Category: Shiny Things

BAD BOSSES, YORKIES AND SHOW BIZ

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Horrible Bosses, the movie, is getting rave reviews. In anticipation of seeing it myself, I’ve been thinking back on the bosses I’ve had over the years and wondering if any were so bad they’d have justified even a fantasy about “eliminating them.” Conclusion: no. However, they certainly deserved SOMETHING.

My first boss was a veterinarian. I was 16 (maybe 15) and was working at a vet clinic just a few blocks from my home. My work day began at 1:00 (I was on the work program during high school, so attended normal classes in the morning and worked in the afternoon. I also worked weekends and holidays.

Dr. H was pretty young, just a few years out of school. He was usually nice, but occasionally became frustrated with the emotional young ladies who assisted him. The one event that stands out in my mind involved a couple of elderly women who brought in their small Yorkie to be euthanized. It was a busy Saturday, and they did not wish to be in the room with Tinker when he received the injection. The waiting room was crowded and we were short-handed that day. Dr. H had assured the women their beloved pet would feel nothing – just peacefully drift to sleep. It was a good plan, but the Yorkie had other ideas. Hurriedly, Dr. H inserted the needle into Tinker’s vein. I held Tinker’s head, stroking him and murmuring as I waited for him to relax and drift to sleep. Outside the door, the women waited, along with the ever-increasing throng of clients and their pets.

After the injection, we waited. And waited. Tinker appeared dazed and clumsy, but he did not appear to be succumbing to the call of eternal rest. Rushed and unable to delay any longer, Dr. H told me to carry Tinker back to a kennel, then return to the front desk and the next appointment. As I placed Tinker in the cage, he struggled to his feet, then stumbled. He rose to his feet again and fell over. Each time he tumbled over the metal CLUNK as his little body hit the cage floor made me cringe. Tears welled in my eyes as I did something I never expected. I begged Tinker to please lie down and go sleep. For good. The phone in the kennel area rang. It was Dr. H, annoyed that I was taking too long to return to the front so we could attend the next client. CLUNK went Tinker again. I reached into the cage and patted his head again. Please go to sleep, please…

All the way up the hallway I could hear it. CLUNK. Pause. CLUNK. At the front desk, the elderly women, tears in their eyes, pressed me for reassurance. As dogs barked and cats hissed all around us, I looked into their eyes and bald-faced lied. “He went right to sleep.” CLUNK came the denial from the kennel. (Can I really be hearing that all the way up at the front desk?) For a moment I thought even the women had heard it. CLUNK. With shaking hands I took their money and jumped out of my skin as the exam room door opened and an annoyed Dr. H called to me to join him for our next client. CLUNK. He would not listen when I tried to tell him what that CLUNKING noise was.

My next boss was in show business. He imagined himself the next Roger Corman. (Famous producer and director of low-budget B movies.) Mr. G wandered about his production and edit facilities sporting a director’s cap and thinking of ways to become the next big thing. His big break came when he was selected to concept and produce a music video for a particularly infamous white rapper in the 80s.

Following the hit video, Mr. G was approached to produce a second. A notorious “perv,” (and I say that lovingly), he decided we needed a female model that would be painted NUDE and play the role of the background of a toy train set.

It was up to me, at the age of 19, to call talent agencies and request models who would be willing to have their bodies painted like scenery – trees, mountains, streams… Then came the ghastly moment when I had to ask that they agree to be shaved “everywhere.”

“Everywhere?”

I gulped and nodded. Everywhere.

Surprisingly, a lovely young lady showed up the day of the shoot and allowed herself to be painted head to toe. I suppose the most embarrassing part of that video was the fact it left so little to the imagination. A train. A woman painted as a backdrop for a train. A tunnel. If she wasn’t humiliated, I was. I suppose a buck’s a buck, but still…

That year Mr. G’s employees were invited to his house for a Christmas party. His home featured – of course – a movie theater. At 19, I was suitably impressed with a boss who had such swanky digs. We all settled into our seats for a special movie screening Mr. G had produced and edited. It started with clips from Miracle on 34th Street. Then a few clips from It’s a Wonderful Life. Then, my head exploded as the next edit was of a woman performing an act I had never witnessed before in my life, much less amongst co-workers at a holiday party. Yes. Mr. G had cut together Christmas and holiday favorites with porn. I wanted to leave the room, but felt I might be opening myself up to undue amounts of ridicule if I did. The depressing thing is, even today when I watch some of my favorite holiday movies, I sometimes cringe in anticipation of an awkward edit that somehow takes my wholesome Christmas tradition and turns it into “Santa and his Naughty Reindeer.”

I had other bosses that were strange, but kind. One had a sort of crush on me, I suppose. He was known for having crushes on women who were unavailable. It was safer that way. I still remember going in to the office for a commercial shoot the morning after my 1st husband told me he wanted a divorce. (If I have nothing else, I have a strong work ethic.) I arrived at 7:00 a.m. to finish prepping my notes. Mr. S. came up and asked if everything was all right. (I suppose staying up all night trying to figure out where 13 months of marriage had gone wrong takes something out of a girl’s morning glow.) I told Mr. S I was divorcing – according to my husband. The poor, short, stout, kind-hearted man stood there, unsure of his next move. I could tell he was 1) afraid I might burst into tears and scare him silly, or 2) start throwing things at him as he represented the gender that was responsible for my unhappiness and confusion.

Instead of running way or asking me about the shoot, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his billfold. I watched as he dug in and pulled out a wad of bills. His face had gone pale. About as pale as mine, most likely. He extended his hand to me, “Do you need money?” he asked, eyes welling just a bit. Or maybe that was me. “Here.” He held a fist full of cash out to me. “Take it.”

I knew in that instant I was going to be okay. I had people who were willing to help me. “If you change your mind, let me know,” he said before shuffling (probably with much relief) back to his office.

I realize I did not mention a few other bosses. The attempts at providing me with back rubs at the office, or employers who took baseball bats to crystal candy jars. The screamers, the idea stealers, or the confidence shredders. But there were plenty.

We’ve all had horrible bosses. We’ll likely have horrible bosses in the future. If you find a good one, count yourself lucky and no matter what you do – don’t attend the company Christmas party.

A DOG NAMED BACON

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

I got into work today and opened my email to find a message from the North Texas Basset Hound Rescue.  I LOVE the NTBHR because they are the ones who helped bring Robert and me out of the depth of despair following the loss of our beagle/basset by introducing us to Daisy.

So, anyway, the message is titled Favorite breed alert.  I open it and find a link that takes me to this:

This, my friends, is Bacon.  Yes, Bacon.  Isn’t that fantastic!!  One, he’s adorable, and two, he’s named after one of my favorite foods.  So, of course, I’m excited and thinking this is FATE, and this is the doggy brother we are supposed to adopt for Daisy; the one who will keep her company while we’re away and such.  Side note:  My hubby has been against the two dog concept from the get-go, but I think having a buddy to hang out with will help relieve Daisy’s anxiety about being home alone.  (Not to mention  MY anxiety and guilt about leaving her home alone.)  Did I mention I never had children of my own? Yeah. This is the result.

Well, I quickly shoot off an email with that adorable picture to my hubby saying “Look!  Bacon!! He’s up for adoption!” Hubby quickly responded with a brisk and spirit crushing, “No boys.”

No boys??  No boys??! Uhm, excuse me, but where would we be if I had turned to him eight years ago when he introduced me to his TWO boys – aged 8 and 11 – and said, “Oh, sorry.  No boys.”

What?

“Sorry, Mister, but I have a strict ‘no boy’ policy. Please step out of the dating pool.”

In hindsight, I may wonder sometimes why I didn’t consider a no boy policy, but the point is I DIDN’T.  And for a good while  – and still to this day – I can be really frustrated and confused and oftentimes aromatically assaulted as I adjust to the whole BOY thing.  So why does hubby get off scot-free?  Why is he so anti boy?  ANTI BACON, even?  

He says boys lift their legs on things.  That may be the only thing our boys haven’t done to our furniture.  (Just kidding.)  (Not really. I’m serious.) And besides that, house trained is house trained. Bacon would never think of doing such a thing.  I can tell.  He’d fit right in with our current level of male conscientiousness around the house. Plus, he won’t leave a refrigerator door hanging open or forget to rinse his dishes.

And his name is BACON.  AND he looks like this on a floaty in the pool:

I WANT him. Who could NOT want him?

Mmmmmm, Bacon. 

Click here for info on Bacon!

WEIGHT FOR ME

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My husband and I have been gaining weight. He’s gained in the double digits x (I’m not telling – I have to live with him) since we got married and I’ve gained “none of your f-ing business” lbs. As a guy, of course, the weight gain is pretty much fine and dandy. As a woman, the “slight” weight gain is totally unacceptable, a disaster, and will potentially result in a lawsuit against my doctor. He’s the smart guy that told me hysterectomies don’t cause weight gain, Haagen Dazs does. If there’s one thing you want in an OB/GYN, it’s a snappy sense of humor.

In an attempt to lose some weight and gain some health, hubby has decided to give up adult beverages for a month. I applauded his determination and was suitably impressed until he suggested I give up adult beverages for a month as well. After I caught my breath from laughing hysterically, I told him, “No way, Jose.” (I believe in teamwork and mutual support, but there are some things that are sacred and unbreakable – like my relationship with Chardonnay.)

(Does this make me look fat?)

In my own defense, I HAVE cut down on my adult beverage intake. I’m also drinking vodka/sodas because they have a lot less sugar than my Chard. The point is, (as I remind hubby when he glares at me and my bottle of Svedka) I FEEL as though I am suffering. The pounds should be practically dripping off me, but they’re not.

In the good old days of my youth, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, all it took for me to lose weight was one small adjustment like that. Maybe I’d stop ordering fries or onion rings with my cheeseburger, or stop buying chips with a sandwich. (Don’t hate on me. I have LOTS of other challenges in life that make up for 35+ years without weight issues. LOTS.) No one – especially Dr. Wisecrack (no pun intended) ever warned me I’d eventually lose that glorious weight shedding capability. The bastard.

So, here we are, hubby and I – one of us sobering up, and one of us having sobering thoughts about having to be in a swimsuit in a mere three weeks. Maybe I should quit drinking after all. Maybe I should get that stupid jump rope back out and jump my ass off. Literally.

Or, maybe I should stop eating and JUST drink.

I’ll think about it at Happy Hour.

THINGS I MISS

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The other evening I was visiting with my lovely and talented blog topic muse, Max, and we started talking about things we miss from our childhoods. As a child of the 70s and 80s -heavily influenced by reruns of the 50s and 60s, it turns out TV and the people who were on it topped the list, along with a few odd items. (For instance, has anyone seen my sense of optimism lately? I think I misplaced that in the early 90s.)

I miss Johnny Carson. And the Carol Burnett Show. And Saturday Night Live. (The one that had Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, and Gilda Radner in it.)  Oops. Sad face. I miss Gilda too.

I miss after school TV like Gilligan’s Island, Bewitched, and The Dick Van Dyke Show. (Re-runs all, but new to me.)  While we’re at it, I miss getting home before 4:00 in the afternoon.

I miss phones that were actually connected to the wall.  With a little effort I could get half way down the hallway, as long as I kept a tight grip on the receiver.  If I didn’t, the cord, which was stretched almost to the point of ripping out of the phone itself, would fly straight out in the air – smashing against both walls of the hallway before  landing with a crash on the kitchen floor.

I miss Miami Vice, (or more specifically, Don Johnson,) the Solid Gold Dancers, and the SANE Mel Gibson from Mad Max. I miss Bosom Buddies (Tom Hanks in drag), and sometimes, in a tiny corner of my heart, I miss Star Trek and my first crush – 1960s William Shatner.

I miss the Hustle (and disco in general), Boston (the band), Asteroids, mood rings, records, and summers off.

I miss getting exercise by simply existing – riding bikes to the lake, walking to a friend’s house, playing frisbee in the park – that sort of thing. The only way I exercise now is if I pay a gym to guilt me into it.

I miss my love of Hollywood and all things celebrity. REAL stars, like Katherine Hepburn, Bob Hope, Jimmy Stewart, Elizabeth Taylor, Elvis, John Wayne, Bette Davis and Marilyn Monroe. The advancement of Kate and Jon Gosselin, Snooki, and Paris Hilton to celebrities signaled the end of my Hollywood-itis. Plus, they all started sharing their THOUGHTS about politics and the universe. Who told them they could speak without a script?

I miss my first car. My green ’78 Mustang.  White top, white leather interior. I never should have sold it. A 20-something-year old boy ended up with my pristine Pony-car and did unmentionable things to her. The last time I saw her, one side was totally smashed. Pony deserved better.

I miss feeling that everything was easier. Friends, relationships, “work,” decisions, EVERYTHING. Of course, back then, someone else was in charge of me and I just had to do what they said. (More or less.) I wonder if my mother would like her old job back?

There was just something more comforting about those days. Maybe it WAS because we were kids. Maybe it was a simpler time. Maybe we had fewer choices, thus more satisfaction.

Or maybe, just maybe… Johnny really DID make everything better.

Here is the clip I always think of first when I remember the Tonight Show. My parents and I laughed so hard we cried. Enjoy!

MY DAY IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE

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After a Friday evening discussion with my stepson, the recent high school graduate, in which I learned he had no intention of brushing his teeth that night OR the next morning before being delivered to work by his friend, my brain shorted out. 

In a desperate attempt to escape the reality that I had failed to teach the most basic of hygiene practices in 8 years, (and afraid to ask exactly WHEN the last tooth brushing had taken place), my alter ego began channeling Auntie Mame. For those who don’t know who Auntie Mame is, please see the Rosalind Russell version of the movie as soon as possible. 

While I spent the weekend beating myself up and muttering a lot, the following is how my alter ego spent hers:    

Awoke from a delightful night’s sleep, excited about my plans for Saturday.  First on the agenda, outside to feed the chickens! (I highly recommend the apple laying chickens. SO much more interesting than the egg laying variety. Those are so…DONE.)

Next,  an al fresco breakfast in the garden by the water feature. It’s so much more peaceful now that the gnomes have been relocated. They did unmentionable things in the water feature. Ghastly. 

 

After breakfast, meditation.  The beauty of meditating is that you don’t need fancy equipment or mats. You just plop down wherever. It’s a state of mind, after all, and I can relax under the most austere conditions!

Feeling surprisingly rejuvenated, I popped back into the house to change for my dear friend’s wedding at the little white chapel. Not too dressy, just a small affair. It’s the bride’s day to show off her plumage, after all!

  

What a wonderful ceremony! And finally, throwing birdseed makes sense!

After a busy morning taking care of my mind and spirit, I was ready to do something constructive. I would finish that knitting project I’d been working on for weeks. It IS a rather large project. Imagine my frustration to discover the cat had gotten ahold of it! What a mess! (Dare I say it was a real catastrophe?)

I decided to give up on my knitted lounge chair and go back to my other project. I’ve been making a dress. 

Or a lamp. Or maybe it’s a “dramp.” Here’s the finished product. It’s positively  illuminating, if I say so myself. I don’t recommend sitting in it, though. It’s more of a standing thing.

Now, for a little relaxation. A good book. What to select from the bookshelf?

Reading should be educational, entertaining, or enriching. Barring those, it should FEEL rewarding. But where to read? I always choose a room reflective of the book itself. Thank goodness I have the perfect room in which to read “To the Scaffold – the Story of Marie Antoinette.” 

Time flies when you’re reading a good book! But it’s time to get ready to entertain my amazing friends! I have such fun activities lined up! We’re going to have a few drinks and ride my latest find: The big lavender hot dog. I was going to call it “The Weiner,” but that has such dreadfully negative connotations now, thanks to former Representative, Anthony… But we shall persevere! There’s nothing more innocent or childlike than enjoying a ride on a rocking, inflatable object. Full report to follow!  

I’m back! What a perfect evening! We talked and laughed; we had cocktails!

Don’t be silly. Cocktails. Like this:

Then, we played that game where you find shapes in the clouds. I found a duckie. My newest, DEAREST friend, Vida Beatrice (pronounce the “a” as in “hat”) Cassidy Brown insisted she could see a horse in this formation. I think she’s too competitive.

 

I’ll have to keep an eye on Beatrice.  Between you and me, she may be delusional.

A few of my delightful friends may or may not have “overindulged,” so I wheeled them to the guest rooms in my newest conveyance.

A leather wheelbarrow! So much better than dragging people. My back adores me now!

Tomorrow is another day, but for tonight, adieu! What a wonderful day! I hope tomorrow is just as imaginary! I mean magical!

Sweet dreams. (Brush your teeth!)

P.S. Beautiful and strange home decor images from homeklondike.com

OF MICE AND FINER MOMENTS

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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).

I DON’T WANT TO KNOW

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There was a comedian the other night on TV whose name I can’t recall, but whose topic intrigued me. He was commenting on how our lives have lost a little something now that we have access to the internet in the palms of our hands. He said we don’t get to feel that longing for information anymore that went unsatisfied for days or even months before the iphone. (And Google, for that matter.)

In my case, pre-iphone and Google, I had Sandy. Sandy was a co-worker, friend and one time roommate. She was also the greatest resource when you needed to know the name of the dog in “Bringing Up Baby” (George) or when to send Patrick Stewart a birthday card. (July 13.) But, Sandy wasn’t always around when I needed answers. Sometimes I had to wait until I ran across someone who could supply the missing piece to the puzzle. That, or open an encyclopedia.

What did we do before technology? Imagine you’re in a coffee shop one day and hear someone mention Elon University. You think, “Where is Elon University, anyway?” You ask around. No one knows. Your friends don’t know. They may hazard a guess, but overall, you just don’t have a satisfying answer. Days go by. Weeks. UNRESOLVED. Then, one day, you are flipping through TV channels and see a report on Elon. You wait until the announcer says, “North Carolina” and instantly feel that surge of relief. How GREAT does that feel? You don’t get that same level of relief when you Google something that stumped you for maybe 15 seconds.

We don’t enjoy that sense of NOT knowing anymore. The possibility that we might NEVER know the answer. To piece together mental evidence until we figure something out, or come across someone else who has a piece of knowledge we lack. That’s how we made friends. That was a conversation. Now, we sit in rooms and make fleeting eye contact with each other between furtive glances at our phones, our fingers itching to brush across that screen.

I’m guilty. Recent earth shattering questions of mine resolved electronically include:

What is it called when someone lacks a sense of smell? (Anosmia. Not “snarfled” as Max insists.)

Who starred in the movie Gods and Monsters? Ian McKellan. (Not Ben Kingsley, as I insisted.)

What foods could cause a person to break out in hives? (Don’t ask.)

Was it Helen Hayes or Lillian Gish in The Unforgiven? (Gish.)

Does a duck’s quack echo? (No. Maybe it was a frog?)

Could I have lived without all that information? Yes.

I promise to make an effort to NOT resolve all my questions with a quick Google search. I promise to WONDER about things and discuss them, rather than immediately cleaning the conversation slate. I promise to better satisfy my intellectual curiosity by feeding it quality over quantity.

I promise all those things – just as soon as I locate the comedian’s name who started this whole thought process. THAT is driving me INSANE.

A GOOD SOLE

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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

DESTINATION: GUILTY PLEASURE

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I’ve seen some unexplainable things, and done some things I can’t quite explain.

For those who don’t know, that is the line uttered by Josh Gates at the beginning of each episode of Destination Truth. Strangely appropriate considering the confessional nature of this LetsBlogOff assignment: Guilty Pleasures: What’s You Favorite Show on Television?

I am used to a certain level of defensiveness regarding my viewing choices, but frankly, I say with false bravado, I am a little annoyed by having to defend my absolute adoration of a show that offers so many unique characteristics. It has everything a girl could want. Humor, a real life explorer with degrees in archaeology and drama (huh’?), adventure, exotic locations, cryptozoology, a guerilla-type shooting style, and some snappy editing. Hello? I lost you at cryptozoology, didn’t I? That’s when you started laughing at me and rolling your eyes.

I can’t help it. I found the show a couple of years ago and sat spellbound one Saturday as a Destination Truth marathon unfolded. I fell “in crush” with Josh, the tall, sarcastic adventurer who leads each expedition. I admired Ryder, the spunky yet clumsy female investigator who banters with Josh in village squares, mountain passes and bat-filled caverns. The rest of the crew is equally friendly, fit and enthusiastic about trekking into snake infested jungles or radioactive buildings in Chernobyl. It’s like watching a gamboling pack of Labradors explore the world in search of one-eyed, horn sprouting, man-eating mutants. Plus, they seem like the kind of people you’d hang out with in a bar all night – not believing a single crazy story they told you.

Each show begins with news stories of some wild animal/mystery creature terrorizing a small village. Think Loch Ness or Chupacabra. The team creates a strangely cute, yet menacing animated version of the monster based on eye-witness sightings, grabs their equipment and boards a plane for Destination “My travel agent is fired.”

It’s not really the thought of some monster or undiscovered mutated creature that captivates me. It’s the fact they are out – for instance – on the Serengeti, in the dark, seemingly without weapons, trying to find something like the Mngwa (“ming-wah”) – a saber-toothed feline reportedly larger than a lion. To me, the danger of them finding an actual lion is pretty realistic and worth watching. The potential for the Mngwa mystery to be resolved as a large lion with dental issues is just an added bonus.

While on these adventures, the crew stumbles across poisonous snakes, spiders, bats, bears, and quite a few rock slides. They scuba, raft, rock climb, rappel, go-cart and climb aboard airplanes that tear open like sardine cans in mid-flight. They visit with locals and sample cuisine consisting of just what you’d expect: Grubs, spiders, and other creepy crawly things. Plus, they do it all with chipper attitudes. I’m snarky and insufferable for days after a 1.5 hour flight with slow drink service.

The new season doesn’t start until early 2012, but according to the Syfy press release Destination Truth will be hunting for vampires in a remote Transylvanian village, exploring the reportedly haunted Mayan ruins of Tikal in Guatemala, and descending into one of the world’s biggest caves in the jungles of Vietnam to search for phantoms. They’ll also journey to Kazakhstan (a Destination Truth first), and return to the haunted forest in Romania.

I confess: I can’t wait.

Click here to watch an episode.

To see other LetsBlogOff guilty pleasures, click here.

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.