turned out to be really nice - and cute - and much older than he looked (myspace stalking reveals early 40s). We complimented him on the show, asked about the ups and downs of being on tour with Taylor, asked him what he really wants to do with his career... and then got to the point.
"So... Can you help us get V.I.P. stickers?"
He couldn't. And he wasn't going to see Taylor again that night to be able to hook it up for us later. "Are you staying here tonight?" he asked. We weren't. In retrospect, maybe we should have: had we really just turned down breakfast with Taylor? "If I could help you out, I would," he said. Second person of the night to tell us that. At least that felt good.
It was hard, standing there talking to Taylor's sax player, trying not to seem like crazy psycho fangirls. Amanda's shining moment of the night was when she asked if we gave him our email addresses, maybe we could be Taylor's "email pen pals." My shining moment was when I sort of blurted out that I was getting married soon, and that my first dance song with my groom was going to be "Places I've Been" (a Taylor Hicks song, obviously). We both did a lot of backpedaling, trying to reinstate that while we're fans, we're not crazy fans, and if we ever do get to meet Taylor once, we swear we'd leave him alone afterwards.
"I know, I believe you," [sax player] said. "You two are sweet as sugar." And he meant it. Awesome.
In the end, we did give him our email addresses - just in case - and our snail addresses, because he'd promised he'd "get us something" - presumably a signed photo or the like. And he gave us his email address, so we could look him up and friend him on myspace. Which is why I need to get those trenchcoat-and-underwear photos uploaded stat, so that Amanda and I can have cute new profile pics, so that [sax player] will be reminded of how adorable we are. He is, after all, our prime connection to Taylor Hicks.
Yep. Not crazy fan girls at all.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Sorry I'm not in right now, but...
"You know what's kinda cool?" I thought out loud after picking up the messages at work this morning. "Nowhere on our voice message does it actually say to leave a message."
"It doesn't?" [boss] asked.
"Nope. It says to visit the website for more information, tells them what our office hours are, gives the number for the attendance line..."
"Well then you need to change the machine so it does."
"Oh, that wasn't why I brought this up - I mean, the machine beeps, and people know that means they can leave messages - it just doesn't actually tell them to." Imagine how many more annoying voicemails we'd get if it encouraged people to leave them...
"Well, it's rude not to say it, so you need to change it."
"But it's been like that for the past year - I mean, even when Ryan was here, because I used his old message to record the new one."
"Two wrongs don't make a right, Elle."
"Okay, I have to change it next week anyway because we won't be selling tickets anymore, so when I do that, I'll put it on there. But I'm not doing it today."
She then called the office from her cell phone so she could listen to the message, and asked to talk to me in the back room.
"Now, Elle, last week, when you refused to call the newspaper to see about putting our ad in, I let it go..." she began.
I interrupted. "I would've been happy to call the paper, had there been a number that made sense for me to call."
"No, you didn't want to take the initiative - you could've called another number to get the number, spoken to someone's assistant... But you didn't want to be aggressive about it."
Oh, really? Have you made that call since dropping the subject a week ago?
Then she went on about how the machine currently says we'll be selling tickets through Friday, but that's not going to be the case because she actually has to take the tickets back to the box office tomorrow morning, so really today is the last day - but it's okay, because we can just tell people we sold out. "So you can change the message tonight," she concluded, almost happily.
I conceded, and we walked back into the office. A few minutes later, she was calling herself fat and offering me a cookie, as though the whole thing had never happened.
The problem is, most of the time, I really like my boss - as a person, I mean; she's a family friend. And I have a feeling if I have to work for her much longer, my indignance and her (for lack of a better alliteration) idiocy are going to ruin that friendship. So it's officially on my calendar: Wednesday, June 6: give notice.
"It doesn't?" [boss] asked.
"Nope. It says to visit the website for more information, tells them what our office hours are, gives the number for the attendance line..."
"Well then you need to change the machine so it does."
"Oh, that wasn't why I brought this up - I mean, the machine beeps, and people know that means they can leave messages - it just doesn't actually tell them to." Imagine how many more annoying voicemails we'd get if it encouraged people to leave them...
"Well, it's rude not to say it, so you need to change it."
"But it's been like that for the past year - I mean, even when Ryan was here, because I used his old message to record the new one."
"Two wrongs don't make a right, Elle."
"Okay, I have to change it next week anyway because we won't be selling tickets anymore, so when I do that, I'll put it on there. But I'm not doing it today."
She then called the office from her cell phone so she could listen to the message, and asked to talk to me in the back room.
"Now, Elle, last week, when you refused to call the newspaper to see about putting our ad in, I let it go..." she began.
I interrupted. "I would've been happy to call the paper, had there been a number that made sense for me to call."
"No, you didn't want to take the initiative - you could've called another number to get the number, spoken to someone's assistant... But you didn't want to be aggressive about it."
Oh, really? Have you made that call since dropping the subject a week ago?
Then she went on about how the machine currently says we'll be selling tickets through Friday, but that's not going to be the case because she actually has to take the tickets back to the box office tomorrow morning, so really today is the last day - but it's okay, because we can just tell people we sold out. "So you can change the message tonight," she concluded, almost happily.
I conceded, and we walked back into the office. A few minutes later, she was calling herself fat and offering me a cookie, as though the whole thing had never happened.
The problem is, most of the time, I really like my boss - as a person, I mean; she's a family friend. And I have a feeling if I have to work for her much longer, my indignance and her (for lack of a better alliteration) idiocy are going to ruin that friendship. So it's officially on my calendar: Wednesday, June 6: give notice.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Brit-NEY! Brit-NEY! Brit-NEY!
I can sum the night up in two words - three if I don't delete the explitives: it was a [fucking] awesome trainwreck!
I met Amanda at her work after my work, and we changed from our jeans into "trenchcoat and my underwear" (a line from Britney's "Outrageous"), took a few pictures, then changed back into our jeans because, well, what if they searched us at the door and asked us to take off our coats?
Got down to the House of Blues and got in line just after 6:00. The girl in line behind us looked kind of like Alanis Morissette or Linda Cardellini; mostly, she looked like the ugly dorky girl in a movie, who suddenly becomes really hot once she loses the glasses and leather coat (see: She's All That). She was there on her own, so we started talking to her, and found out she was a correspondent from Life & Style magazine, and that up until a few weeks ago, had been the Britney correspondent for Star magazine (we'd just bought one at 7-11 - can't miss the scoop on TomKat's impending divorce, especially not during National Teeny-Bopper Week!).
So of course, I had to ask her, "How does it feel to have to use words like 'canoodling,' and end sentences with exclamation points all the time?" Because that totally goes against everything I believe in...
"Actually, I don't use that many exclamation points, but I do like to use 'canoodling' - you kinda have to when you're covering couples' news." Uh-huh.
We lost our reporter friend once we got inside - I'm guessing she wasn't trying to push to the front to get the best view of the beauty spot Britney'd drawn on her cheek (did I mention mine are real?) - and ended up standing sort of off to the left, in about the fifth "row" of people crowding the still-empty stage. I was standing behind two pudgy gay guys and their Amazonian hag, so for a while there I was worried that I wouldn't be able to see anything. This fear was compounded when, during the first intro act, my peep-toe wedges were turning out to be too much and I decided to brave it in my stocking-feet, losing another two inches in the process. I did have the genius idea to buckle my shoes' ankle straps through my beltloops, though, which gave me one less thing to hold in my hand, and also allowed me to inadvertently "kick" anyone who got too close to me.
The show was supposed to start at 8, but the first opener went on at around 7:40. It was a deejay act - a black guy whose job was to do the actual spinning, and a white guy whose job appeared to be looking and acting like "Beat-Box" Blake Lewis from this year's American Idol. He wandered around the stage in his Red Sox t-shirt, drinking cans of Corona, occasionally pretending to help his friend work the tables, then took off his shirt and started breakdancing on the stage. When he got up, his jeans had dropped low enough to show plumbers crack (ew) and hip bones (hot), and he didn't bother pulling them back up for the remainder of their 90-minute set. Toward the end, you could tell the Corona had gotten to him, as he actually started gyrating over the stage and then toward the audience. Yeah, I probably could've watched this guy all night, and if the opportunity had presented itself, I probably would've made out with him. In fact, I'm adding him to my list of "People I'd Cheat on Lui With" - right next to the real Blake Lewis.
So after my boyfriend and his friend finished playing their ridiculously long set of pop music, the crowd got riled up and started yelling, "Brit-NEY! Brit-NEY! Brit-NEY!" I was almost embarrassed to hear myself chanting along with them. But then Britney didn't come out - another pair of deejays did, and neither of these two looked like an American Idol contestant, nor did they strip, nor would I have wanted them to. One looked kinda like a rabbi, and the other was sort of GQ-ish, but I wasn't really in the mood for GQ last night. And these two guys played a more rock/alternative set, and actually ended up getting booed - hadn't they ever heard of playing to the crowd?
Britney finally came out just after 10:00. Amanda & I had planned to link arms with the girls next to us so that no one could elbow their way through, but we accidentally lost those girls and ended up sailing on the wave of people pushing toward the stage, landing third row center. So my height worries were for naught, as the two girls now in front of me barely graced 5' - incidentally, they both also had really bad tattoos on the backs of their necks (one was a turquoise & purple starfish). One girl behind me apologized for basically eating my hair, but it was kind of like that, and I was just glad it wasn't a guy directly behind me dancing, for fear of Britney turning him on - I could hear the gay guys I'd left a few rows back screaming, "Britney! Omigod, Britney!" as though they were trying to get her attention, or crying out in pain as though Britney was dying or something.
Britney was wearing a bikini top and a miniskirt with fishnets and go-go boots, and a really bad mousey-brown wig. ("My old Rocky wig is in better condition than that," I told Amanda later.) She'd lost a lot of the baby weight, but people will undoubtedly say that she's not up to that old Britney standard because she did have a little bit of a belly, and when she crouched down on the stage, there were rolls. So what? I'm glad she looks human - now I can go around saying my body looks like Britney Spears's! And yeah, she was totally lip-synching to the album tracks - so much so that at the end (of the four songs she performed), when she said, "Thank you! And these are my dancers!", no one further back than, oh, let's say me, could hear her, because she wasn't even miked.
But she's a beautiful girl, and as good of an entertainer as ever. Her facial expressions are always spot on, and the girl can shake it. At one point during "Breathe On Me," her dancers (all female, cos apparently she's learned her lesson with the male dancers after K-Fed) pulled a guy up out of the audience, sat him on the chair and danced around him. The guy looked kind of like a more attractive Elliot Yamin (it was obviously Idols Night at the Britney Spears gig), and he was good, playing to the dancers and the crowd. He made a cha-ching motion when he first got on stage, and later leaned back toward Britney's undulating hips, causing her to make a surprised, "what a weirdo" face at us, as though we girls were all in on a secret. "She's so cute," Amanda said.
And honestly, I feel sorry for the girl. She's my age, and started her career almost ten years ago. So basically, she missed out on the high school experience, and probably hasn't emotionally developed much past the age of 16. And she's got the media (who are always right, because they're so smart, while she herself is so dumb) following her around all the time, and whatever our gossip mag friend says about her "asking for it" by "walking around Hollywood in her underwear," that can't be easy. All 20-somethings party, make relationship mistakes, and go a little crazy sometimes - it's just that this one has been made a laughing stock for it, while most of us just get to slip by under the radar. So I totally don't blame her for wanting to come out to the HOB and do a 15-minute set, just reassure herself that her fans really do still like her.
I got home close to midnight and discovered that the bottoms of my feet were black, so I took a quick shower before crawling into bed with an already half-asleep Lui. He asked how the show was, and I gave him the gist: four songs, lip-synch, bad wig.
"Don't worry, sweetie," he mumbled. "Taylor will be better."
Oh, I know.
I met Amanda at her work after my work, and we changed from our jeans into "trenchcoat and my underwear" (a line from Britney's "Outrageous"), took a few pictures, then changed back into our jeans because, well, what if they searched us at the door and asked us to take off our coats?
Got down to the House of Blues and got in line just after 6:00. The girl in line behind us looked kind of like Alanis Morissette or Linda Cardellini; mostly, she looked like the ugly dorky girl in a movie, who suddenly becomes really hot once she loses the glasses and leather coat (see: She's All That). She was there on her own, so we started talking to her, and found out she was a correspondent from Life & Style magazine, and that up until a few weeks ago, had been the Britney correspondent for Star magazine (we'd just bought one at 7-11 - can't miss the scoop on TomKat's impending divorce, especially not during National Teeny-Bopper Week!).
So of course, I had to ask her, "How does it feel to have to use words like 'canoodling,' and end sentences with exclamation points all the time?" Because that totally goes against everything I believe in...
"Actually, I don't use that many exclamation points, but I do like to use 'canoodling' - you kinda have to when you're covering couples' news." Uh-huh.
We lost our reporter friend once we got inside - I'm guessing she wasn't trying to push to the front to get the best view of the beauty spot Britney'd drawn on her cheek (did I mention mine are real?) - and ended up standing sort of off to the left, in about the fifth "row" of people crowding the still-empty stage. I was standing behind two pudgy gay guys and their Amazonian hag, so for a while there I was worried that I wouldn't be able to see anything. This fear was compounded when, during the first intro act, my peep-toe wedges were turning out to be too much and I decided to brave it in my stocking-feet, losing another two inches in the process. I did have the genius idea to buckle my shoes' ankle straps through my beltloops, though, which gave me one less thing to hold in my hand, and also allowed me to inadvertently "kick" anyone who got too close to me.
The show was supposed to start at 8, but the first opener went on at around 7:40. It was a deejay act - a black guy whose job was to do the actual spinning, and a white guy whose job appeared to be looking and acting like "Beat-Box" Blake Lewis from this year's American Idol. He wandered around the stage in his Red Sox t-shirt, drinking cans of Corona, occasionally pretending to help his friend work the tables, then took off his shirt and started breakdancing on the stage. When he got up, his jeans had dropped low enough to show plumbers crack (ew) and hip bones (hot), and he didn't bother pulling them back up for the remainder of their 90-minute set. Toward the end, you could tell the Corona had gotten to him, as he actually started gyrating over the stage and then toward the audience. Yeah, I probably could've watched this guy all night, and if the opportunity had presented itself, I probably would've made out with him. In fact, I'm adding him to my list of "People I'd Cheat on Lui With" - right next to the real Blake Lewis.
So after my boyfriend and his friend finished playing their ridiculously long set of pop music, the crowd got riled up and started yelling, "Brit-NEY! Brit-NEY! Brit-NEY!" I was almost embarrassed to hear myself chanting along with them. But then Britney didn't come out - another pair of deejays did, and neither of these two looked like an American Idol contestant, nor did they strip, nor would I have wanted them to. One looked kinda like a rabbi, and the other was sort of GQ-ish, but I wasn't really in the mood for GQ last night. And these two guys played a more rock/alternative set, and actually ended up getting booed - hadn't they ever heard of playing to the crowd?
Britney finally came out just after 10:00. Amanda & I had planned to link arms with the girls next to us so that no one could elbow their way through, but we accidentally lost those girls and ended up sailing on the wave of people pushing toward the stage, landing third row center. So my height worries were for naught, as the two girls now in front of me barely graced 5' - incidentally, they both also had really bad tattoos on the backs of their necks (one was a turquoise & purple starfish). One girl behind me apologized for basically eating my hair, but it was kind of like that, and I was just glad it wasn't a guy directly behind me dancing, for fear of Britney turning him on - I could hear the gay guys I'd left a few rows back screaming, "Britney! Omigod, Britney!" as though they were trying to get her attention, or crying out in pain as though Britney was dying or something.
Britney was wearing a bikini top and a miniskirt with fishnets and go-go boots, and a really bad mousey-brown wig. ("My old Rocky wig is in better condition than that," I told Amanda later.) She'd lost a lot of the baby weight, but people will undoubtedly say that she's not up to that old Britney standard because she did have a little bit of a belly, and when she crouched down on the stage, there were rolls. So what? I'm glad she looks human - now I can go around saying my body looks like Britney Spears's! And yeah, she was totally lip-synching to the album tracks - so much so that at the end (of the four songs she performed), when she said, "Thank you! And these are my dancers!", no one further back than, oh, let's say me, could hear her, because she wasn't even miked.
But she's a beautiful girl, and as good of an entertainer as ever. Her facial expressions are always spot on, and the girl can shake it. At one point during "Breathe On Me," her dancers (all female, cos apparently she's learned her lesson with the male dancers after K-Fed) pulled a guy up out of the audience, sat him on the chair and danced around him. The guy looked kind of like a more attractive Elliot Yamin (it was obviously Idols Night at the Britney Spears gig), and he was good, playing to the dancers and the crowd. He made a cha-ching motion when he first got on stage, and later leaned back toward Britney's undulating hips, causing her to make a surprised, "what a weirdo" face at us, as though we girls were all in on a secret. "She's so cute," Amanda said.
And honestly, I feel sorry for the girl. She's my age, and started her career almost ten years ago. So basically, she missed out on the high school experience, and probably hasn't emotionally developed much past the age of 16. And she's got the media (who are always right, because they're so smart, while she herself is so dumb) following her around all the time, and whatever our gossip mag friend says about her "asking for it" by "walking around Hollywood in her underwear," that can't be easy. All 20-somethings party, make relationship mistakes, and go a little crazy sometimes - it's just that this one has been made a laughing stock for it, while most of us just get to slip by under the radar. So I totally don't blame her for wanting to come out to the HOB and do a 15-minute set, just reassure herself that her fans really do still like her.
I got home close to midnight and discovered that the bottoms of my feet were black, so I took a quick shower before crawling into bed with an already half-asleep Lui. He asked how the show was, and I gave him the gist: four songs, lip-synch, bad wig.
"Don't worry, sweetie," he mumbled. "Taylor will be better."
Oh, I know.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
So it's not just me then...
We woke up this morning, and Lui started telling me about how he dreamed about our wedding night.
"How was it?" I asked, interrupting him.
"It worked." (We have this worry that, since we're both so out of practice, well, you know...)
Then he added, "But I had to go get you. Because you were down the hall in C-List's room playing the Wii. So I came down there and told you it was time to go to bed, and you were like, 'Okay, just let me finish my game.'"
"How was it?" I asked, interrupting him.
"It worked." (We have this worry that, since we're both so out of practice, well, you know...)
Then he added, "But I had to go get you. Because you were down the hall in C-List's room playing the Wii. So I came down there and told you it was time to go to bed, and you were like, 'Okay, just let me finish my game.'"
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