Diary of Ann Franks

IT’S ALL RELATIVE

Published on August 13, 2011August 13, 2011 by Diary of Ann Franks6 Comments

Family Reunion Summary – Gulf Shores, AL and surrounding area: Arrived Saturday evening and was picked up at the airport by my husband. We stopped at what was referred to as a “liquor store,” but was in fact more of a dust store that happened to have some bottles of booze in it. We bought the few names we recognized and headed next door to what was termed a “grocery store,” but was really more of a “cluster *.” It looked like an episode of Hoarders had exploded. While it did have a better selection of wines than the liquor store, every time I touched a package of food (cereal, chips, crackers, lunch meat) I had an irresistible urge to 1 – check the expiration date to see if it read 1989, and 2 – take a shower. I did pick up a great pair of flip-flops for the beach while there. (“Great” being defined as “they sort of fit and would keep me from burning my feet on hot sand/pavement.”) They were the first reunion casualty after just one day. Not a great loss to fashion history, but sad nonetheless.

The weird thing about arriving at a vacation destination after dark was that aside from the resort itself, which looked like this…

…I had no idea what to expect view-wise until morning, when I saw this:

Very nice. Beachy. Chairs, umbrellas, the potential for vacation drinks… all good. Then I saw the painting in our room for the first time. As usual, Max had the perfect description: “It’s a monkey in Chinese drag!”

We found him to be a bit unnerving, though festive.

The advent and adoption of many of Hubby’s relatives to Facebook meant for the first time, there was a GROUP where we could all communicate and share photos.

This new development startled me a bit as I received a couple of friend requests from under 16-year-old “first cousins once removed.” I hesitantly accepted said requests, both honored and alarmed. My first thought was, “Well, I can’t work blue on FB anymore. Twitter is all that’s left.” However, I realized I don’t work blue on either. I just like to think I do. Apparently my inner voice and outer voice remain separate.

The usual family traditions remained, including the annual Guys Visit to Hooters. As each young man approaches 16, he is invited to join the Hooters patrol. This is apparently a great honor, as I suppose men don’t see as much cleavage in Alabama and Tennessee as one does in Dallas, where you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting some newly purchased “water floatation devices” on display at restaurants, basketball games, PTA meetings and church bazaars. My husband actually DECLINED the invitation saying it was a long way to drive (20 minutes) for not much reward. Yes, Hubby is a Hooters snob. I, for one, am certain this lovely young lady is saving her money for law school and reads to the blind on weekends.

So, aside from a couple of jellyfish incidents, and an attack of some sort of seaweed forest on the last couple of days at the beach, all went well. We even took another of our famous Gerber Family Reunion photos. These require more coordination and anguish by some than can possibly be justified. However, it does prove the sayings that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and birds of a feather DO flock together…

Cheers to another successful family reunion. Raise your “Wine Woozie” in celebration.

These are my kind of people.

36 PEOPLE WALK INTO A BAR…

Published on August 6, 2011August 7, 2011 by Diary of Ann FranksLeave a comment

Growing up, my family had a reunion maybe every 5 years. We’d meet at some convenient location for the day, and go away again for another 5 years. We stopped the whole thing when I was still pretty young, so I’m not sure what out-of-towners did after those exhilarating few hours. Maybe that explains why we quit having them. That, or all the polyester in one room was a fire hazard and we could no longer secure a venue.

Now, my in-laws have a reunion every year. EVERY YEAR. It’s either in the “home town” or some beachy location. It typically lasts 5 days and this year involves a head count of 36.

That’s 36 for Happy Hour before dinner. 36 to transport to dinner. 36 for dinner. 36 for beaching (chairs and umbrellas, etc.) 36… well, you get the idea.

Needless to say, a lot of prep goes into this each year, as evidenced by the…oh, about 1000 email I’ve been copied on since planning began. The last 3 days saw a flurry of “Reply Alls” regarding laundry detergent and its exact room number, the disastrous potential of NOT using low suds detergent, (who’s doing laundry on vacation??) what is considered appropriate dinner attire, (well, it IS a beach…) and an unapologetic calling out of the purveyors of the $3 Family Happy Hour wine and insinuation that it will no longer be tolerated. Surprisingly, the complainant WAS NOT ME.

These little missives have kept my co-workers and me entertained for days. They hear me say, “Oh, for the love…” and spring up like prairie dogs to peek over the cubicle and hear the latest news flash.

I would copy all the email trail(s) into the blog directly and leave it at that, but I do have to spend 5 days with these people, and I bet if they wanted, an “accident” COULD be arranged. “Accidents” happen at the ocean all the time. And anyone who can coordinate this group can arrange ANYTHING.

Stay tuned. The fun is about to begin. My hubby (who arrived yesterday) has already texted me the term “bat $#&!”

Meanwhile…

Meet my Flat Marketing team. They so enjoyed hearing about this trip, they decided to join in “paper” form. You can follow their adventures at the family reunion if you Like the Flat Marketing FB page.

A LONG WAY TO GO

Published on August 2, 2011August 22, 2011 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.

FEEDING FRENZY

Published on July 29, 2011May 6, 2012 by Diary of Ann FranksLeave a comment

There is a plot afoot to starve me to death. I can tell because usually, we HAVE food in the house. Typically, the only issue is that I get a handful of chips or crackers or what-have-you and the rest gets sucked into the gaping maws of Hubby and his partner in crime – Austin – the minute I leave the house.

But this is different. Hubby has NOT gone to the store AT ALL. In at least a week. I’ve decided it must be some sort of last-ditch diet effort before we go to the beachy family reunion. The problem is, the lack of sustenance is making me a very dangerous human being. (Forget beachy, I’m leaning way more toward bitchy.)

Yesterday for breakfast, I had a trail mix bar that had been in the bottom of my purse for 2 months. For lunch, Hubby sent me to work with a Lean Cuisine. Chicken. It had the consistency of…let’s just say…NOT chicken. I popped a Valium and an anti-inflammatory just to get something on my stomach.

I SHOULD have had a good breakfast this morning. My co-workers and I take turns on Friday – as a little motivational treat. Usually, it’s some variety of breakfast tacos (from different origins). Thanks to the Jenny Craig Circle of Hell at home, I was a bit obsessed with the idea of food this morning. So what happens when I throw my stuff down at my desk and race over to where my co-worker has deposited his loot? I find the smallest damn breakfast tacos I have ever seen. One for each of us. One.

After inhaling the “teaser” tacos we pondered voting our inferior breakfast supplier out of our little club. Sure, it will be painful for him at first, but it may just save his life. You do NOT want to deal with four hungry (possibly hung over) women, one of whom is already undergoing a war of attrition on the home front.

So now, I am hunkered down at my desk with room temperature venison sausage and a handful of crackers that somehow escaped the cupboard embargo. Things are not looking hopeful for the afternoon.

We ARE, however, sporting a new motto in the marketing department:

Don’t mess with breakfast.

V IS FOR VICTORY. AND VALIUM.

Published on July 27, 2011July 27, 2011 by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

I have a pain in my neck. A big, giant pain. This is not a set up for a husband/children/job joke. It’s really just the fault of IDIOT drivers talking or texting on cell phones who insist on ramming me from behind while I innocently sit at stop lights minding my own business and NOT TEXTING. This has happened at least three times and caused some sort of arthritic/degenerative blah-blah to my neck that in layman’s terms means my neck is totally jacked up on occassion.

So, recently, after a serious error in judgment in which I decided to bungee jump…(Just kidding. I would PREFER that story to what I am about to confess.) After a serious error in judgment in which I… slept on a different pillow than I normally would, I have been in what can only be referred to as the kind of pain and discomfort one would feel being forced to witness Janet Reno’s OB/GYN exam.

And yes, the fact that I am capable of hurting myself while sleeping is probably not wholly unexpected by those who know me best. This even beats the Great Tendon Ripping Event of 1990 which occurred as I walked along and slightly rolled my foot off the edge of the sidewalk, resulting in the application of a cast for several weeks until I ripped it off with a screwdriver. (Side note: I think a different kind of screwdriver may have been responsible for my unsteadiness on the sidewalk to begin with.)

The point of all this rambling is that I am on some sort of cocktail of drugs (under a doctor’s supervision) that involves my carrying a bag around with pain-killer, Valium, steroids, anti-inflammatory, and some sort of nerve medication to prevent seizures. I’m not quite clear how that got in the mix, but I don’t like to pry.

The good news is, I am definitely feeling better and can actually move my neck (head?) without turning my whole body from the waist. The bad news is, my mother (who called from out-of-town yesterday) practically had apoplexy when I went into my medication recital and declared I was going to end up like Shelly Winters.

Shelley Winters?? Like from the Poseidon Adventure?? That’s the best she can do? That IS bad news. I told her I preferred my friend Max’s comparison to Judy Garland and asked that she please refer to me as such in future telecommunication.

Shelley? Please.

Just for that, I’m not breaking the next Valium in half.

(Say hello to my leetle friend.)

BAD BOSSES, YORKIES AND SHOW BIZ

Published on July 24, 2011July 24, 2011 by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

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 July 14, 2011July 14, 2011 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

Published on July 13, 2011July 13, 2011 by Diary of Ann FranksLeave a comment

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

Published on July 6, 2011 by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

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

Published on June 26, 2011June 26, 2011 by Diary of Ann FranksLeave a comment

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.