1) “This is the WORST turbulence I’ve EVER felt!” said a female flight attendant who fell to her knees near my seat, as we flew through a storm above the East Coast. Yeah, that’s reassuring.
2) “Do you REALLY think you should be drinking that wine?” I was asked by a fifth grade boy I chaperoned, along with 60 other kids, including my own, for a week long American history field trip to Valley Forge in Pennsylvania, which involved screaming kids, bitchy/cliquey mothers, lost children, a kid with a nut allergy I nearly killed by offering him a peanut butter filled pretzel, humid school buses and “the worst turbulence” one flight attendant ever experienced. I answered the child this way: “Oh yeah, I really think I should.”
3) “We’re gonna give that another shot,” said our pilot trying to fly into JFK, after swooping the plane down and then swooping back up, as if we were on some horrific roller-coaster. While a middle-aged male passenger screamed like a baby, a female New Yorker behind me barked out, “One more shot?! Are you friggin’ kiddin’ me?!”
4) “You can stay at my place,” offered a flirtatious male flight attendant during a flight so horrific I wrote a story about it. My response to his lecherous offer? I cried. Actually a better term would be “bawled.” I looked at him and sobbed in his face… not just mere tears, but gasping, heaving, blubbering wails. (I wrote about this horrific plane trip in my up-coming book, Craving Normal.)
Me: You know that Crowded House song, “Mean to Me”?
Ian, my husband: (Staring at his computer) Not sure.
Me: Yeah, you know it. (I begin to sing) “I’m down on my knees… So please don’t be mean to me.”
I think it sounds just like it. I’m sure he’ll nod his head in acknowledgement.
Ian: (Eyes haven’t moved from his computer.) It’s a good thing you can write.
***
Wow, so mean! Ouch. Ah, that’s okay. Ian’s not wrong. And as a musician/songwriter, he’s gotta be honest. Plus, I’ve admitted my lack of singing talent in this previous blog post.
Wow, so mean! Ouch. Ah that’s okay. I’ve admitted in this previous post my lack of singing talent.
My naughty ways come naturally. Yep, I burst into this world strong-willed, adventurous, rowdy, curious, and ready for fun – rules be damned. Life experiences may have smoothed or sharpened some of my edges, but that kid is still kicking.
Brat. Brat. Brat. But I’m an angel, damn it.
Witness one example of my “strong-willed” (bratty) behavior in the trailer I made for my up-coming book, “Craving Normal“: At Disneyland, I pushed a little girl out of the way from posing with the chipmunk named Chip (Or maybe it was Dale). Then I squeezed myself between the giant chipmunk and the little blonde girl who tried to pose for a picture with the Disney character. When the chipmunk began walking along with the little girl, I got fed up and, and with my face scrunched into a frown, pushed her away. She ran off. Then I smiled and posed with him all by myself.
While I may have mellowed a bit, I’m still THAT kid. I was born this way -> See, scientists agree.
Okay, enough about me. What traits of yours were apparent right from the beginning?
Reading the chapters of my soon-to-be published book, “Craving Normal,” back to back, it’s interesting to me that I used the word apron in three different stories:
Apron is what my saintly and shocked Grandma wore when she ran out of the kitchen upon hearing eight-year-old me say “Ah hell!” after I landed in Monopoly jail, during a game with my cousins.
Apron is what I had to sew in order to escape (errr… graduate) high school, after learning I was three credits short, but told I could take a nighttime sewing class. Never finished that apron. But I finished school! Squeaked by with an unfinished apron. Sums up my school years well.
Apron is what I was handed when the Director asked me to play a cocktail waitress in a movie called “When the Bough Breaks,” right before I spilled the entire tray of drinks on the movie’s star, Ted Danson. It’s also what I took off right after the incident.
Ted Danson, looking very dry, unlike after I spilled drinks on him. Here he is with actor Richard Masur, who kindly corrected the Director who mangled my name.While Googling the Director, Waris Hussein, of “When the Bough Breaks,” (the one who yelled at me, constantly calling me Melissa rather than Michele) I found this photo of him fixing actor Richard Burton’s tie. I guess if you’re Richard Burton the director won’t yell at you and call you by the wrong name. Photo from this link.
*Top photo: Here I am thinking I look really hot in an apron, zipper skirt and white pumps. Oh 1980’s, you made me such a fool!
Excerpt from my book “Craving Normal,” in my story “Confessions of a Hollywood Extra”:
While working as an extra on the movie “Back to School,” with Rodney Dangerfield, I sat about ten feet from Rodney and Sally Kellerman as they prepared to do a scene—the quiet of the set before the cameras rolled allowed my voice to carry. My female newlywed friend, another extra, wondered if I wanted to get married. The last thing on my mind! So I said, “I’m not meeting guys nice enough to go out with in LA. Can’t imagine finding one to marry.” My voice carried through the silent crowd.
Rodney’s voice boomed toward me. “Hey, Honey! Come down here! I’ll marry ya! I’ll marry ya, right now!” My face turned hot, and I’m sure as red as a tomato, while Rodney, the crew, and the extras laughed. Well, that was one way to shut me up. And it did.
On the bottom right, after hours in the blazing sun, using all my acting skills to become an enthralled, sports-loving, college student.
Bottom left, dancing to Oingo Boingo in the
Dead Man’s Party scene, in “Back to School.”
Jen (the blonde in the video thumbnail) is my newlywed friend I mentioned in my Rodney Dangerfield moment of humiliation. I’m dancing in this Oingo Boingo
video, next to Jen. But you have to stop the video to find me. And, of course,
I DID just that. I’m at 2:08.
Oh you want to shake hands? Sorry, I’m already moving in for a hug. This is awkward. But it’s only going to get worse. I think this as I move in, arms out, already committed. As if it’s all happening in slow motion, I see you’re caught off guard, don’t know where to put your hands. You flail, trying to decide where to put your arms, where to move your head. I wish there could be a cool way to back out. But I have to commit.
I’ve been on your side. I know. I’m not always a hugging extrovert. A huge portion of my life, I’d rather be home reading a book. So if I am expected to attend some event, I’m likely still in my introverty mood. Then I see someone coming toward me, arms out. I’m not squeamish about hugging back. But I know some people are. I do get that.
And that’s what adds the weird cherry on top of this cringe-inducing moment: I can feel it as I’m coming in for that hug. But there’s no way to reverse without it being even more awkward. Sorry.
Walking back through the Marais in Paris, after visiting the Musée Picasso, one afternoon, Ian and I stopped to eat at a café called Les Philsophes. Situated on a corner, we sat at an outdoor table and watched the relatively tourist-free (compared to the Left Bank) street. Parisians were buying bread across the street and picking up laundry next door. A man on a bicycle rode by with a basket full of baguettes. He fell over, tossing his crusty loaves about the cobblestone street. People stopped their shopping and laundry picking up to run into the street to help the man up and gather his baguettes, just when our waiter approached our table.
“Quelle est la soupe du jour?” I asked.
He told me what the soup of the day was in his rapid French. But I didn’t understand.
“Pardon?” I shrugged, and gave him a helpless look. “Je suis désolé. Je ne comprends pas.”
He placed his index finger and thumb on his chin and seemed to search the gray sky for an answer. He paused during his thinking to tell me, “One leetle minute.” This was taking more time than either of us thought.
Finally, he pinched his fingers together as if holding something very small and squeezing, as he said, “Leetle brawken pee-ass.”
I stared at him, shaking my head. And then I got it. “Oh. Broken peas! Split pea soup!” I nodded, looking over to Ian.
The waiter’s eyes lit up and he clapped his hands. “Oui! Oui!”
Even if I wasn’t in the mood for split pea soup, I ordered it anyway. After all, the waiter worked so hard and was so excited to find the right words, how could I not? It was very good.
Top Photo of Les Philosphes taken by Charles Halton – http://awilum.com/
Why did I cancel our reservations I made at Cal-Neva, Tahoe, back in 2007? I asked Ian, my husband, the other day. Neither of us could remember. Then I found this old blog post I wrote:
Ian walked into our living room and found our kitten, June, choking. He yelled to me, “The cat’s choking on her toy!” The toy’s a little fuzzy pom pom with a mouse face on it and a string of yarn with a bell on the end for the tail.
I ran into the room to see Ian sticking his fingers down the kitty’s throat, trying to pull out the toy. I jumped in and performed some kitty Heimlich thrusts with my thumbs. Nothing! So I, too, stuck my fingers down her throat. What do you know. She didn’t like that. Not at all. So she ravaged my hand with her little kitty teeth and claws.
With my bloody hand I grabbed my car keys and with the other hand I grasped the kitten, and ran to the car. Our daughter ran behind. We sped to an emergency vet down the street. The kitten was still breathing. Great. But the the object would be speeding its way down her stomach. We needed to move fast
Stupid emergency vet. He couldn’t see the kitty toy on June’s x-ray. So, in a huff, my daughter and I sped her over to a more trustworthy vet. We told them about the silly vet who couldn’t see the mass. They nodded their heads in sympathy, served us chai tea lattes (This is LA, after all) and reasoned the best we could do would be an endoscopy (put a tube with a camera into her stomach) to find the object and pull it out. So June would need to stay for the over night procedure.
1:35 am – My phone rang. I knew it’d be the vet. My heart raced.
Me: Hello? How’s my kitten?
Vet: Sorry.
Me: Excuse me. (My heart dropped)
Vet: Sorry, you cut out…what did you say?
Me: My kitty, how is she?
Vet: Uh, fine. But we can’t see any object other than food in her stomach.
6:30am – I left to pick up our kitten. She needed be taken, with catheter in tow, to our regular vet for further examination.
7:15 am – June the kitten – who the last vet assistant lovingly referred to as “Butthead” for her obstinate personality (it runs in the family) – and I drove (well, I did the driving and the kitten ran around the car clawing at her head cone) toward our vet. Maybe, I thought, the object was lodged too far down?
7:20 am – My cell phone rang. I pulled over from driving and dug my phone out of my purse.
Me: Yeah.
Ian: I found the toy.
Me: You WHAT?!
Yep, the kitten never swallowed the toy. We suspected her tooth was just caught on her too large collar (which my daughter said in the beginning) and so it looked like she was gagging.
I said to Ian, after realizing we now could not afford to go on vacation, due to the cost of this fiasco, “Hey, don’t worry. Let’s move forward. Think of it as making a deposit in your karma bank.”
I really wanted to believe that, because a week in Tahoe would’ve been a lot of fun. Anyway, apologies to the vet we found to be lacking in medical knowledge. I guess that degree on your wall does mean something after all. (*A few years later, Cal-Neva would close. Turns out June saved us from a nightmare. Read this man’s review of Cal-Neva.)
*In my previous post, “Wedding vs Marriage,” this could be added to my suggested wedding vows:
Our kitten June, we then called June Carter CASH, due to how much she cost us.
I (provide name) promise to stick with you even if you imagine our kitten is choking on her toy, which then causes hours of chaos and drama so expensive, we can no longer afford to go on vacation.
When people travel to Paris, France, they often come back with romantic stories about the Seine, the light, champagne and brie, oooh la la! Not me. Here are Some things I experienced and learned on a recent trip to Paris: 1) Don’t use French phrases you learned from Patti Labelle’s “Lady Marmalade,” they’ll get you into trouble with a horny French cowboy. 2) When going to strip clubs, you get what you pay for. 3) The Metro stops running sooner than you think. 4) Fighting in front of dildos is funny, even if you’re too mad to realize it.
One night, Ian, my husband, and I take the Metro to the Pigalle district with the idea we’ll check out the dancers at Moulin Rouge. After seeing the show’s price and thinking it might be too touristy anyway, we duck into a strip club a few doors down. Hey, we’ll save money and get to see a sexy Parisian strip show, we think. Well, we’re wrong. Nothing sexy about it! What we get is a discount show from the world’s worst stripper. She has to be the worst. Nobody could put this little effort into her job. Slouching, with a cigarette limply hanging from her lips, the pot-bellied stripper lethargically slides down a pole as though she has just been injected with a sleeping dart and is about to pass out. Then she crawls back up and stands there weaving back and forth. The audience, just as lethargic, doesn’t even have enough energy to boo or leave.
We get up and head out to wash our disgust away at an Irish Pub a few doors down. (I tell the other tales of the cowboy and dildos in a story in my book, “Craving Normal.”)
As a child I had a large imagination, which led to confusion. Why? Well, I believed flying dust particles were fairies and thought little people in the TV box spoke to me. I also believed giants existed. Mom read me Grimm’s Fairy Tales in which giants ate children, trolls lived under bridges, and old women stuffed kids in ovens. To me, giants were as real as that man named Walter Cronkite Grandpa watched on TV. I never met Mr. Cronkite, but I believed he was real, too. So when I heard an announcer on the radio say, “The Giants will be returning to San Francisco,” I ran through the house, screaming, “Mommy, giants are coming! Giants are coming!” imagining they were the kid-eating kind of giants. Then Mom calmed me by explaining they’re San Francisco’s baseball team.
What did you once believe as a child? Were you disappointed or happy to find out you were only confused?
Photo: I loved Grimm’s Fairy Tales so much I “read” (pretended to read while I made up the story) to my little sister. She seems riveted.
I stared at him, shaking my head. And then I got it. “Oh. Broken peas! Split pea soup!” I nodded, looking over to Ian.
