Tag: friends

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.

PUTTING THE FUN IN FUNERAL

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Due to the passing of a friend of mine last summer, and my father (unexpectedly – the day BEFORE my friend) I have been thinking about funerals. Not obsessively or anything, just in passing. (Oops, no pun intended.)

I have attended fewer than a dozen funerals in my life, and frankly, they have been pretty much what you would expect. Pretty solemn. Rarely, someone who knew the departed would speak and elicit a little “acceptable” audience laughter.

My father’s service in late July changed my funeral paradigm. I wanted to speak, but my brain was not functioning. I have a whole new respect for family members who speak at funerals. There was not enough Valium in the world to get me through that experience.

Thankfully, friends of my father performed the eulogy. There were three speakers, all of whom were close to him and able to share fond memories. However, one individual in particular went above and beyond. Briggs grew up with dad in Maysville, Oklahoma and attended OU with him. He appreciated dad as a friend, an artist and a non-linear thinker. He was a gold mine. The man knew almost every embarrassing/hilarious story involving my father and was perfectly willing to share each of them with us. In church!

It was fantastic. Briggs was sometimes emotional while speaking, but fought his way through and delivered one story after another – zinger after zinger. I sat in the front row with my family, alternately wiping away tears and laughing so hard I thought I would fall off the pew. I cast a few nervous glances at the poor, unsuspecting minister, afraid he would walk out, and half hoping he would because Briggs was obviously editing out some good parts.

My friend’s funeral that afternoon was similar. Several speakers, all of whom knew her well and were able to tell stories that brought an amazing mixture of laughter and tears – an incredible gift – just when you thought you would never laugh freely again. It was such a relief to have a similar “vibe” to both services. That day we all agreed – family and friends – if we didn’t keep laughing, we would never stop crying.

If you don’t have a friend who can do this type of eulogy at your service, get some new friends. PAY someone. Hire them. Do whatever it takes. It is a tragedy to sit through a service that feels like one-size-fits-all.

How lucky my father was. And Leah. We should all be so blessed in our friends.

So, who’s doing your eulogy?

Here’s a link to some of Bill Rogers’ art work. (Gallery.)

Side note: I have Briggs’ typed and hand edited eulogy from the service and will treasure it. The stories he couldn’t tell, the paragraphs he crossed out, the words he highlighted as inappropriate for the venue. (Thank goodness.) Even a few sentences here and there directly addressed to my father. It’s the most hilariously inappropriate and yet heart-warming combination of emotions I have ever had the pleasure to read.

HAVE ANOTHER COCKTAIL

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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.

MY WEEKEND IS BROKEN

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I have broken my weekend. It just doesn’t work the way it used to. Back when my weekend was working correctly, five o’clock Friday would come, and it kicked in like clockwork. I would spend Friday evening with friends, get up Saturday and work out, maybe do some shopping, pick up groceries, take the dog for a walk, wash the car, see a movie, go to dinner, have some drinks, listen to music, and it would STILL be Saturday. I had all day Sunday to do even more! By the time I do any combination of those things now, three months have passed.  

I tried getting up early. Saturday morning I was up at 7:30. (Daisy decided she was bored and needed company.)  I was dressed by 8:30, drove Austin, my stepson, to the first day of his new job, and bought some breakfast. Seemed like I was well on my way to actually having a productive weekend. 

Something went wrong. By 4:15 p.m. I had watched Bizarre Foods, Modern Family, a few minutes of Stagecoach (by accident), two episodes of Ingenious Minds, and fallen asleep twice. Oh yeah, and I ate lunch.  I know you won’t be able to imagine how I worked lunch into that harrowing schedule, but I did.  So much for selecting new glasses, going to the grocery store, walking the dog, and getting a little “hello, springtime” color over at Palm Beach Tan. That writing assignment?  Are you kidding?  There’s even a sale at Borders, and I have a gift card. No dice. Not happening.

Maybe it’s the winter doldrums. Maybe I’m depressed. Overworked. Overwrought.
Maybe I’m just lazy.

A body in motion tends to stay in motion. A body supine on the couch tends to become a doggy pillow.

If you know a good fix-it person, let me know. Or maybe I just need the proper motivation. One errand, one cocktail?

Now, how do I get the dog to stop staring at me?

THE GAY FRIEND OF MY DREAMS

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I was at my friend’s house a few nights ago, threatening to start a blog.  The reception was positive, but my dear friend issued a threat of her own.  “If you reveal things about me I don’t want out there in the world, I will sue you.  Don’t think I won’t.”  This friend will henceforth be referred to as The Duchess.  The other friend present informed me his life is an open book, and I’m welcome to use anything.  Thanks, Max.

Max is the co-owner, along with his husband, Tony (whose life, I hope, is an open book as well or I better lawyer up) of a home design store.  Max is fabulous at all things.  He is an artist, and along with Tony, one of the hardest working people I’ve ever known.   I’m sure he doesn’t know it, but I always wanted a gay friend.  Before I watched Sex and the City and admired Carrie’s relationship with Stanford, or Charlotte’s with Anthony, I wanted one.  The onset of this desire may have been the movie, My Best Friend’s Wedding, when Julia Roberts was coached and cajoled by Rupert Everett.  It amazed and delighted me that a woman could have a friend who was brutally honest with her.  I think women are hesitant to crush your spirit, lest you crush theirs in return, so they prefer to NOT stick the proverbial pin in your bubble.  In my imagination, my gay friend had no such qualms.   

The reality, at least with Max and Tony, is a bit in between.  They do not nod in agreement with everything you blather about.  They also don’t come right out and tell you you’re making an ass of yourself.  At least, not often.  And I don’t think that’s because I don’t often make an ass of myself.  (I am not mentioning The Duchess here for obvious reasons.)  Instead, they find ways to redirect you.  It’s like a gay After School Special.  You find yourself being regaled with stories, teased, and slowly but gently guided to a better decision.  Those decisions range from attractive eyeglass frames to the right thing to say in a text message that will make you appear flirty, but not desperate.

Their store has become my ditch opportunity to get out of traffic on my way home from work, have a drink, some conversation, and perhaps a little shopping.  As I walked through the door last week, I saw Max behind the counter, a huge grin on his face.  He had Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way” cranked up and was sit-dancing.  He was repeating the lyrics “Don’t be a drag, just be a queen.”  When Max is really excited about something, he looks truly cherubic.  (Sorry, Max, but you do.)    

It was a freeze frame image of what I hoped to enjoy with my very own gay friend.  But why did watching Max vamp to Lady Gaga feel like such a guilty pleasure?  Maybe because if being gay was the sum total of what Max had to offer, I would have lost interest, just like I did with so many Christmas presents I thought I couldn’t live without until I owned them and realized they had more shine than substance.  No, the best things about Max are his great attitude, his genuine kindness, and ability to lighten the atmosphere around him.

So, Max is not the gay friend of my dreams. He is my friend – which is even better.  He just happens to have a husband who is yet another kind, gentle, considerate person who inspires us on a daily basis.

They also let me know when I am being an ass. In a nice way. And probably not as often as they should.