Category: Friends and Other Strangers

THERE’S NO WALES WITHOUT A LITTLE PAIN

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks3 Comments

I am writing this at 3:00 AM. I’d like to say to those who told me international flights have more room – even in coach, “Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

As we rocket across the “pond” I am reminded of…camping. My ex husband, God rest his soul, loved camping. And I was young enough and dumb enough to go along. (He’s not dead, by the way, but I always wanted to kill him after our camping trips, and it’s 3:00 AM. And I’m loopy.)

Anyway, we’d go camping and I’d lie there trying to sleep, feelinG some stray rock lodged right under my shoulder-blade. I’d toss and turn, praying for dawn when we could get the “duck” out of there.

After what seemed like eons of torture, I would open my eyes and think, SURELY, SURELY, at least 4 hours have passed, but NO. I had slept twenty minutes. 20. Minutes. I’d say to myself, “Gee, only 7 more hours of this hell to go.” And “Maybe a divorce really isn’t that terrible a thing…”

That’s what this is like. My knees are smashed into the seat in front of me. I have slept twice, twisted sideways and contorted into a position I dare Cirque du Soleil to match, and awakened both times to neck pain.

I am pleased with the As Seen On TV travel pillow, though. Without it, I think I would be a very unhappy camper. (Hubby got one out of two right. Pajama Jeans-no. Crazy round donut of a travel pillow-yes.)

I know Wales is going to be a blast. I just hope I can keep my eyes open to enjoy it. Not sure what to do for next 3 hours of flight. I already had 2 glasses of wine and half a Valium. If I DO manage to sleep, I’d like to be able to wake up and be functional. Eventually.

Hopefully, all my tossing and turning hasn’t disturbed Sandy. She’s managed to create a nest in the corner against the window. She looks so peaceful.

I hate her. But I’ll get over it.

At least one of us will be sharp enough to negotiate our way to Paddington station. Sandy promises me a shop there with bacon and cheese pasties. I can overcome my jealousy of her sleep skills – and pretty much wipe away this whole 9 hour torture fest – if there’s bacon and cheese involved.

Not sure when I will be able to post this, as wi-fi availability is undetermined as of yet. I’m sure by the time you are reading this, I will be in a much happier place, both mentally and physically. But at this point, as I complete this post, I know you people are sleeping too, and I hate you all.

Love,
Ann

WALES WARNINGS

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks3 Comments

Exciting news! No, I’m not in Wales yet. I leave Thursday evening, so I am still in frantic prep mode, without any real justification for panic. As my traveling companion pointed out, we are going to a destination that DOES HAVE stores. If we forget something, we simply purchase it.

This is why traveling with Sandy is going to be such a pleasant experience. She can be so REASONABLE and patient. It’s almost like traveling with my hubby, except it’s not at all like that. For instance, when traveling with Sandy, if we get lost or even THINK we MIGHT be getting lost, we will slow down, or stop to regroup. We will do this while maintaining calm breathing and a dignified demeanor so as to not let everyone around us know we are on the verge of hysteria. In fact, the quieter and calmer we get, the more worried we are.

When traveling with hubby, if we think we are lost, our speed tends to increase, as does his tone of voice and the volume of the car stereo. It’s like a bad sound track to a nervous breakdown.

Side note while we’re on the hubby topic: Hubby actually suggested I purchase pajama jeans to wear on the plane. I looked at him in horror, as though he had suggested I wear blackface and a tutu while juggling kittens. Seriously?  I wouldn’t wear such things INSIDE my home, much less risk being seen in them. In public. If I’m in a fiery plane crash and paramedics are deciding who to save, I don’t want them seeing PAJAMA JEANS and deciding, “We’re doing her a favor. Let her go.”

Anyway, I have buried the lead. Exciting news! (She repeats, aware that she is indeed losing her mind.)  Chances are quite good that Sandy and I will be able to post videos to this blog during our travels. We are thinking of doing a Welch word of the day – perhaps with guest instructors. There is also a strong possibility of some ruins making an appearance, a castle or two and some lovely scenery. Oh, and Sandy is well-known amongst a select group for photographing her food while on vacation, so you’ll be seeing a variation on fish & chips, no doubt. And the Cheese Festival has serious potential for entertaining videos. After all, THERE’S CHEESE TOSSING!

So, as I prepare to go radio silent as I finalize my travel details, I leave you with some interesting tidbits I found while researching travel tips for Wales:

If I am requesting 2 of something, such as signaling for 2 pints, or 2 ciders, I need to use my thumb and index finger, rather than making the “V” with the index and middle finger, which is the equivalent of flipping someone off.  Although I CAN do that (make the “V” sign – not flip someone off) if I make sure my palm is facing the bartender I am signaling.

I like this one best: “Avoid offering money unless the change is handed over on a small tray.  Instead, when you pay, ask the server to ‘have one for yourself’ or ‘get a drink on me.’ They will add the price of a drink but may take the money instead of the drink. Do this with your first order and you will get noticed sooner next time you go to the bar. Further tipping is generally not needed, though it is well received if you make the offer of a drink on your last purchase of the evening.”

I can only assume most bartenders in Wales are pretty plastered by the end of the evening.  Oops, not “plastered,” “pissed.”

Also, (and I had heard this before) tennis shoes (trainers) are not so popular. In fact, the website says you’ll often see “no trainers” listed in the dress code of clubs. Personally, I think they should exclude personal trainers as well. Those people who don’t let you have any fun, or eat or drink anything yummy. 

Oh, and a friend recently in Wales advises to watch for cars when crossing the street.  Apparently, we Americans look the wrong way and tend to get squished on occasion.

Alright. That’s it for me (I think) until we reach Cardiff. Pray to the gods of the navigationally challenged on my behalf, and send up prayers of support for Sandy, the person in charge of me for 9 whole days.

WALES AND WHINE

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks9 Comments

This is going to be a quick post because I am way too busy freaking out on multiple levels to spend a lot of time analyzing my thoughts.  As far as I can tell, my current thoughts sound something like this, “Aaaauuurrghghhhghhhh!!” 

Here’s why:

1.  I have a great job that I love most of the time, but right now I need it to slow down so I can THINK, or take a few moments out of the day to make an appointment to have something done (like a doctor’s appointment, hair, pedi, etc.) before I leave town in 15 days. Leaving my desk for lunch would be awesome, and maybe managing to get away from the computer long enough to pee would be even better. (Sorry, Mom, I mean “Powder my nose.”)  If new requests would just STOP coming in on an hourly basis, I might actually dance with relief.

Due to this overabundance of work, I am getting annoyed with the people who keep presenting me with more. Really really annoyed. So annoyed I’m thinking of printing this sign and hanging it at my desk, or using it as my screen saver:

I can hear the response now. “You don’t LOOK calm. And your left eyelid is twitching. Oh, and I need this tomorrow.”

2.  I get to go on an amazing trip to Wales in 15 DAYS.  That gives me two more weekends to gather what I need and get mentally prepared. 

Ready for the part where I start hyperventilating? I’m freaking about credit cards and something about a chip & pin versus magnetic strips and the potential to get some sort of pre-loaded Master Card, and all this stuff that sounds really complicated to my brain, which automatically shuts itself down like a blown breaker every time financial transactions, exchange rates, or foreign currency in general are mentioned.  I just want to be able to hand a card to someone and have them take my money. This apparently CAN happen, but I also have to notify everyone (the bank) that I am leaving town and will be using it somewhere else, etc.

I’m sure this will end up being no big deal at all, but for some reason it completely FREAKS ME OUT. What if I get there and my card doesn’t work? What if I can’t buy any cheese at the cheese festival?  Should I just take cash? Euros? Shiny beads? Valium?

I got so crazy about it this weekend – with hubby flashing 3 different credit cards at me I never knew we had and telling me to go online and open electronic accounts blah blah blah…login blah blah blah… verify blah blah blah… that at some point I went in my closet and kicked a box.

Confession: I am not the most mature person on the planet. (This is where you politely plaster a surprised look on your face.) 

Luckily for the rest of the planet, when frustrated beyond words I rarely strike out against anyone but myself. (At least physically.) In fact, I’m lucky I am not in a cast now, as I had no idea what was in the box I attacked. Chances are pretty good that it could have been a stash of books).  I DID limp around for a few hours afterward with some tingling in my toes and a tendon that seemed to be a bit annoyed with me. I know all of this is completely over the top and I will have plenty of time to get everything done and it won’t be the end of the world if I don’t.  It’s going to be an amazing adventure. If I don’t have a stroke before we even get to the airport.

Sandy, (beat the rush and start pitying her now for selecting me as her traveling companion) – when I get like this on the trip, we’ll need a cue so you can signal me that I’m losing it.  Just say something like, “OMG! There’s cheese tossing!” and I promise to shut up and take a deep breath. 

After I kick something. (With my adorable new boots I bought last weekend for the trip!!)

Plus, just in case, I am packing this. Use it at your discretion.

WALES WATCHING

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks7 Comments

It’s time to prepare myself. I am actually leaving the country. And amazingly, it’s not because of the impending elections of 2012 and my inability to comprehend how on earth ANY of those people can be for real. I believe our political system has been hijacked by a BRAVO TV series, and the whole thing is just an experiment to see what it takes for us all to pack up and move to Canada.

But I digress. The point is, I am flying to Wales in a month, where I will spend approximately 8 days touring every nook and cranny possible. Then, I fully intend to find Excalibur and become the ruler of Great Britain. Just so you know

.

I am only concerned about one thing, or maybe a million. It’s hard to tell. First of all, I am not a good traveler as far as planes go. I don’t fear them falling out of the sky or a crack ripping open and sucking me out into oblivion, or even an engine imploding and basically eating itself, resulting in a noise that makes all the hair on the back of my neck stand up and my stomach drop like a stone as I realize death is the only thing that can occur after a noise like that at 30,000 feet. (Okay, that actually happened to me once, but it turned out there was an alternative to death that involved an emergency landing in Memphis.)

No, none of that worries me at all. What does worry me is sitting for 9 hours in a plane, which probably means at some point I will have to use that tiny airplane bathroom (ick). Also, despite traveling with one of the most intelligent and entertaining people I know, I will either have to sleep or entertain myself for much of that 9 hours.

I don’t like sleeping on planes. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the fear of people watching me as my mouth droops open and I begin snoring like a feral hog. (Very unladylike.) Maybe it’s because I want to be awake if something terrible happens that requires my assistance and quick thinking.  (Let’s face it, the only emergency I could really help with would be the mixing of a superior martini, or opening a bottle of wine without a corkscrew.)

I am  very excited about actually BEING in Wales. I have never been out of the country before – other than a trip to Mexico, which doesn’t count. And I am really extra excited because there’s a small chance I may be able to understand one word out of every ten or so spoken. I have also been assured by my traveling companion that the Welsh are NICE.  Really, really nice.  Plus, the best thing EVER. There is a cheese festival occurring at Cardiff Castle on one of our first few days.

I get very excited about cheese. Unnaturally so.

I am NOT excited about shopping for the trip or packing, and I’m sure I’ll have some other travel concerns pop up over the next few weeks, but for now, I am going to go purchase some Breathe Right strips and practice sleeping attractively.

A LONG WAY TO GO

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks10 Comments

This week’s #Let’sBlogOff topic is: What one thing did you really want when you were a kid?

When I was 5, I longed for consistency and fairness. I had multiple stuffed animals and it was heart wrenchingly important that each had their turn in the rotation to sleep directly beside me. Otherwise, I was hurting their feelings. This was a very weighty responsibility for a 5-year-old to self assign. I was just strange that way.

When I was 10, I longed to grow up faster – to be 14, like my brother. To be allowed to run around with him and his friends and be “cool,” instead of being told I was too young. (Lord, when was the last time someone told me I was too young??)

(See? Totally cool. The tank, the socks…the bolo tie I think he’s wearing with the tank…Okay, maybe I was too young to judge correctly.)

When I was 12, I longed for peace. I wanted mom and dad to get a divorce. I was tired of going to sleep at night to the angry sounds downstairs. (I have told each of them this, so I’m not opening any new scabs.)

At 14, I longed for familiarity. My folks actually divorced and no one really knew how to deal with it. The change cost me (not to mention them) friends we’d known all our lives. Our new home situation was now something other parents didn’t want their children around. Then again, mom DID let me watch Three’s Company, and Soap, so maybe they were right to be protective.

Around the age of 16, I yearned for acceptance. I wanted to be beautiful and would have traded my very soul to be popular. Instead I was awkward, shy, self-conscious and an absolute sheep. I should have longed for a brain, like the Scarecrow. (Sometimes the greatest gift is actually NOT being accepted. Take a brief dance break and cue Lady Gaga’s “Born this Way” or Pink’s “F-ing Perfect.”)

At 18, I longed to be 15 again. That was the last summer I didn’t have a job. A little notice would NOT have gone amiss, people. Something like, “Enjoy this one, because it’s the last!” Seriously.

At 21, I longed for independence, freedom, adventure… Barring that – important things like long hair, a Corvette and a tan.

By 35, I realized I’d left too many things to chance. Somehow I thought things I longed for would happen if I just continued to breathe in and out every day: To be a good wife and mother. (At some point I realized this may not happen in the preferred order, but I didn’t let myself even speculate on other possibilities.) To be a famous author. To produce “Out of Africa,” (Okay, so that was already done by someone else, but I still wanted the credit for it.) To have close friends (and be a good friend in return). To make my parents and family proud. To contribute in a meaningful way. To have no regrets.

Some of those longings have been satisfied over the past (unintelligible mumble) years. The majority are going to require a bit more tending – to say the least. They will require serious work, personal risk, courage and perseverance not equaled since the stuffed animal rotation of ’72-’74.

Wish me luck.

Maybe I should have just written about the pony I wanted at age 7 and left it at that. Or my current longing for all those naps I skipped.

To see what others have written on this Let’sBlogOff topic, Click HERE.

OF MICE AND FINER MOMENTS

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

My good friend, code name: Ms. Bone, was reminding me yesterday of one of our “finest moments” as roommates. We were in our mid-twenties and living in Valley Ranch. Cue the dreamy harp music as we go back in time…

Picture this: A large living room divided the apartment, with a bedroom on opposite sides.   In the middle of the living room sat two couches at right angles to each other. Yes, we each had our very own couch, which comes in handy later. 

One evening, I was in my bedroom for some reason when I heard a great “WHOOP!” from Ms. Bone.  Moments later, another “WHOOOOP!” followed by “Ann!”

I ran out of my bedroom and rounded the corner to find Ms. Bone standing on top of her blue couch, doing some sort of dance. Although I couldn’t identify the dance at first, I had a hunch it was not a happy dance. This was confirmed when Ms. Bone pointed to the floor behind me and babbled “Mouse!”

I leaped three feet from a standing position to the cushions of my couch, gasped so desperately I nearly sucked all the air out of the apartment and began a little “There’s a mouse in our house” dance of my own.  (Told you it wasn’t a happy dance.)

After much debate we decided to attempt to persuade the mouse to exit our 1st floor apartment. In other words, while prancing on the couches and keeping a watchful eye on our little furry brown friend in the corner, we realized every man we knew was either out-of-town, or likely to “assist” by appearing at our door with a camera to record our hysteria for posterity. You can see why persuasion was our preferred choice.

I drew the short straw and was forced to make the first attempts to catch the mouse.  With powerful girl reasoning, I decided to use a sauce pan to try to trap Ricky (detested, misunderstood brother of Mickey). I can only imagine I thought having a handle meant I didn’t have to get too close to him. I approached him several times, arm extended, holding the pan.  As soon as I would lower the pan toward him, he darted in a very appropriate mouse-like way, scaring me silly and causing squeals to erupt from Ms. Bone and myself. This was particularly disturbing because neither of us was prone to squealing about ANYTHING.  In other words, the pan method was a failure.

I hopped back on the couch to begin the “There’s a mouse in our house” dance again. The next method of attack was decided. Broom and cardboard. Ms. Bone would wield the broom, I would wield the piece of cardboard and we would urge him toward our front door which was now hanging invitingly wide open (we hoped).

Although I liked this idea because it meant we were BOTH on the same level with the mouse, I disliked the thought that we might inadvertently a) hurt the mouse in the process or b) annoy the mouse until it attacked one of us.

Using the patented “Advance, Shriek, Retreat” method, we were actually making progress with Ricky. We moved him past the kitchen and were headed in the general direction of the front door when I remembered one important thing. I was a cat owner.

Second important thing: Kahlua had been awakened by the commotion and was now VERY interested in our little game. I heard one low-pitched “meeeeooooow” before Kahlua joined the fray. Luckily, Ricky moved faster than Ms. Bone or I did and made for the open door before inexplicably changing course and running under the door of the coat closet. The coat closet that was still full of boxes and such.  The one that had lots of places to hide. Forever, if necessary.

The next half hour consisted of repeatedly throwing the cat out the back door and watching as she quickly circled the house and re-entered through the still wide open (invitingly, we hoped) front door. The closet was emptied one item at a time, with delicate deliberation and often a little panicky jump in anticipation of a mouse racing across our feet. Kahlua continued to try to get into the closet, we continued to push her out, and the mouse was no doubt busy having a little mouse heart attack.

Aside: I’m not quite sure why we never put the cat in one of our bedrooms. That must have made too much sense for us at the time.

Anyway, just as they say, “It’s always the last place you look,” as Sandy poked the broom handle at the last box in the closet, Ricky came tearing out. We both blocked the attempted route back into the living room (somehow) with broom and that threatening flat piece of cardboard. To our delight, Ricky spun around on his little bony mouse feet and scampered out the front door, making a sudden right into the bushes, Kahlua on his heels. (Don’t worry. We are almost 65% sure he escaped. Maybe even 75%. It’s amazing how quickly you go from “don’t hurt the mouse” to “screw the mouse” when you think you might be co-habitating with said mouse against your will.)

Important lessons from this “finest moment:”  1) We don’t need a man to rescue us.  2)  The higher off the ground your couch is, the better. 3) It would still be nice if a man HAD rescued us, but he would have done it all wrong (according to the “There’s a mouse in our house” dancers).

A GOOD SOLE

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

When I began 6th grade at Highland Park Middle School a million years ago, I was not one of the “in crowd.” For one thing, I didn’t have the right clothes. I had one Polo shirt. Maybe 2. Certainly not enough to outfit myself everyday in the uniform of the cool kids which meant wearing not one, but 2 each day. Layered. With collar jauntily flipped up. Secondly, I did not have the shoes. Candies, to be exact. They looked like this:

I remember them well, because they were always at chest level when I saw them. None of the 12-year-old girls in my class could wear them. They just carried them like trophies atop their books as they moved from classroom to classroom. My mother REFUSED to purchase hoochie shoes that I was incapable of walking in. Therefore, any chance of popularity, acceptance, or friendship was simply out of the question.

Having grown accustomed to comfort in my footwear, I shied away from high heels until well into my 20s. I worked in TV production and was always on a set or crawling around some location in search of the perfect shot, so I dressed in jeans and cowboy boots, or back to the trusty tennies.

Sometime in my 30s I discovered the joy and frustration of buying shoes that looked HOT. Ridiculously high heels that were virtually impossible to walk in. (Mom was RIGHT. AGAIN. Damn it.) A few credentials for my girl card are pictured below.

I take my shoes outside every now and then to give them a chance to get out of my closet and see the real world. Trust me, their natural habitat is not concrete. They’re more for sitting, or lounging. Aren’t they pretty? Look how excited they are to be outside! Standing at attention and looking sassy.

 

This is one of my favorites:

I usually don’t put footwear on the table, but since the sole of this shoe has barely touched anything but the bottom of the box it came in, I figured what the heck. I’m too old and stiff to crawl around trying to get a good photo op of a shoe.

All of this brings me to recent events. A friend of mine, Tony Walker, has taken to wearing Vibrams. Have you seen Vibrams?

These are Vibrams. They are the darling of the “running” world right now and are virtually impossible to keep in stock. From what I’ve read about them online, they are like wearing a hug on your feet. Whose feet don’t need a good hug now and then? All the rave reviews are backed by the personal experience of Tony. If forced at gunpoint to surrender either his Cole Haans or his Vibrams, he’d probably hurl the Cole Haans at the gunman and run speedily away – quite comfortably – in the Vibrams.

As you might imagine, he is taking a good deal of good natured ribbing about his footwear selection. After all, as a gay man in Dallas, Texas, and an extremely successful designer, he DOES have a reputation to uphold. That’s why I find his choice all that much more impressive. Look at the facts: Tony came from a “corporate America” background. Suits, ties, the whole shebang. And not Men’s Wearhouse either. Ralph Lauren, Armani, Cole Haan. He must have been the epitome of the impeccable man of business.

And according to him, miserable.

Now, he is living his dream. He’s co-owner of Jones Walker Home. He is respected in the design industry, adored by clients, and friend to a ridiculous number of very nice people. Tony works hard 7 days a week (until just recently when he started allowing himself two days off), and stands for long hours on his feet. On a concrete floor. All of this makes his choice understandable. But more important is what it says about him. Fashion and criticism be damned. He’s made a decision to make comfort and health a priority. Evidence to this can be found in his almost daily bike rides, trips to the gym, diet, and those crazy shoes.

So, when next I reach for a pair of these:

(A pox upon you, Michael Kors.)

In my heart of hearts, I will salute Tony. A person who’s comfortable in his own skin, and not afraid to show it. Someday, I hope to give my aching feet a hug, too. In the meantime, if I want a fashion statement, I think Lady Gaga’s got me covered.

 

(Tony “Five Fingers” Walker.)

“I wear my sort of clothes to save me the trouble of deciding which clothes to wear.”
Katharine Hepburn

BAD DECISIONS MAKE GOOD STORIES

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks1 Comment

When I was in my early twenties / late teens – back during the Ice Age, (Vanilla Ice, smarty pants), I used to tell my mother I was getting all the wildness out of my system before I was old enough to be charged as an adult. (Gee, maybe I was a little dramatic, as well.)

I also told her I needed material to write about someday. Like Auntie Mame prescribes, I wanted to “Live! Life’s a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death!” So, I proceeded to gather material based on some random (bad) decisions.

I’m Bored. Let’s Do Something Different: We (my best friend in high school and I) decided instead of sneaking into clubs when we were underage, we would take ourselves downtown to the Fairmount Hotel. The Pyramid Room, to be exact. We would dress up, sit in the lounge, drink Jack and Cokes and listen to the song stylings of “Two’s Company.” What 17-year-old does that? We quit going when we found out “Two’s Company” had a daughter that attended Ursuline Academy with us. This was revealed naturally in conversation as we shared a drink between sets.

I’ll Show Him: My boyfriend stood me up one evening, so I decided to track him down. I must have just left a family gathering because I was dressed decently in a skirt, boots, and rabbit coat. As I trolled the area he was last seen, my car broke down. Dusk was falling. I found myself just off the main drag known for prostitution, and yes, this was before cell phones. I walked to the first open business I found – a gas station – and asked a gentleman who spoke no English whatsoever if I could use the phone. He took a gander at my outfit and decided I was a hooker. I assume as much because he looked very excited while he spoke to me in rapid fire Spanish and waved money at me. While he waved, I frantically searched my brain for the Spanish translation of “My car doesn’t work.”
“Mi coche no trabajo.”

Turns out what I kept telling him was basically, “I don’t work in my car.”

I was rescued by my friend’s mother who looked nothing like a pimp. I’m sure Paco was dreadfully confused by the turn of events.

I Don’t Want A Real Job: I decided what I wanted more than anything in life was to work on a horse ranch. I found an ad in the paper for a Ranch Manager – (Please include photo). Despite the creepy photo request, the couple was very nice and passed the mother approval test. I moved into their house in Mount Pleasant and began working my rear end off. All was magnificently and gloriously horsey until one day when they both left. It appears my boss had begun a relationship with a 21-year-old during his travels. His wife (my other boss) told him to get out, then she too left to visit friends. For about a week. This left me – at 20 years of age and with almost no experience with horses – alone on acres and acres of land with a couple dozen horses to feed and water each day. Oh, and I had to exercise the six horses in the show barn. And there were snakes. Big snakes. They liked to cross your path in the dark when you were watering the horses.

As much fun as it sounds to be the only human being for miles, working with animals that can be a bit cantankerous, and with snakes roaming around like it’s the Bronx Zoo or something, it just wasn’t. I eventually packed up my rodeo queen tiara and sash and headed back to Dallas. (That’s another story.)

So mom, I apologize for all the trouble, but I DID get some decent stories out of it.

And don’t worry. I’m sure payback is coming.

WHAT CAN GO WRONG

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Back in my previous life as a producer of TV commercials, part of my job was to anticipate any potential disasters that could occur on the day of the shoot and be prepared with a solution. As a natural worrier, I was really quite good at this. I spent much of my life imagining the disaster ahead, so getting paid for it was a plus. I don’t think of my attitude as pessimistic, I think of it as preventative. You see, from the earliest days as a producer I learned if I was prepared for it, it didn’t happen. It was almost a game. Had I thought of absolutely everything that could go wrong? Yes, plus some. Did I have a solution? Yes. Did anything I’d planned for go wrong? No.

Sometimes OTHER things went wrong that I hadn’t considered. But it was usually something we managed to fix on the fly, with no real damage. So why didn’t the really scary stuff happen? Because I had imagined the worst and was prepared. I’m sure of it.

Following this “Worry about it, have a plan, and it definitely won’t happen” rationale, I will present a few of the things I fear:

  1. Stepsons will finish college (or not), be unable to find employment, will return home to live on my couch watching TV too loudly for the rest of my natural life. In the end, I will die in the living room and they will simply step over me (if I’m lucky) for the next few months until neighbors complain about the smell. (A little extreme, but you get the drift.)
  2. At least one of my stepsons will make me a grandmother in the next 5-10 years. (In which case #1 now includes a daughter-in-law and baby.)
  3. I will never have enough savings to retire, and instead will be the oldest marketing director on record in an office where the average age is 30. I will be referred to with alarming frequency as “Ann-tique.”
  4. Barbra Streisand will move next door to me.
  5. I will never be 100% pain free again. No neck pain, carpal tunnel, back ache or muscle spasms. (Sometimes, I swear, my hair hurts.)
  6. My husband will leave me for his girlfriend, Scarlett Johansson.
  7. My husband will NOT leave me for his girlfriend, Scarlett Johansson.
  8. I will be at a fancy hotel walking through the lobby and a pair of underwear will fall out of my pant leg. (Oh, wait. That DID happen. At the Ritz.)
  9. That more and more, people will ask who is the eldest – my brother or me. (For the record, he’s 4 years older.)
  10. Did I mention that grandmother thing? Yeah. That is TERRIFYING.

Don’t get me wrong. I worry about bigger issues than these. Family, friends, terrorists, economy, the government… But I can’t control (or try to control) absolutely everything, no matter how much I’d like to.

So from here on out, you people are on your own.

Except for family and friends. You still scare me.

HAVE ANOTHER COCKTAIL

Published on by Diary of Ann FranksLeave a comment

Many of us have done it. Been THAT GUY or THAT GIRL at the party who has one, or dare I say 2 too many drinks and transitions from tipsy-ville to uh-oh land. Supposed friends even cheer you on as you make the journey. Recently, I witnessed a perfectly sound human being lose control of her liquid vacation.  We all watched indulgently, since she “really had been working hard and needed a break.” As the evening progressed she developed repeat-itis, then slurzy – and all about topics that would never have been brought up without booze. Eventually, when the entertainment value dropped due to the repeat-itis, she was convinced to go to bed.

The following day, our poor victim awoke with a dreadful hangover and an odd sense of regret and shame.  It was the “I have a feeling I said too much, but I’m not sure what I said too much about” guilt.  No problem.  That’s what friends are for, right?

All those friends who egged on the drinking with such understanding are the same ones who delighted in repeating every embarrassing thing “Repeatica” said – not only to the victim herself, but to pretty much anyone within hearing distance.  These remembrances were delivered amidst spasms of laughter, and quickly followed by a composed expression of compassion.  “You really needed to blow off some steam.  I’m so glad you had a chance to do that.”  Meanwhile, Repeatica vowed to never drink again.

So why do we feel the need to tell someone everything they did while under the influence?  Maybe because they were so humorous. Maybe because we want to feel superior. Maybe because someone has done the same thing to us in the past, or perhaps it’s an unwritten post-party law. Whatever the reason, we obviously enjoy it.

The moral of the story? Choose your drinking buddies not only for the quality of their booze, but for their faulty memory and complete discretion.

Good luck with that.