The Essence of Saturday Night

I'm sitting here watching two of my girlfriends follow the "Anyone Can Dance: Nightclub Freestyle" DVD. I'm not sure at what point tonight they lost all motor control, but I wish you could see this! We've determined that this in no way demonstrates appropriate nightclub dancing, but it is the best $10 I ever spent for such quality entertainment. As the video instructor was demonstrating steps 1-5, one of my friends shouted out, "She totally just stuck her ass out and she didn't tell us to do that!!" I guess that move is implied in nightclub dancing.

The three of us here are the last of a large group of women who had a wedding shower for me today. We started with margaritas, chips 'n salsa, gifts... then we went out for Mexican food. Now I'm left watching two of them try to learn hip rolls in my living room. This is the best freakin' wedding shower EVER!

Got No Game

In order to not waste a perfectly beautiful afternoon, my roommate and I walked to the park at the end of the neighborhood to shoot some hoops. Or as my sister likes to say “thump some rock.” I’m not sure what that means and I think it’s probably used mainly in the black community. And, since I can assure you that my basketball playing is so far from the natural athleticism of African-Americans, even “shooting hoops” is stretching the truth. So basically we walked down to the courts and threw the ball at a fishing net on a pole. I did win our game of P-I-G, which I’m pretty sure is the white man’s contribution to the game of basketball.

Within a few minutes of our arrival on the courts, a little league game was forming on the baseball field next to us. And this is just what you want when you’re a white girl with no game… in your 30’s… trying to shoot hoops- an audience. Joy. It wasn’t long before a little white girl (who was around six years old) came up and stared eagerly at us. I turned toward her and I swear I could see my basketball gleaming in her eye.
“Do you want to shoot?” I asked.
“No. I just like to dribble.”
So, I handed her the ball and was glad to see someone more awkward than myself on the court. Yeah, I know she was six- shut up! So anyway… she’s dribbling the ball around and I said, “Is your brother playing baseball?” She nodded to affirm the fact. Then I had a really genius moment when I asked her which team her brother was on, at the same exact moment, realizing there was an ALL black team… and an ALL white team. I’m a great conversationalist! I did better with my next question when I asked what position her brother played.
“He plays catch… (I’m already looking toward the catcher when she finished with…) catching the ball. With a glove.”
Well that narrows it down.
“In the grass?” (outfield or infield?)
“Yeah. Not in the grass.”
You know what, I should probably end this conversation, I thought. “So, he plays on a base.” I said definitively. And that was that.
Then her mom came over and asked her to go back to the playground because she was suppose to stay with her other little friend. “The buddy system,” I declared to her mom. “I came with a buddy.” Yeah, I said it. I said it and wanted to thump the rock with my head because I can be that embarrassing to myself.

An Imaginary Confrontation

“Do they train you people to be rude?” I was practicing what I would say. For the past few hours, I’d had several conversations in my mind, for every situation I could possibly encounter- only assuming the worst. It felt natural to prepare, considering what I’d been told.

“Don’t go to David’s Bridal,” a friend said. “This saleswoman was so rude to me.”

“Oh… don’t go to David’s Bridal, my wife had a horrible experience there.” That was from a co-worker.

Great. Hours of online searching, hundreds of dresses and the one I loved… the ONE… was of course a dress from David’s Bridal.

Just in case the two people I know personally were exceptions to the bridal experience, I googled “David’s Bridal experience.” You know how some people self-diagnose themselves using the internet and what they initially thought was allergies suddenly turns out to be bird flu because both involve coughing and well, that’s what the internet said. Yeah, it was something like that. There were a lot of people who have posted their opinions about David’s Bridal- hundreds of them. People who obviously have nothing better to do than to get on the internet and share their opinions and complain. Seriously, the only thing more pathetic is spending hours reading those comments, then blogging about them. But, whatever.

So, for every one positive experience, there were seventy-five negative ones. I guess that makes sense though. Most people who have good experiences like to just go on about their joy-filled lives, skipping and smiling. You think skipping isn’t as popular as it used to be, but people still love it- they just need good experiences to bring it out. It’s the bad experiences that fester until we can get online and expunge the demons of our complaints. And that’s where I found myself- online with page after page of bridal horrors. After an hour of reading, I was so worked up, I was suddenly having imaginary conversations with rude saleswomen at David’s Bridal.

Everyone would be so stressed and hurried and tense. I’d walk in and some bridal consultant who thinks she’s an expert on everything about being a woman and being engaged would start telling me what dress she thought I needed to wear and was I going to do something about my hair before the wedding and how I should probably start a skin care routine to improve my complexion and if I would lose ten pounds, the dress would be much more flattering. And this situation became so real that I armed myself with an arsenal of smart remarks, ready to put her in her place, and tell her exactly what she could do with that veil. Or, I would calmly look at her in the midst of her condescending advice giving and simply say, “Simmer down NOW.” Either way.

I woke up the next morning in complete defense mode. I was ready to visit David’s Bridal and I was in no mood to take crap from their bridal consultants. My complaint demons were festering and I was already preparing a blog entry about how I ended up in a cat fight with the consultant, destroyed the store in the process, and was forever banned from the store… and I would be getting married in a second choice gown because the one I loved was ONLY sold at David’s Bridal. That would be my story.

Drama always makes for a better story. Drama OR adding “and then I found twenty dollars” to the end of any story suddenly makes it more interesting. But there was no drama, no evil bridal consultant, and no cat fight. To the contrary, it was a rather pleasant experience. My consultant and I chatted it up in the dressing room. I asked her what it was like to work with all the high-strung emotionally unstable brides and their demanding mothers. She didn’t try to get me in another gown, or tell me what to do with my hair or skin care. She simply got the dress I asked for, helped me in it, and provided accessory choices. In turn, I offered a few suggestions for their store, like providing a martini bar to calm the nerves of all the pushy brides. They should look into that.

So, I tried on the dress I loved and that was it. One dress and I was finished. As I left the store and walked across the parking lot, there was a small part of me that was disappointed by the lack of drama. I was disappointed that I wouldn’t have an interesting blog entry about my experience. I was disappointed… that was until I looked down and found twenty dollars. Then, I skipped to the car.

A Flight and Fight with Anger

I don’t normally consider myself a vengeful person. Sometimes though, sometimes when circumstances are just right- when it’s 9:30 pm… in Baltimore… on a plane… on Easter Sunday- sometimes when those are the exact circumstances, meanness washes over me and it’s all I can do not to act out of sheer spite.

Certain situations usually create an atmosphere that’s predisposed to stress- like the Southwest Airlines’ cattle herd boarding process. Oh, it’s great when you can jump on the computer at exactly 24 hours in advance and secure your spot in the coveted “A” group. But, if you’re not near technology, if your best is simply getting to the airport an hour in advance, well then- you’re stuck in the “sucks to be you” C group.

Jon and I were disappointed to see “C” printed on our boarding passes, but I kindled the hope in my heart with the encouraging fact that we were C-9 and C-10. Those are among the first Cs at least.

My head felt like it was cracking open in about five different places and as we stood in line and watched the masses of groups A and B board, we wondered if there would still be two seats together by the time the rest of us rejects got on the plane. The last thing I wanted to do was take my headache and wedge it between some chatter box and some screaming child.

As we boarded the completely full plane, there was one empty seat here and one empty seat there. I kept walking out of denial, when suddenly I spotted the last two seats together. Thank God for 9 and 10. Eleven wouldn’t have made the cut.

Once we reached 10,000 feet, that little “ding” sounded throughout the plane, providing permission to use tray tables and to put seatbacks in their “reclining” position. The fact two inches is referred to as “reclining,” is fascinating to me. Maybe it’s like a placebo. So, I reclined… about 1/2 of the way.

“UH, UH! That ain’t gone work for me. She gone have to move that seat back!”

Seriously? I know she is not complaining about one inch. I closed my eyes.

“I ain’t got no room back here. She gotta move that seat up.”

Don’t you just love when people talk at you and not to you? It was at this moment I made a conscious decision to not move my seat for the sheer fact that instead of being asked nicely to do it, some woman who had yet to speak a word to me was disrespectfully demanding my respect of her space.

Then I felt a tap on my shoulder and the young girl sitting next to her kindly said, “Would you mind putting your seat back up?”

“But I’ve barely reclined it,” I politely informed her.

Here she went again: “But we ain’t go no room back here.”

Out of respect for being asked nicely, I pushed the button and pulled my seat back up. But another button had been pushed by this point- mine. Before long, I swear steam was piping out my ears. I recognized it was a petty thing to be so angry over, so I tried talking myself into a more peaceful state. The conversation went something like this:

Seriously… all she had to do was ask nicely and I would have been glad to move my seat back. I shouldn’t have done it. I should have just ignored her. Jennifer, calm down- it’s not important. Let it go. I should just plop my seat back all the way and leave it until it’s time to land! How would she like that? Okay, God- please help me with my anger toward this woman. Give me mercy and kindness toward her.

Jon leaned over and kissed me on the head (unaware of all that had happened). “Are you okay?”

“No. My head hurts, there’s a crying baby on the plane, and this bitchy woman behind me complained that I wanted to recline my seat one inch… and I’ve had to pray about the anger in my heart toward her.”

He gave me a sympathetic smile and squeezed my hand. I closed my eyes and tried to fight the urge to push my seat back. By the time we landed in Nashville, I was over my anger. That was until we stopped and those same people behind us got up and moved past us and everyone else who was patiently waiting their turn to de-board. Airplane etiquette, people… AIRPLANE ETIQUETTE!!!

Even with my splitting headache, I was able to burn a hole in the back of her head with my laser vision. How pitiful that I couldn’t let the better side of my nature win.

Love, Peace, and Chicken Grease

That’s the slogan at Miss Polly’s Soul Food Kitchen on Beale Street. Jon and I were walking down Beale searching for a place to grab an appetizer when we saw Miss Polly’s. Any place with the words “soul food” and “chicken grease” demands attention. We knew we were in the right place when we walked in and were the only white people in the place. See, white people are tourists in a place like Miss Polly’s- we felt like we had discovered a local’s joint. Every five minutes, I would exclaim, “I LOVE this place!”

Although we only needed enough food to tide us over till dinner with friends, we couldn’t resist trying a few selections… fried dill pickles, fried green tomatoes, hot wings, and jalapeño cornbread muffins. Miss Polly’s is not for the faint of stomach! Nor is it the right place for you if you are the consistent salad type. Miss Polly’s is where you go to get your eat on… and we did.

The Best of Both Worlds

Ask me what I did this weekend. Be prepared to be jealous though. I saw Hannah Montana & Miley Cyrus: Best of Both World Concert in 3D. Twice. That’s right- I’m thirty-five, without child and I was there. As my niece would say, “Don’t hate me ‘cause you ain’t me.”

Let me clarify though. As an independent contractor with Disney, I was assigned to see it. People paid $15 per ticket to see it. I was paid. Attendees were sectioned off in a separate area at the theater while they waited to go in. All showings were sold out. This was a big deal. This was Hannah Montana. This was the epitome of obsession. This was also one of the most interesting experiences I have ever had in my life.

Sure, I expected the little girls to be excited. I wasn’t too surprised by the Hannah Montana wigs they were wearing, or the screaming. Okay, I was a little surprised by the screaming. I mean Hannah Montana wasn’t actually there- it was a movie. I didn’t realize people actually screamed at movies. They did. A lot. But, these are young girls and that behavior is not odd. Their mothers on the other hand…

These were grown women with cameras. I’m sure they wanted to capture the memory of their daughter’s obsession excitement to show them later in life. That would explain why so many of them were snapping photos of their daughters with friends before the show began. Not every little girl got to go this weekend. Pictures would prove they were there. Those photographic moments can be explained. What cannot be explained is why these same mothers were taking pictures of the movie screen during the show. Seriously. Cameras were pointed up at the projection as mothers tried to snap pictures of Hannah Montana on screen. Let’s neglect the fact that this is in 3D. They did. I know those pictures couldn't have turned out that great. Mine didn't.

A Definitely Memorable Dinner Date

This year, Jon and I implemented a new monthly event- a dinner date somewhere neither of us has been before. January was my month, meaning I got to choose the location and it was my treat. After some deliberation, I decided we should try this Vietnamese place I had heard about over the past few years.

The fact that it is located in a shady, desolate shopping center should have been the first red flag. Now, I love finding a good “hole in the wall” dive, but even the most adventurous should be apprehensive about a restaurant bordering a scuba shop and an Asian nail salon.

We were quick to notice that the décor left a lot to be desired. Maybe black, mirrored panther art on the walls IS authentically Vietnamese? Even if- the huge television in the corner, playing Grey’s Anatomy, seemed to ruin the “authentic” experience.

There were interesting menu items, but when you can get a crab and shrimp dish for $5.50, something just isn’t right. I decided to stick with something simple- fried rice with chicken and vegetables. Jon ordered a noodle dish with crab and shrimp. When our food arrived, I got my rice and Jon got a gianormous bowl of soup and a plate of bean sprouts, garnished with jalapenos. We both stared at it.

“Did you know you were getting soup?”

“Um, I don’t think I did.”

He ran his spoon through his soup and a huge clump of clear noodles emerged, looking a lot like a jellyfish. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen clear noodles, but they’re freaky looking. It is not natural for a noodle to look that way. He battled his clumpy noodles and fake crab while I tried my rice. After five chopstick bites, I decided it wasn’t worth the calories and I stopped eating- thankful it was only costing me $5.00. He tried adding a mysterious barbecue-looking sauce to my rice, hoping it would add some flavor, but stopped after two bites.

In my opinion the meal was a disaster, but we had a great time together making fun of our experience. Now the night is referenced by “Hey… remember that time we went out for Vietnamese and you got those clumpy, clear noodles that looked like jellyfish and then you put barbecue sauce on my rice? Those were good times!”

The Name of the Game? Bocce!

I have a new passion, at least on Friday afternoons. For the past year, Scott (my boss) has been saying that our staff needs a Friday ritual- something to celebrate the end of the workweek. I thought leaving work on Friday was a big enough celebration. But, who am I to argue against more celebration? Cigar smoking was mentioned, but not everyone was keen on that idea. I was willing to bring in a blender for some margaritas, but once again… Then it happened. On my way out one Friday afternoon, I stopped by the youth room to ask Steve a question and I spotted the Bocce balls. We decided to play a quick game before I left. We gathered a couple of other staff members and got our game on. Now, every Friday is Bocce day. The winner gains weekly control of the trophy (a Lithuanian flag on a wooden pole- personalized for our “staff competition” – a $1.00 treasure from Goodwill). We have our share of trash talking, taunting, etc., all in the name of competition. We justify setting aside 20 minutes of our afternoon to play Bocce by using words like “teambuilding” and such. Aside from the “anonymous” threatening voice mails I have received, I’d say it’s a success in bringing us together as a staff. If people ask, we say it’s our collective smoke break (without the smoking of course). Unless you count the fact that I win most of the time. I guess there is some smoking involved!!

Fair Time is Fun Times!

Grab your halter tops, your Pepto, and your deodorant- the county fairs are opening their gates this month! Whether it’s the rides, the people watching, the funnel cakes, or the hog races, county fairs serve up fun times. The Williamson County Fair is August 3-11. I've never been to this one, but I’m trying it out this year. They have a human cannonball. Who wouldn’t want to see that? Perhaps the most popular local fair is the Wilson County Fair (August 17-25). I try to make this fair an annual tradition. If you go, be sure and check out the popular hypnotist show. Not only is it entertaining (for lots of reasons), it provides an often much needed rest from roaming through the fairgrounds. Even if you’re not the biggest fan of the rides, paying the $6 entry fee is well worth the “people entertainment” you’ll get. I think I’ve been to the State Fair once in my nine years in Nashville. I remember paying too much to walk through the gate, but then spent three times that as I ate my way through the fair. Some people like to ride the rides- I like to eat my weight in funnel cakes and roasted corn. To each his own, I say. I can’t say that I’ll be back at the State Fair this year, but you’ll definitely catch me at the county fairs. I'll be the one covered in powered sugar. Hope to see you there!!