The Unwelcome Night Visitor.

 The following is a excerpt from one of the chapters in a book I'm writing about my life events. This one takes place in Costa Rica and involves an uninvited guest. 

After checking in and downing our welcome cocktail, we were escorted to a beautiful room high on a cliff overlooking an endless ocean. It was stunning. The rooms are all separate and connected by a wooden walkway. I immediately put my survival package of M&M’s in the safe. I had a fear that chocolate may not be readily available and decided at the last minute to purchase my fix from the airport in advance. After acclimating us to our room and the resort, Jaffit, our bellman or as I like to call him, my Sherpa, made certain we knew one of the resort’s most important rules-don’t leave the lights on at night for very long. “You see, bugs are attracted to the light and because of their natural curiosity may find their way into your room.” With that he bid us a farewell and we were on our own. 

We enjoyed our first afternoon in paradise by relaxing on the balcony. I began a great book while Anthony started work on his watercolor.

Before we knew it, it was time for dinner. Before leaving the room, I wanted to create a little mood lighting for when we returned. This is something I always do, I think it’s nice to come home to a warm, welcoming place, especially in the middle of the jungle. There was a dim light about three feet above the bed that was angled toward the ceiling. It was perfect, just enough glow so we could see when we come back, and not too much to attract bugs. Satisfied by my lighting design, we made the journey to the dining room.

 The walk to dinner was romantic. The sun was just starting to set and with the ocean on one side and the rain forest noises on the other, I was really starting to love it here. The dining room was a large, open air cabana that had just enough seating for all the guests. The best part was that they let us sit by ourselves. Another concern conquered. I hate when I’m forced to eat with people I don’t know. The food was much better than I expected, the drinks were strong and the wait staff was very friendly. This was going to be a great week.

When we finished our after-dinner drink, we began the stroll back to the room. “Boy, I’m glad I left that light on”, I said “it sure did get dark”. I mean darker than dark. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. Part of our pre-trip planning was to bring these “headlights”. They sort of looked like those lights that minors strap on their forehead so you can have the advantage of both seeing in the dark and the use of both hands.  Perfect for mining or in my case fighting off dangerous animals. 

We were both exhausted from the long day of traveling, the shaman incident, and our cocktails. The bed sounded so inviting. As we were both getting ready for bed I don’t know what possessed me to look up, but I’m sure glad I did. The fact I didn’t faint is beyond me, because the “bug” I saw attracted to my mood light was a spider the size of my hand-and that was just his body! His eight furry legs were about four inches long and I could literally see him catching little gnats and devouring them RIGHT ABOVE MY BED! “Ahhh, ahhh, ahhh, I, ahhh, think we have a problem” was all I could muster. With a shaky point of my finger I guided Anthony’s eyes up to this hideous monster. I admit, from time to time, I can over-react, but not this time. Anthony just said “oh no, that is not acceptable”.  We quickly put our headlights back on and walked briskly down the path that now didn’t seem nearly as romantic. The charming sounds of the rain forest from earlier now sounded like background music from The Omen and the ocean now resembled nothing but a black hole ready to swallow us up. When we finally arrived back at the Dining Room, we paused. This was our first night, we did leave a light on after being warned not to, and we were in the middle of the rain forest. “Let’s not make ourselves look too sissy-ish”, Anthony said, “let’s gather our senses and be calm”.

The only two people left were my Sherpa, Jaffat and another guy. “Hi, Jaffat, you know, we really should have taken your advice about that whole ‘don’t leave a light on thing’, but we thought what could one little light hurt”. He immediately knew what was going on and said, “you have a visitor?” “More like an evil, uninvited guest” I replied. With that, he could tell by our drenched foreheads and quivering voices that he needed to come to our room and check things out. He grabbed a broom, which I knew wouldn’t be sufficient. “You may need something bigger than that” I said, “like a gun”. He dismissed my attempt at Sherpa humor with a laugh and shrug of his shoulders.

Arriving back at the room with our savior, I had this horrible thought, “what if the spider wasn’t there”. It would be like in the movies when the bad guy gets killed and when the hero returns, his body is missing. You know he’s still alive and he’s going to make a surprise attack.

As Jaffat opened our door and bravely entered first, I whispered “up there”. I don’t know why I whispered, it’s not like the spider from Hell can understand English. Our hero slowly walked toward the thing that I swear had gotten even bigger from our first encounter. He examined it for what seemed an eternity until Anthony finally said “Well?” Jaffat’s only determination was “not good, not bad” Whatever that meant, I told him he wasn’t leaving until this “not good not bad” creature with multiple eyes and legs was destroyed. The Super Sherpa took one fall swoop with his weapon and knocked this animal to the ground. He then said “good night”. WHAT? This thing was somewhere on the ground behind my headboard. I wanted evidence that it was dead because if it wasn’t, it was now really mad and I knew it would demand revenge. Jaffat took his broom and swept the carcass out from under the bed and across the floor. “Oh, look”, he said, “the unts are doing their job”. “Unts?” I questioned, as I turned to see what he meant. These unts were actually ants that apparently were hiding in the walls, watching and waiting for the American tourists have their Sherpa kill the grotesque, man eating insect, so they could have their meal.

As soon as Jaffat left, I somehow leaped into bed without touching the floor, grabbed the once charming mosquito net and wrapped it around my body so tight, I was slowly mummifying myself.

When the sun finally came up in what seemed like a decade, we both looked over at where we last saw the spider. It was gone. It seems the unts did indeed do their job.

 

Cheers!

I am what you’d call Star Struck. Whenever Anthony and I are in an airport, restaurant or on a big city street, my eyes are always wondering around to see whom I can spot. It hasn’t failed me yet.  My knack for star spotting has given me the chance to see and even meet many celebrities. My star-stalking resume includes Susan Sarandon, Ed Begley Jr., Jude Law, Seinna Miller, Robert Downey Jr., Macaulay Culkin (I think he’s still a star), Michael Jordan (I collided with him in a hallway-ouch), Tim Allen, Faye Dunaway, Andrew Lloyd Weber, Leslie Ann Warren (this one was funny, it involved an accident report-look for the future blog) and actually shared drinks and dessert with Darryl Hannah (again, another blog).

My most recent star encounter happened in the salon.

It was 5:00 on a Wednesday night. I was getting ready to go home and the front desk asked if I could “cut this guy’s hair”. He was staying at The Townsend Hotel, which is right across the street and he wandered in for a haircut. We had just gotten back from Paris the day before and I was a little tired, so I blame jet lag for my behavior.

I’ve been told from time to time that I have “the gift of gab”. I don’t think of it so much as a gift, but more of a skill. I read in a book once that people love to talk about themselves. If I don’t have anything interesting to share, it’s best to simply ask them questions about their lives and let them do all the talking. Most of the time, my little skill is a great  conversation tool, but once in a while, when I’m tired, hungry or insecure it can get me into trouble.  

After consulting with my client I started to cut his hair. I also started to talk. A lot. “Where are you from” was my first inquiry. The familiar looking gentleman said he was visiting from southern California. “Oh, you are so lucky, I love it there” I babbled, “it’s one of my favorite places”. I continued with “I have a really good friend that lives there, although I doubt that you know her, her name is Dana, although maybe you do, wouldn’t that be weird? I just got back from Paris, blah, blah, blah”.

I haven’t the slightest idea why in this situation, I felt the need to try and impress this guy. For some reason I felt it necessary to let him see my “cool” side. 

Trying to put the focus back on him, the next question in my line of fire was “so, what brings you to Michigan?” He told me he is an actor and was in town shooting a commercial for a health drink. I’m still not sure why I couldn’t simply have told him a little bit about our city and offer restaurant suggestions. Instead I replied with “I’m an actor too, I also direct, sing and I write a blog” Inside I was telling myself to shut up, but I couldn’t, I just kept going and going and going.  I continued with “living in California, you must see a lot of stars. I’m really star struck, I’ve met so many stars, I don’t know why, but I always seem to see them, I even had drinks with Darryl Hannah once".  On and on I went. I finally took a breath by asking him what famous people he has seen.

This poor guy finally had a small window to say something. “Well, actually I know Darryl Hannah too”. At this point during our one sided conversation, I started to think not only did he look familiar, but he sounded familiar too.  If I only allowed him to talk, maybe I could have figured it out. Instead I went on by asking him if he thinks she’s prettier in person too.  He said, he thought she is pretty inside and out. I’m a hairdresser, that’s supposed to be my line, I thought. 

“Who else have you met?” I asked as I continued my nervous chatter. He paused and told me that two of his best friends were Kirstie Alley and Ted Danson. This was followed by a very looooonnnnng pause. The light bulb was starting to flicker. I was slowly beginning to recognize my customer and I was clueless what to say next.  So, out came “oh, they’re kind of funny”. “Kind of funny”, not “really funny” or “very funny”. I had to say “kind of funny.”

If I could have simply disappeared, I would have.

The reason he knows Sam and Rebecca from Cheers is because he starred right along side them. I couldn’t believe it. How did I not recognized this man? I was a huge Cheers fan. He was in my living room for 30 minutes every Thursday night at 9 p.m. And the reason his voice sounded so familiar is because on the plane the very day before, I watched Toy Story Three and he was the voice of the pig.  I was cutting John Ratzenberger's hair.

I had no idea how to get out of this. My tongue was so tied it couldn’t form a single word.

I had spent the past twenty minutes telling this successful actor all about me. I had a golden opportunity to be discovered and I blew it.

Needless to say, the next time I have the opportunity to meet someone famous, like Johnny Depp, I’ll be sure to tell him that I’m a hairdresser to the stars and offer him a haircut.

You Gotta Have Art.

One Summer I was bored. It takes a lot for me to be bored because I'm always either involved in a theatre production or I am writing. It actually was a new experience for me. I’m usually really great at entertaining myself, but this particular summer it just wasn’t happening.

Anthony had taken a class at the local art school. He and a friend signed up for Drawing 101. I told him it was so he could see the nude models, but he insisted it was to fill his artistic need. Previously, we had both taken a private water color class taught by a retired art teacher. We used to go every Monday morning and paint. Mine always had a slight “naïve” edge to it as the teacher would put it.  Of course, I took this as a compliment. She thinks I see life innocently.

To cure my summer boredom, I convinced my friend Chrissey to enroll in a water-color class with me. Before moving to California, my best girlfriend and I used to dabble in all sorts of activities. We always wanted to better ourselves and we made this pack to do all the things we’ve always talked about doing. One time we decided that we had to learn another language. So, we took private Spanish lessons. We found this high school tutor and we met every week at a Starbucks. I think in ten classes, $400, and many Vente Cappuccinos  later all I could say was “the white cat is drinking milk”, a phrase that would totally come in handy if I was ever in Guadalajara and saw a feline named Snowball drinking milk and felt the need to report it to the local authorities. Another time, Chrissey or “my Ethel” as I liked to call her,  and I took a Ballroom dance class. It was during that period of my life that I realized I have absolutely no rhythm. “No, step, two, three Jeff” Ethel would scold, “not back, two!” When Chrissey started to lead, because I  didn't know how, I finally realized that my dream of becoming the next Fred Astaire was not going to happen. 

I was convinced this water-color class was going to be my calling. I was destined to be the Rembrandt of the 21^st Century.

The teacher was again a former retired high school art teacher. Not the kind of art teacher that wears moo-moo’s, a headband and eats granola. This one was the unmarried, uptight, hair in a bun sort of teacher. I always thought art was subjective until this class. She made me understand it wasn’t and there is indeed good and bad art.

On the first day, we had to go around the room and introduce ourselves and share a little bit about us to the class. I’ve always despised this sort of ice-breaker. I’m always so nervous about what I’m going to say that I don’t even listen to the others. But seriously, no one cares that Susie over in the corner is a stay at home mom with two children and spends her days working on her annual Labor Day Luau, or if the guy that looks like the uni-bomber has six pit bulls-really! When it was my turn, I’m not quite sure what possessed my body, but something inside me blurted out “I’m Jeff, I’m a hairdresser, I write, I act, direct community theatre and I’ve had extensive training as an artist” Extensive training. I don’t think I’ve had extensive training in anything, let alone art. Needless to say, I set my own bar pretty high.

Our first lesson was to sketch something that made us happy. Easy, I thought, I’ll just draw a big bottle of scotch. Chrissey told me that maybe I should think of something a little deeper, so I settled on flowers. They don’t really make me happy, but I faked it. As the two of us sat side by side, the teacher would come over to observe our work. “Interesting” was her comment to me. “Very good composition” is what Chrissey got. Followed by “Jeff, look at your friend’s work, isn’t she good?”

The next week, we had to take our sketches and paint them. Patience has never been one of my virtues, so water-color isn’t the best medium for me. I’d be better suited creating my masterpiece with something that doesn’t have to take the time to dry, like crayons.

Again, the teacher made her way around the room critiquing our work. I’d hear, “very good work Teri”, “nice eye for detail Bob”, “Oh Chrissey, your choices of color are marvelous”. I got “Hmmm, well…., hey, did you get a haircut?.” Of course followed with “Look at Chrissey’s, she is just so talented”.

By week three I was starting to develop an attitude toward this teacher. Chrissey would laugh it off by trying to convince me that I was good and the teacher really didn’t mean anything by her comments. Easy for her to say.

One week she told me I would be a good children’s book illustrator. I couldn't believe it. She had finally thrown me a bone. My praise was short lived though, because she followed it up with “because you draw so, well now,  how should I say it, well, because you draw so big and without all those details”. I thought “listen you old maid, your bun is ugly and I hate you”. I replied with “why, thank you, it is something I’ve always thought about doing, especially  because I just adore sticky little children”. I concluded by telling  her I’d work on my tendency to draw big and next week I’ll make it my goal to to draw smaller and with more detail. “Good Idea” she said before moving on. This was war.

I know I draw big. I think big and I live big, so it only makes sense, but I decided that the next week I would make an effort to grow my skills by taking her criticism and making it constructive.  As we all sat at our drawing table, with our brushes and paints, our darling teacher announced that this week we would be illustrating a sunflower and she wanted us all to do it larger than life. Meaning big. The bitch knew I was going to work on my details and make an effort to slim it down. Chrissey finally admitted that maybe this lady did have it in for me after-all.

Again, I did my usual “big” piece of work and again, she said for the twentieth time “look at Chrissey’s, isn’t she good?” This little mantra of her's was really working my last nerve. Every single class, I had to look at Chrissey’s rendition and hear a commentary about how her style is so graceful, and how her pieces each tell a story. All the while I got things like “well, Jeff, you sure look like you have fun when you paint”.

I missed the second to the last class and I was really happy too. She made them all paint a self-portrait. I’m sure mine would have been over-sized and resemble The Jolly Green Giant- without any details.

On the final day of class, Chrissey couldn’t attend. So it was just going to be me. Well at least she can’t get in one last “look at Chrissey’s” I thought. As everyone in the class started their final day of painting, Satan once again began creeping around. When she got to me I really wondered what she was going to say. She didn’t have Chrissey to compare me to this week, so I couldn't wait to hear what other evilness was she going to evoke on me. “Well, look at your’s Jeff” She followed this with “you know, you really should have been here last week and saw Chrissey’s.” That was it! My blood started to boil.  I had taken ten weeks of this and today was going to be my last chance to tell her a thing or two. It didn’t go as planned. Do you ever wish you knew in advance that you were going to have the perfect opportunity to say something just right? I can think of a million things I would have loved to say to this troll, but I couldn't think of any.  So I decided to insult Chrissey's self portrait instead. I screamed in a somewhat shaky voice  “I SAW CHRISSEY’S UGLY PAINTING AND SHE MADE HERSELF LOOK LIKE HILLARY CLINTON! IT WAS NOT GOOD (dramatic pause) AT ALL!!!!! So, instead of seizing the opportunity to put this fiend in her place, I made myself look like a spoiled, jealous, and slightly angry starving artist.

As I left class for that last time, I decided it was time to take a breather from my water-color period.

Two weeks later, I found myself sitting in a pottery class-without Chrissey.

Tip of the Day.

Going to the coffee shop, car wash or even the gas station has been presenting a dilemma lately. I love my coffee, I am what you could call anal about my car and I love Ho-Ho’s, a delicacy one can only purchase at the local Amaco.

One of my first jobs was counter boy at Dunkin’ Donuts. I applied to be a “donut finisher”, even though I didn’t know what that meant, but they offered me a position as the morning counter boy instead. This meant getting up at 5 a.m. to arrive at Michigan’s only Kosher Dunkin’ Donuts by 6. Mind you, I’m not Jewish, but I felt if I had to work at a place that couldn’t even add the ‘g’ to the end of their trademark name, at least I could work at an establishment that had some claim to fame.

This was my introduction to public service. It was my first job where being nice and giving good service was reflected in the form of a gratuity. It’s also where I learned to appreciate and show the wait staff how grateful I am for good service-even if it is to a fault. You see, I seem to have a problem of over-tipping:  If the waitperson smiles at me, I give an immediate 25%, if they offer to take my coat, it’s 30% and if they tell me the specials and promise to “hold one for me because there’s only one left”, they become the beneficiary to my life insurance policy. Maybe it’s because my expectations of good customer service has dwindled over the past few year, but I find myself wanting to hug the waitress when she announces the soup du jour without my asking. I’m ready to purpose to the waiter who tells me his name.

Unfortunately one of the side effects of my over-tipping disorder is the dread I feel when I’m not 100 percent sure the waitperson knows I tipped them. The mere thought of them watching me leave the restaurant with thoughts of “look, there goes the cheapest guy on earth” makes me break out in hives. The only remedy to my phobia is to watch them receive the tip and wait for a reply or reaction. Most of the time it’s a subtle “do you need change” or “thank you, have a good night” and an occasional smile a wink. Whatever it is, I crave it. If I don’t get this simple satisfaction, I simply can’t leave the building until I know they are aware it was me who contributed to their retirement fund and helped with their mortgage.

This entire issue didn’t affect my daily life until recently. There was a time when tipping was just expected in restaurants and hair salons. Today it seems anyone who has a pulse and is able to put your muffin into a bag requires an extra 20%. I’m not sure who invented this policy that tortures me, but I think they should be hanged. I now can’t even go into the men’s room without helping the guy who sprays me with a cologne I don’t even like, put his youngest child through college. It seems everywhere I turn, there is a clear container that says “Tips” with a smile face on it, like that makes it less intrusive. I’m well aware I could just leave my loose change, but I know they will notice and shoot me. If the tip in the jar doesn’t have a president’s face on it and is made of paper, I’m convinced I will be shunned from the establishment for the rest of my life.

This phobia all came to a head one day. I was at a bakery getting lunch. As I looked at the pastries, I opted for a bowl of soup and a roll. The smiling young man rang up my order and gave me my change. I looked down and saw the familiar jar with the slogan “we rely on our tips” looking at me with a vengeance. I have a reputation now, if my bill is 4.99 and I give them a ten, they inevitably have no more 5’s. “All I have is five singles if that’s o.k.” he says. “No problem” I reply, knowing full well that he knows I won’t leave a five, but will “happily” drop a single into his new car fund. 

As he hands me my change-five singles and one shiny penny- I take one of the dollars and drop it into the friendly jar. The problem was, he turned away at the same moment to get my soup. HE HAD NO IDEA! At this point I had two choices, either wait until he turned back so he could see me drop another dollar in, or go with plan B, the option I probably should not have taken. As his back was turned, I quickly stuck my hand in the jar and pulled my dollar back out. In my head it was going to be easy-just retrieve the buck, wait until he is looking at me and drop it back in and leave-simple. The wrinkle in my plan occurred when he realized he forgot to ask me if it was for here or to go. As he turned in what seemed like the speed of light, his friendly smile turned to one of accusing horror. He just busted me stealing his tips. I was speechless.  I had no clue what to say or how to get out of this. Not only had one of my biggest fears come true-I was now going to go to jail for robbery.

I looked around to see if the store had any security cameras. I knew if this went to trial, I was going to need proof of my initial generosity if my story was going to stick. “I know this looks weird”, I mustered to say with a nervous laugh, “I gave you a tip and I’m not sure you were aware of it, so blah, blah, blah, blah blah”.  The more I talked, the more guilt I felt. I’m sure he could see it in my face. My tomato red face admitting guilt I didn’t even have.  My story made absolutely no sense. I mean, what kind of person is so obsessed with the fear of not being acknowledged that they would risk going to prison?

I finally said “it’s to go”. He looked at me like I was a side dish he didn’t order. “My soup…it’s to go” I said with total humility. He reluctantly turned and ladled my soup into the to-go hot cup and with an attitude handed it to me and said “have a nice day”. I’m pretty sure he meant “you are a cruel, cheap non-tipper”.  It was a nightmare and I could only see one way out. I pulled out the other four dollars, counted them in front of him, and deposited the 100 percent tip into his little jar of happiness. Once I got back to work, I threw my soup away, certain that he secretly spit into it and had to go somewhere else for lunch-forever!

Paper or Plastic?

There is something about grocery stores that make me nervous. Part of it is that I am totally clueless in the kitchen and have no idea what those items on the shelves do when mixed together. I love to eat, but my culinary duties are limited to "entertaining" the chef. This means putting on MSNBC and talking about the secret crush I have on Rachel Maddow.
From time to time however I am sent to the store. My specialty is picking up liquor and sundry items. I break out in a sweat when given the task of finding a ripe pepper but I can spot dental floss and scotch from a mile away.
It's the Fourth of July weekend and big surprise we are in Gay U.S.A. Saugatuck, Michigan. For those of you not familiar with this beautiful city, picture Provincetown, only with a much nicer beach. Anthony and I have a home here that we rent out during summer months. This weekend we are guests at our good friend's beautiful home. As much as I enjoy this haven, summer weekends, especially holiday weekends can be a bit overwhelming. Literally thousands of people flock to the beach, then the dance club, then to a house party, then back to the club again. I think there is some sleep in there, but I haven't quite figured out when.
The main grocery store in town is called DeMond's Super Val-U. Why they couldn't have just added the  E on the end is beyond me. Anyway, it's a typical small town grocers. Adequate produce, less than fresh meat but well stocked in my expertise-libations, ice and non-food items. It's also a great place to people watch, especially the employees. I've gotten to know them as we are out here pretty much two weekends every month from September to May. "Good Morning Jeff-I see you are out of scotch again" I expect to hear every time I go in.
One cashier in particular has this "charming" wit about her. No matter when I go, 8 in the morning or 8 at night, she's there. She always works the same register, number three and has this desire to entertain me. What I mean by this is that she picks up each of my items and creates a story about how they go together. For instance, "Oh, I see you have toothpaste and a Snickers today. You must have just had a bad dental checkup.  Seriously, what kind of witty retort am I supposed to come up with? "Yes, that's it, my hygienist has finally convinced me at the age of 46 to brush my teeth".
The first few times I've had the pleasure of being the plot in her weird stories, Anthony tried to convince me that she is just quirky and bored. "Leave her alone, she's just trying to be funny". I'm not known for my patience and for some reason this quirk of her's makes me want to slap her.  This isn't once in a while, IT'S EVERY SINGLE TIME! I've spied to see if she does it with other shoppers. No, they just get to pay for their groceries and go on their merry way. When it's my turn, I feel my heart start to race, I wonder what twisted play about me and my sundries she's going to write today.

One time I was with a friend of mine. At the time we both had long hair and looked kind of cool. "You two must be in a rock band", she chimes in as we were paying for our charcoal. I wanted to beat her at her own game this time. "Yes, and we are going to use the charcoal to set the stage on fire during the show" I blurt out. "You should come see us, we are playing at the What-Not Inn tonight". My friend, who hasn't had the pleasure to experience cashier number three, just looked at me like I was a psycho.
I won't even mention the time I ran out of sunscreen at the same time Anthony needed a cucumber.

I finally admitted that it's me. It's my issue that I can't handle her "cleverness". She is probably  a very nice person who just has an over-active imagination.  When I told Anthony I was trying to have a better attitude toward  cashier number three/witty playwrite, he simply said in the only way he can "well Jeff, she and you are sort of alike". My first reaction was to grab the nearest hand grenade and throw it at him, but instead I smiled and said, "maybe you're right". Maybe I am like this girl is some ways. I use my imagination a lot, I try to be witty to customers, I can put groceries in a shopping bag.
This experience has taught me two important lessons -
One-before making rash judgements about someone, look yourself in the mirror.
And two-always use the U-Scan.
 

News At 11

One of my favorite activities to do while passing time driving up north is to poke fun at the local "news" stories. These are events that have wreaked havoc and caused chaos in many of the small northern Michigan communities. These scandals pale in comparison to those that have occurred in my hometown of Detroit. "Kwami-Gate" and the "Underwear Bomber" both trump "Joe Bob Flugerheim Just Bought An '03 Chevy" or "Ted Konwicki Found Dear Tracks In His Garden".
As much as I make fun of these small town escapades, the truth is I secretly envy it. Wouldn't it be nice to live in a community where the crime rate is so low that the biggest news event of the week is the town drunk ran the only stop-light in the county-again. What women doesn't dream of being one of the local housewives in her best gingham housecoat gathered around Mrs. Peabody's kitchen table playing Bridge while gossiping about the local tribulations. What man wouldn't trade places with one of the local fellas who, dressed in their finest waders, gather in front of the local Bait-N-Go to debate whether or not the story on page three of the Presque Isle Advance is true- Did Clyde Owens really spot "The Monster", the fabled prehistoric size trout living in the depths of Long Lake?
One particular story Anthony read out loud to me as we were driving up north one day last summer had to do with the local high school's graduating class. It was a very upbeat, positive article reporting that 58 of the 60 students of the class of 2010 were planning on attending a university or community college. We both remarked how this was an excellent percentage for such a small farming town. "Good for them" I said as we drove past our 257th cow. We then proceeded to a more important story "Ten Girls Vow For Miss Potato Queen". I've accurately predicted the winners just from their pictures five years in a row, so the pressure was on.
The following day was absolutely gorgeous. The kind of summer day that Michiganders live for. Sunny, 80 degrees, no humidity and just enough wind to keep the mosquito's away. One lesson we learned through the years of going to our rustic cabin is to try not to forget anything. Since our only transportation is by boat, if we need to go to the store, it's quite an event. If we're lucky enough that the item in question is carried by the only store on the lake, all we have to do is pull the boat up to their dock and go inside, but if it's something hard to come by, such as chocolate milk, we have to boat to the marina, get into our car and drive to the closest I.G.A.   Immediately after breakfast we began to mull over dinner options. Pizza or cheeseburgers (yes, healthy eating is of the utmost importance on the island). Either way we'd have to go to shore as we didn't have pepperoni's or hamburger buns. Later in the day, when it was time to make the journey, I opted to stay on the island and do some chores, in other words, take a nap.
As Anthony was speeding away, I noticed the time, 3:00, a perfect time for my afternoon siesta. As I laid down on the hammock, the gentle sounds of the lapping waves put me immediately to sleep. I was out a solid hour before I woke up and realized Anthony had been gone longer than usual. Either the store didn't have what he needed and he had to drive into town or he was abducted by pirates. Another half hour went by and I was starting to think that maybe Captain Hook had indeed invaded Grand Lake. I was seriously beginning to worry. At 5:00, I heard the familiar sound of our pontoon zipping across the lake. Once docked I questioned what had taken so long. It turns out it wasn't due to pirates or a lack of pepperoni's, it's even better.....

As Anthony was approaching the marina, he noticed a motionless boat in the middle of the lake with two passengers waving their arms. Occasionally, boaters run into trouble and need assistance. We've been in this situation ourselves and when someone stops to help, it's like the cavalry has arrived. As Anthony pulled up, the two occupants admitted they had been out all day and simply ran out of gas. "No problem" Anthony said, and he proceeded to tie their boat to ours and helped the two teenagers onto our boat. He was heading to the marina anyway, so it just a small inconvenience on his part but a huge help for them.
At this point in his story, I started to really be grateful I wasn't there. I have a hard time carrying conversations with teenagers, especially "up north teenagers". They seem to speak in a special back-roads kind of way. It's a language I'm truly illiterate in. I get anxiety even thinking about the kind of conversation I would attempt:  "What is the pregnancy rate at your school?" or "Are your gym showers private or open?". I'm really much better just abstaining from these situations altogether. Anthony, on the other hand, has the ability to carry on great chats with this age group. "Where do you go to school?" he inquired. The girl in the Led Zepplin tee shirt and mullet inspired hair answered that she and her pal (see I say things like "pal") had just graduated from Posen High School. "Wow", Anthony replied "I just read that 58 out of 60 kids were going off to college". He went on by telling them how impressed he was by this number. "Can you imagine being one of the two that aren't going" he continued, "how embarrassing for them!" Now, I'm sure  you can guess where this is going. At that moment, the two prodigals proudly announced "Well, that would be us, we both got real good jobs at the local Wal-Mart paying ten bucks an hour". In a situation where I would have simply plugged my nose, jumped off the boat and drowned, Anthony  replied with "well, good for you, you're parents must be so proud".
A few minutes later (although I'm sure it seemed like decades) the threesome finally reached the safety of shore. The two grateful teens thanked Anthony and began filling up their gas tank. Before leaving them, Anthony being the kind Catholic that he is, went inside and secretly paid for their gas.

A year later these questions come to mind:
Do you think they are still at their dream job? Are the majority of the Posen High School Class of 2010 still in college? Does Wal-Mart really start out at $10 per hour and do they carry pepperoni?

My Lines, My Lines.

Tonight is the second most exciting night in t.v. The Tony Awards. 
I have a secret wish to be discovered. I fantasize that the most regarded talent scout in the world is sitting in the front row the night I give the performance of a lifetime. He is mesmerized by me and immediately offers me a contract to star on Broadway forever. I move to New York, live in a 2000 square foot apartment, eat at the best restaurants and am recognized on every street corner. I eventually venture into film, win an Oscar or two, then go back to the stage so I can satisfy my fans.
So, until that happens I am very happy being a member of local community theatres.  Since joining St. Dunstans Theatre in 2000, I've had the honor of directing and performing in many productions. Every season, I make a promise to only work on one of our five shows per year. Being the addict I am though, that rarely happens. I've been in love with theatre ever since my first starring role as The Sun in my second grade production of "Spring Has Sprung".  I've made great friends, created  wonderful memories and yes, have filed away tons of stories.
It's really difficult to say which role or show has been my favorite,  I can however recall my most embarrassing moment.
My favorite playwright is Oscar Wilde and one of my favorite plays is "The Importance of Being Earnest". I have wanted to play the role of Jack Worthing since I could read. In 2009, I finally got my chance. I was given the opportunity to bring Jack "Earnest" Worthing to life at Village Players in Birmingham.
The plot of the play is about Jack and Algernon. Jack has been pretending that his name is really Earnest so the girl of his dreams, Gwendolyn will fall in love with him. Gwendolyn, you see can only love a man with the name of Earnest. It looks as though they will not live happily ever after as Gwendolyn realizes the man of her dreams is really called Jack. It isn't until the climax in the last minute of the play that Jack finds out his name really is Earnest and they can be together forever.  O.K., as I write out the plot, it sounds kind of silly, but it is one of Oscar Wilde's greatest masterpieces.
I don't usually like to know who is in the audience on any given night. Why add another reason to be nervous? On one particular night, however I was told that a group of friends were coming to see the show. Not just any friends, these these were the people who did the show eight years prior. A production, I auditioned for, but didn't get cast in. Needless to say, I was a little more than nervous.
Everything was going along just fine. No dropped lines, no costume malfunctions, I was really pleased. We were only a minute away from the end of the three hour show. I was home free, all I had to do was find out my name was really Earnest and we could take our bows and go home. 
Once I discover my true identity,  my character announces "I always told you Gwendolyn that my name was Earnest". Hugs-the end. For some reason, I decided to re-write Mr. Wilde's piece of art. I proudly stated with total confidence, "I always told you my name is GWENDOLYN" I was in shock, this was not one of those lines your fellow actor can cover for you. In one moment I had totally changed the ending of a play that has withstood the test of time and been performed thousands of times. 
As luck would have it, the audience was paying close attention. I heard this loud roar of laughter. It slowly rolled like a wave from the back of the house to the front row. At this point I had two choices and I had to think quick. I could either run off the stage crying vowing never to do another show again or do what I did-break down in hysterics. I broke character for the first time. It seemed like forever before I finally stopped and mutter out the correct ending. 
Since then I have done more shows and flubbed more lines, but it all pales compared to the night I turned Jack Worthing into a drag queen.

The Proud Papa

Pride!
The Motor City hosts it's annual Gay Pride festival the first weekend of June every year. I don't usually attend it because we are normally out of town. This time, we stayed in the D, and decided to go.
The event was moved this year from the trendy suburb of Ferndale (Detroit's version of West Hollywood) to our Riverfront in Hart Plaza in downtown Detroit. I wasn't sure what to expect, it has been a while since I last went to one.
As we entered I was really struck by the amount of people. I had no idea there were this many gays in the city. I've been open and proudly out for 30 years (don't you dare do the math) so I thought I knew every gay in the city.  I've been involved in social groups, theatre, political groups, I'm even a hairdresser. I thought I had the gay market cornered. "Where did they all come from" I asked Anthony. I really had no idea that there was an entire population of proud gay people from Detroit that I have never met.
I love to people watch and this was the perfect place to do it. It was really a melting pot of gold at the end of the a big gay rainbow. I saw everything from drag queens to grandfathers with their grandchildren. Well, let me say, we thought they were grandfathers. You see, sometimes, we say the wrong thing and wish we could go back in time.....
I found the perfect perch to watch the crowds. It was on the second step that led to a platform right in the middle of all the action. Just high enough to see the action, but close enough to be a part of it. Anthony and I grabbed a beer (yes, a beer) and sat on the steps to observe all the fun. We watched people go by, chatted with a few, we were just enjoying a great day. After about a half hour, we noticed an older gentleman with a baby. "Look", I said, "isn't that great, a gay grandpa and his grand-kid". I remarked how times have changed even since I first came out.  "You would never have seen that 30 years ago". We both thought this rainbow grandad was pretty cool and decided to tell him so.
Throughout our conversation with this proud grandpa, I noticed he started to get a "funny" look on his face. I wasn't sure why. We were telling him how cool it is that today's society is finally embracing everyone. We continued by saying that seeing an openly gay grandfather who is comfortable enough to bring his grandchild to event such as this is truly inspiring. We were being really complimentary.  As we went on, his "funny" look evolved to more of a "perturbed" snare.  I couldn't understand why he would be getting mad, we were saying really nice things. Then it hit me, I started to think that maybe this gay grandad wasn't gay at all, maybe he was just taking his grandson for a walk on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.  I was in the middle of trying to find the right words to get out of this, when he made his announcement. An announcement that made me swear never to talk to anyone ever again. "This is not my grandson, he is my SON! I'm only 45! I was shocked, inside, I thought "wow, he should really stay out of the sun". Outside, I was speechless. There really weren't any words to fix this one. "He's got your eyes", came to mind, but I think it would have only made it worse.
We were thoroughly mortified and stumbled out an "I'm sorry" and a "he is so cute, he totally takes after his daddy". "Blah, blah, blah" I think our embarrassment was satisfying enough for him as he chatted with us for another minute or two before he politely went on his way.
We stayed on our perch for a while longer. We decided that maybe it was better to just watch the people and keep our conversations to ourselves.

Bad Willy

If I were a puppy or kitten and looking for a family, I would put on my best "cute" face and really work hard to impress the children-less couples that come into the pet store. If two men came in together, I would play dead, sit, stay and do every command possible to convince them I am their chosen one.
Anthony and I have always had two dog-children. To say they are spoiled is an understatement. Jack and Willy go on vacation, sleep in our bed (really it's their bed and we are invited in), attend our parties, eat gourmet food, and have a wardrobe that includes a kilt and a really cute Santa suit.
As with most parents, I feel my dogs are the best at everything. In my mind, they are the best behaved, cutest and smartest dogs on the planet. That is until my recent visit to the vets
I had to take Willy, our four year old miniature long haired dachsund, in for his checkup. I don't know what it is, but dogs seem to know the minute they get in the car if this is a going to be a fun trip or a visit to the doctor. Why they are afraid of the doctor is beyond me, it's like they can smell the fear as soon as they walk in.
As I was waiting to be called in, there were two other parents with really sweet dog-children. One was a medium sized fluffy white poodle, the other was the cutest baby Lab. The Lab was playful and not shy. He went up to the other dog and  quickly became friends with him. Both their tails were wagging and it was obvious they really liked each other. The parents, thought it was really cute how much their kids liked each other and decided they should made a play date. 
I have to admit I was jealous, I wanted to be included. Willy and I had never been invited on a play date. Maybe this would be my chance. If I could entice the Lab over and Willy charmed him, we would be in. "Come here", I beckoned, "you are so cute, awe, come on, come on". The popular dog in class finally came over and  I put out my hand to pet him. This was going to be great. Willy and I would finally be members of the canine in-crowd. It was going really well, until Willy decided he didn't want any new friends. As this cute baby, innocent Yellow Lab let me pet him, Willy suddenly snapped at him. I had no idea he had teeth, let alone this snippy-dog attitude. At first I was stunned, then totally embarrassed.  The Lab's Mom called her baby back to her and held him close. Willy didn't just stop there, he began barking at him as if to tell him that he hates him and not to ever come closer or he'd eat him.
I was mortified. My dog was the bad one. The one other people had to protect their babies from. I asked the receptionist how much longer it was going to be and she quickly escorted me and Willy into the exam room. I've seen this done before, usually when a dog is misbehaving and terrorizes others in the lobby.  It was a puppy time out and we were being punished.
Needless to say, Willy has never been included in play dates. He prefers staying home and protecting his dad's. What a good boy!

Will the real Lori please stand up.

Someone told me once that everyone has a twin somewhere in the world. I've never quite believed this, or at least not until yesterday.
My work day begins at nine on Saturday mornings. I love Saturdays at work, it is much more casual than the rest of the week. Clients are generally more relaxed and that vibe gets transferred to me.
I parked in the parking structure as usual. The structure has been under construction and parking has been at a minimum. If I arrive past 9:00, I usually end up on level five, but yesterday I got lucky, I got a prime spot on level 3. I thought, this is a  sign that the day was going to be a good one.
After parking my car, I grabbed my McDonald's burrito (yes, I stopped at McDonald's, but I did get the only un-fried thing on the menu). The weather had finally broke, just in time for Memorial Day. It was warming up and I even saw some sunshine, something we haven't had for a few weeks now. I was really in a great mood. Which is probably why I did the following:
I crossed the street and headed up the alley behind our salon. As I got to our back door, I see my friend Lori walking on the sidewalk at the end of the alley. "She's up early" I thought. Because I was in an extra good mood, I decided it would be nice to make her day by yelling (I mean yelling) HEY SEXY! Lori and I always have a great banter, so I was awaiting her witty reply back. As I stood there thinking how charming I am, my friend Lori turned to me with a horrified look on her face. I was mortified. The person I thought I was amusing was not Lori, it was a total Lori looking stranger!
I, of course went into my usual mode of muteness when I make a complete ass out of myself. I just stared at this stranger for what seemed an eternity until I finally broke the tension by not saying a word but running away.

The Dreaded Question

We opened the cabin this past weekend. I always love our first weekend. It's a sign that Summer is finally here. Our cabin is on an island in northeast Michigan. We bought the property 23 years ago after literally finding it listed for sale on the back of a paper plate at a restaurant/real estate office. Our hideaway would be considered by few as "roughing it", meaning we don't have electricity, city water or even a well. What we do have is propane that runs a refrigerator, stove and hot water tank. Water is pumped from the lake and used for showers and dishes. I consider this paradise and one of  my favorite places on earth.
As with every opening weekend, we always find something that mysteriously broke over the winter. This year it was our water system. This elaborate system consists of a water pump, generator, pipe and a water pressure tank (I'm sure there's more to it, but that's not my department). After we (I say we but I really mean Anthony), hooked up the system and had it ready to go, we turned on the faucets and felt the cool sensation of air. Something was obviously wrong. No surprise, we've been struggling with our water setup  for some time now. After many years of making it work "good enough", we made the decision to hire a plumber and have it fixed once and for all.
Harry Henry, yes that is his name, arrived by boat. Mind you, northeast Michigan is much different than the rest of the state. It is, and I mean this as a compliment, very simple. The people are all very nice. Picture a 1950's backdrop with a 1970's hard-rock population and of course, an occasional mullet. Our plumber was a sweet man who really seemed to know his stuff.
As Anthony was showing him around and familiarizing him with our "system", I as normal stayed clear. I have nothing to add to that kind of conversation. All I can say are things like "it sort of sounds like it's working, but it isn't" or "isn't it nice out?" So, I decided it was best to sit on the porch with my dogs on my lap and read a play that I've been trying to finish. I should add I had a cozy blanket wrapped snug around me. Needless to say, not the most macho of images.
As the two of them made their way toward the house, Anthony excused himself for a minute and left me alone with the plumber. I had two choices, continue to read and pet my dogs or try to be a little social and make eye contact. As it turns out, I didn't have to make the decision, suddenly I hear "did you leave the wife at home this weekend?". WHAT?  My inside voice had lots of witty comebacks. My outside voice, however could not come up with anything. The best I  could muster, which made absolutely no sense was "wanna a beer?". What was I thinking, we didn't even have beer. I hate beer. I could have at least offered him a martini or a scotch. At least I could have followed through if he took me up on it.
I'm not sure what it was that made this guy think I had a wife. I mean, come on, two designer dogs, sipping coffee, a play (better yet, a musical)  and a Ralph Lauren blanket. Really, do the math. I don't know why I get so nervous when cornered with these sort of questions. I could have replied, "actually, I don't have a wife, I have a partner...." or "no, she's here with me", or "funny thing you should ask, you see, I'm GAY". I think this is a quandary many gay people find themselves in. When someone assumes you're straight, do you correct them or just ignore it? I'm lucky to live in a pretty acceptable surrounding, but sometimes you just have to be smart and know your audience.
Lesson learned-Always keep beer on hand.

Thank you Siskel and Ebert.

I think a doctor's waiting room is about the worse place on earth. Today I brought my friend in for a doctor visit. As we entered the office, I was prepared. I had my book and even remembered my glasses. I was going to make the best of it. I chose a seat by an end table. This was picked on purpose because there would only be one open chair on my side and I was less likely to become sandwiched by strangers.  In the corner of the room was a television. I love t.v., but this one did not have on CNN, Oprah or even a Brady Bunch rerun. Unfortunately it was blaring Jerry Springer. I HATE this show. I've only seen it a couple of times, but it always seems to have the same people on it-a women wants to tell her boyfriend that her baby isn't his, it's his brother's gay lover's.
I had no choice but to ignore the noise and opened my book. My friend was called in immediately, this never happens to me, but I was glad for him.
As I began reading, I suddenly hear from across the room "Well no wonder, wouldn't you if your name was Peaches?" At first I thought, maybe he was just on his phone having a conversation about his dog. I slowly looked up to see that he was looking at me. He was trying to converse with me about the women on Jerry. "Oh, for sure" was all I could get out. I had to think quick, I absolutely did not want to continue this discussion about Peaches and her dilemma, so I politely looked back down at my book.
Suddenly I hear, louder than his first invitation, "Oh no she didn't". Again, I looked up, only this time I did not reply, I just gently flashed my fake half smile and went back to my book. I think he was beginning to get the hint when another patient finally entered. She took a seat two away from him. She was immediately enthralled with the mess on t.v. and began giving her commentary. Mind you, neither of these two were discussion it, they were just heckling.
I was just about to blurt out comments about my book to demonstrate what it was like to have someone try to engage you in something you clearly had no interest in, when they finally called the first guy in. Great, maybe now I can read without the critics review of Springer. Suddenly, I hear a loud, weird, violin meets Ozzie Osborne sound. It was her cell notifying her of a text. The reason I know this is because out came "now, what does he want?" Then, "I don't think so!" Followed by " oh, he is so annoying".  She was clearly waiting for me to ask for more information. I wouldn't even look up this time. She texts something back, and you can just imagine how long this went on. I wanted to explain to her that the reason people text is so they don't have to talk, but I chose to re-read the same page I've read ever since I sat down instead. 
She was finally called in and I had the entire waiting room to myself. I could read my book in peace. Instead, I got up, crossed the room so I could have a better view of the t.v., sat down and finished watching Springer. Worse than that, when the next person came in I found myself filling him in.
I was beyond mortified when I realized that maybe Springer isn't that bad. When I got home, I had to get that train wreck of a t.v. show out of my head, so I immediately put on CNN and watched it for the rest of the day.

Having It My Way

On days when I have a lot of errands to do, it's not easy to eat a healthy lunch. Although it's convenient and really good, I do my best not to eat a lot of fast food. Today was one of those days that I had a long list of places to go. From the accountant to the dry cleaners and everywhere in between, I realized I would have to have lunch on the run. I mapped out my options and decided to stop into a gourmet grocery store that has an excellent hot food to go bar. 
 I decided to get a to-go coffee too. Of course, the coffee bar is at the bakery counter. "Anything else", the nice lady asked. I quickly thought that I may still be hungry after burning all those calories running around today, so I ended up with my favorite chocolate chunk cookie. 
After weighing my lunch options, I decided on the chicken fingers and fries. I don't eat like that every day, but I needed something to eat with my fingers and this would be perfect. Plus, I love chicken fingers.
As I was loading my cardboard container up to the top while delicately balancing my coffee and cookie, I heard "hi Jeff". I looked up and saw of my very fit friends. You know, the one who is your age, works out daily and obviously has never had a chicken finger.  "Oh, hi" was my reply. This was proceeded with some chit chat, all the while I'm looking at his basket filled with fruits and vegetables. We finished our conversation by saying the obligatory, "we should get together sometime". I knew this would never happen because I don't go to health food restaurants.
It was almost over, I was at the checkout. All I had to do was pay, and I would be home-free to eat in the privacy of my car. As the cashier was ringing up my items, my fit friend showed up in line behind me. "Well, this should be a good lunch" replied the cashier. I decided this was my chance to clear it all up. I blurted out rather loudly "Oh, this is not MY lunch, no, it's for someone else. I'm just picking it up for them. I already ate my lunch-please, I don't eat like this" Blah-blah-blah. I then continued "and this cookie really looks good, but it's not for me either, I don't eat dessert, it's for someone else who loves chocolate". Why didn't I just shut up? My fit friend tried to make me feel better by saying he likes those cookies too. I knew he has never had a cookie in his life and he was just doing his best to make me stop talking. I quickly paid for my lunch and told him we'd have to get together soon. As soon as I reached my car I realized I had been  officially outed as a "fried food on the run-cooking eater"

I can't hear your text

Anthony (my partner) and I went out to a local bar last night for a "quick" drink. As you'll come to learn, in my world there is no such thing as a quick drink, it's just how I phrase it because it sounds better than "Let's go to the bar and get drunk".  I was sitting at my usual spot, at a trivia video game. It was a small crowd of about twelve people. Now, I'm sure it's a sign of the times, but every single person was on their phones texting.  I mean ALL of them. Not only texting, but I could tell that some of them were texting each other even though they were on the next bar stool. I was feeling really left out-I didn't have anyone to text  Part of Anthony's "charm" is that when he's  had a couple of cocktails, he likes to strike up conversations with strangers, As the night went on, I could sense his growing frustration of not being able to share his stories with our fellow bar flies. "Just look at them", he starts, "they don't even know how to communicate".  So, we sat with each other playing trivia while everyone else continued their e-conversations. By our second drink, Anthony was really itching to chat. "I can't believe no one has even looked up, what could be so important that they can't take their eyes of their stupid phones". I was beginning to sense his growing impatience that he couldn't talk to the guy about local restaurants or politics. As I continued to play my game I suddenly heard rather loudly, "O.K., SERIOUSLY, WHY ARE YOU ALL ON YOUR PHONES? YOU'RE NOT EVEN TALKING TO EACH OTHER!" I was ready to sneak out the back door when something really amazing happened. Everyone looked up, laughed, put their phones down and began having live conversations. We overstayed our welcome as usual, but ended up having a really great time.

Here It Goes

Coming away thoroughly inspired by my Writers Retreat hosted by Wade Rouse and Gary Edwards, I'm finally beginning my blog. I learned a lot about myself this weekend. I realized why I laugh even when I shouldn't, why I find humor in just about every situation, even when I shouldn't and why I have a desire to share them through writing. My blog is intended to tell stories about every day events. Now, my version of daily happenings seem to evolve into full length stories. My brain has this unique way of interpreting everything into an edgy and slightly "that's so not right",  sort of sit-com.
I'm looking forward to finally having a place to document some of life's events and hopefully inspire others to live their life a little lighter. After all, it is all about having fun, isn't it?