I Know Something You Don't Know

I've started my Christmas shopping already. No boos!  We're doing things differently here this year-- quality, not quantity.  I've decided there are going to be very few gifts under the tree and since the kids are small enough not to notice, I think this might be the best time to start this.  Lord knows no one in our house actually NEEDS anything for Christmas, so why buy and buy and buy just out of habit and then donate it all 6 months later? I say, figure out some big things (iPad) and a couple of small things (wooden food toys for the kitchen) and be done. Why spend the same amount of money on 10 000 toys when all you really want are three things?

BUT that said, I've started my Christmas shopping already. Mostly, I'm doing it because I get extreme anxiety when it comes to being in crowded places with jolly, cinnamon-scented people hell-bent on getting the same item I'm hell-bent on getting while Bing Crosby plays in the background. I love Black Friday in the States though. I think it's the absence of cinnamon that makes that shopping-holiday ok. Just a thought.

Right, so I started sussing out my various Christmas gifts.  In fact, I got a phone call yesterday from my sister, who lives near the Center Of The Universe, aka Toronto.

She said, "Hi, Beth?"
Me: Yeah? Is everything ok? It's 8am.
She:  Yeah. You're looking for the (I'm not going to name or describe the item I want to get for Husband because I don't want you to scoop up the very few remaining in the world, Swiper!), right?
Me: Yes. Shh! Someone could hear you!
She: Well, I think I have a lead on one.
Me: (drops the phone in excitement) WHAT?
She: Well, (hushed tone) I have a friend who collects them, and I was asking where he might recommend to go find the one you want, and he said he had one he was willing to part with.
Me: WHAT?
She: But he's going out of town for like, two months.
Me: Whaaa?
She: He's a photographer and he's leaving Thursday morning for South Africa.
Me: WHAT?
(at this point, Husband is now out of the shower and can hear my end of the conversation, which is essentially terse whisper-screams of "what" over and over.  He is wondering what is going on, so I have to distract him. I start shooing him toward the kitchen and motion for Kiddo #1 to kick up a fuss and take up all his attention.  Have I mentioned I am a freaking SUPERSTAR at Charades? Well, I am. And it works.)
She: I can have the two of you meet up tomorrow morning, if you can get here. Can you do that?
Me:  WHAT?
She: And he doesn't like kids. You can't bring Kiddo #2 with you, or he won't consider meeting you anywhere.
Me: WHAT?
She:  I know. It's weird. But you know how photographers can be.
Me: What?
She: Well, I don't know. I guess he's the only one I know like that. Good point. Can you do it or not?
Me:  What? WHAT? Uh. Yes.  I'll do what it takes. Holy crap! This is a miracle!
She: Ok. I'll arrange for you two to meet at the Starbucks around the corner from my office at 8:30 tomorrow morning.  Love ya, Sister!
Me: Love you too!

I hung up, elated that I could have so easily found the totally EPIC Christmas present I really want to get for Husband! What are the odds that just putting ideas out there and (secretly) asking for help would get me such quick, amazing results!  I think this must be why people pray, and use Craigslist/kijiji.  I think I might start doing both. Today.

Speaking of prayer, though, I now had to figure out what to do with Kiddo #2.

And, after Kiddo #1 finished distracting Daddy, I noticed she looked oddly zombie-esque. Not so much with an incessant need for brains, but more that she was pale, hot and really irritating. Scratch that-- she wasn't looking like a zombie; that's clearly closer to a Cullen. Whatever, you get the point. Her being ill could seriously cramp my need to be 3 hours away and childless tomorrow.  Hmm.

Ok. So I called my first line of defense: The Grandmothers.  Neither one was available, however. Something I don't think I will understand until I, myself, am retired (which means I should probably get working so I can get retiring but, whatever) is how a retired person, a person without employment, can possibly NOT HAVE FREE TIME. Baffling.  But whatever. It doesn't matter what the reason is, neither one was available until the afternoon tomorrow, and probably I'd be back by then.  Unhelpful.

Equally unhelpful is The Reason I needed someone to watch Kiddo #2-- I couldn't tell anyone what I was hoping to procure in my visit to Toronto, lest they (successfully) are able to drop everything and get the item I want, instead of me.  But FRICK!  Without some lame excuse, no one would be willing to watch my kiddo, right? An Emergency is one thing-- but we all know how things turned out for Baby in "Dirty Dancing"-- you don't just ask for $500 for something you can't tell your Dad about, because you'll end up having to get your Dad's help to fix the thing you thought you thought you were fixing in the first place. No bueno.

But then, I remembered that Girlfriends are Mother Nature's version of a Firefighter, Police Officer and Ambulance Driver all in one-- Good Girlfriends ARE your one-stop emergency destination.

Me: Hi. Uh, I'm not bleeding, but I have an emergency. Can you watch Kiddo #2 tomorrow morning, until say, noonish?"
Girlfriend: Yep.
Me: (pause) That's it? I don't have to tell you why?
Girlfriend: Nope. What time will he arrive?
Me: (pause) Seriously? I feel like I'm wasting this a little...

So, once I had details for tomorrow nailed down, I needed something do to to keep from screaming my secret at the top of my lungs. I'm kinda a crappy secret keeper.  It was good when I lived in Colorado because when I had a secret to keep from a friend in Canada, I could then tell everyone in the blessed state of Colorado knowing it would never get back.  I just get excited.

Anyway, so while the school day passed with Cullen #1 learning things, Kiddo #2 and I walked around the city looking smug and singing "I know something you don't know!" to complete strangers.  One guy got really pale after I said that and he started to sweat a little. Weird.

After I sang it to a pregnant lady, she demanded I tell her what the sex of her unborn baby was (I picked girl and boy, since she looked huge. Then she said she wasn't having twins. So then I said, again, "I know something you don't know!" and she also went pale and ran to the Dr's office across the street.).

Then I saw Jennifer Love Hewitt.
That. Was. Awkward.

Anyway, after dinner, I told Husband the 982 things that the kids do before bed, reminded Kiddo #1 that she couldn't be sick tomorrow morning because I won't be home and kissed them all and drove off into the dark night to my sister's.


There's nothing like a white-knuckle drive down the 401 at night to make you really appreciate life.

I mean, really, really appreciate life.  It pissed rain the entire way there, through construction which left the highway randomly cone-filled, closed in sections, shiny, slick and un-painted. Oh and my wipers are crap. I don't know if they give tickets for having windshield wipers that essentially don't work, but they should, and I should have a major fine.


So, I white knuckled it to my sister's house singing Jay-Z, Kanye, Eminem and Garfunkel and Oates the entire way.  Don't pretend you don't have a "Mom" playlist full of all the stuff you're not supposed to let your kids hear or even know you have. You do. And if you really, actually don't, ease into it with Garfunkel and Oates. It's the daughters of Art Garfunkel and Darrel Oates (like, with different moms? Do I need to write this or do you get it and are now irritated that I felt the need to clarify that two men didn't somehow breed and have singing daughters?).  They're hysterical. And completely kid inapprop. (They're on iTunes and worth the pennies. I promise.)

Just as my forearm was beginning to ache from the Nunchuk Grip I had on the steering wheel, I arrived at Sister's house.  We did the classic laugh about random stuff that if I re-wrote would sound stupid and totally un-funny, but was hilarious at the time. She went through the protocol when dealing with this photographer (how she met him is a mystery since he's weird enough to be someone that I know, but whatever. Her friends are usually more normal is all). And, after stressing a bit about getting downtown in the morning commuter traffic, I got up the next morning, got out the door and (more importantly) got my gift for Husband!

And, I still can't tell you what it is because what if he reads this and finds out before Christmas? Or what if he doesn't read it, but one of you runs into him and congratulates him on getting the vintage, MINT, [secret thing that is so awesome you would freak the frick out if you read it here]?

So, you'll have to wait, like Husband, to find out what he's getting.

Oh forget it. I can't keep a secret!! I'm the worst! Promise not to tell Husband, but I'm getting him a

...

Dang. Sorry about that. I pressed the Publish button prematurely. :( Sorry. Maybe next time.



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Next Stop: Hollywood!

I'm ready for my debut as the next Hollywood IT girl. I'm sure I have it, but more than that, I also have kids (which seems to be requisite anymore) and I can take direction. Major direction. Stanley Kubrick-style direction, or Woody Allen-type direction. Or, better yet, I can take the love child of Kubrick and Allen's direction, as a director, and not even bat an eyelash.  Wait. I'm not trying to make a weird Soon-Yi joke here, I swear.

(In case you're not a film aficionado, I'm trying to give you the idea that I am able to take unflinching, unbiased, hyperactive direction to the tune of doing each scene at least 25 times before it's perfect, and then once more just in case. We're talking days of takes just for a 10 second piece of film.)

I've been studying acting under a relatively unknown director, Kid O. Numba-Won.   Numba-Won is just about to break onto the mainstream scene, too, and I think like Johnny Depp and Tim Burton the two of us could really become an acting/directing duo and take next year's Sundance and Cannes film festivals.

Tonight alone, we spent roughly two hours just rehearsing dialogue for her new film, Eating Chocolate For Second Snack Is Ok.  Numba-Won, wrote, directed and stars in the play; I am simply a secondary character.

She is the reason for my amazing journey into International Superstar-dom. And as such, I feel like I should document this whole process from start to finish, for posterity. Or, to read on the bonus features part of the Blu-Ray disc. Or, at the Oscars when they do a tribute of Numba-Won when she dies or after she's inducted into the Oscar Hall of Fame or whatever it's called. Like I said, I'm always prepared to board that rocket-to-the-moon.

Things started out well enough. After dinner a few days ago, we went into the living room and decided to run lines (which is industry speak for: practice dialogue for the next day in the hopes you will memorize the lines with the correct intonation and perfect wording).

Numba-Won said, "Ok. I'm the Mom and you're the Kid.  And you want to go to school on the bus but I'm the Mom and you're not going fast enough, so I'm gonna tell you no. Okay?"
"Okay." I replied, eager to show my director that I'm totally worth my Million Dollar price tag.

(Never, ever give yourself away for free. If they want you for free, tell them to suck a lemon or ask Oprah. She doesn't answer her phone without someone signing a cheque over, so they'll get the point.  And if they bring up 'exposure' or 'charity' and that's why they want you to work for free, tell them you're exposing your middle finger to their charity and to call Oprah.  Then hang up because they're too stupid to live.)

"Ready? Go!"
Act 1, Scene 1: Take 1
"Hi Mom! I want to ride the bus today. To school. Let's go!"
"No. That's not how it goes. You have to say, "Mom! I can't wait to ride the bus!" and then I say, "Well, you can't because you aren't ready."  Ok?"
Shit. I've already messed up my lines.  No bueno.

"Ok. Sorry. Can we do that again?"  I ask-- I'm still excited to show her all I've got.
"Yes." When Numba-Won calls you out on your general incompetence, she is forgiving, at first.

"Ready? Go!"
Act 1, Scene 1: Take 2
"Mom! I can't wait to ride on the bus today!"
"That's not the line."

I look down and realize that, like Joey Tribiani and his epic fail at the noodle soup audition with Ben, I'm adding words that aren't in the script. Mmm, noodle soup.
"Mom! I can't wait to ride the bus!"
"Kid, you can't. You're not ready. Your tights."
"I don't understand that line, Numba-Won. What do the tights have to do with riding the bus?"

Numba-Won slaps her forehead and says, with exasperation, "You can't go outside without your tights. It's cold. You'll catch The Amonia. And when you get The Amonia, you get very sick in your chest and you go to the hospital. So wear your tights!"
"Got it. Ok. Can we start again?"
"Yes. Ready? Go!"

Act 1, Scene 1: Take 3
"Mom! I can't wait to ride the bus!"
"Kid, you can't. You're not ready. Your tights."
"Oh! Well it's still warm out. I don't need them."
"Go stand outside and eat your breakfast without your shoes. You will see it's cold."
(I pretend to go outside and eat breakfast on the patio without my shoes. I make 'Brrr' sounds and rub my hands together to make it seem really, really cold from my side of the living room.)

"KID! You have to go outside. You can't know how cold it really is unless you go outside. Plus, you're too cold. It's not THAT cold. Just wear-your-tights cold."  I get it. I have a tendency to over-act. I'm actually fortunate she's willing to work with me to get just the right amount of reaction to the cold.  I'm a very lucky woman. Not many directors would care so much. I'm talkin' to YOU, Speilberg.

"I'm not going outside. It's raining."
"Well, then I guess you can pretend. But try to make it better."
"Ok. Can we take it from "You will see it's cold?""
"Hmm. Ok. Hold on.  Yes. You will see it's cold." (she is such an amazing director/actor that she can fritter to and fro in her roles without missing a beat. It's outstanding.)

"Ok Mother. Thanks. I guess I'll get my tights on so I can catch the bus."
"Ok. But, now it's too late."
"What? Nooooo!"  I throw myself down like Maria at the almost-end of West Side Story (Natalie Woods is an acting genius. Genius.)
"Uh, Kid. Why are you crying like that? You missed the bus. Take responsibility for your actions and get in the car. I will drive you."
"Numba-Two, I have some problems with your dialogue. I mean, I can't see a four-year old talking like this."
"Mom! I mean Kid! Just do your part."

That's about all I can actually type down here for your perusal without violating any sort of copyright laws, but you can see where this is going. Amazing stuff.

After Numba-Won went to bed (she's crashing here while her trailer is being renovated) I decided it was time to update My Look.

I, critically, examined myself in the mirror. Even with my most critical eye, it was clear I had little to change if I want to make it in Hollywood. Frankly, I've got the smile, the wiggle when I walk, the flirty-throaty laugh that Marilyn Monroe made famous. I've got it all. But, my eyes did rest a little too long on the top of my head. I suppose I could use a wee update on my Mom hair.

After walking the children to the bus the next day, I arranged for Kiddo #2 to be watched by a friend of mine while I went to Hip 'N' Trendy Salon.  That's really what it's called-- I figured if the words 'hip' and 'trendy' were both in the title, surely they'd have something magnificent for me. And I was so right!

I walked into the shop and a woman that looked like she could be Betsey Johnson's small-town cousin walked over. Her hair was a very unnatural shade of blonde, considering her age (which was easily 50), her hips were very tiny, and her heels were very tall and her tan very ... non-existent. And, despite her 8-inch heels, she barely came to my shoulders, which isn't that weird, I guess.

(In Hollywood, everyone is under 5 feet tall, so, as a 6 foot tall person I know I will get a bunch of great roles that the shorties won't be able to do. Plus they won't have to build miniature sets for me so that I look 'normal' sized.  Oh yes, I've thought this whole thing through. All in all, Rhonda and Hip 'N' Trendy Salon seemed like a natural beginning to my new life as a starlet; I took it as an omen of plastic and good fortune.)

The only thing that wasn't completely fake, in fact, was her mouth; there were no collagen injections there. Instead, she lined her lips as though she put her lipstick on a Nascar and told it to start racing. She didn't want to have fake-actually-full lips, she wanted fake-thin-lips-masquerading-as-clown-lips. Hey, any good actor has a nudity clause in her contract, so I understand her need to keep it real.

I sat down and Rhonda assessed the situation.

So, I went in with Mom Hair, and left with Ah-Mazing Mom Hair!  I'm telling you, I've never looked so cool, hip and trendy as I did when I left. Jennifer Aniston and those other famous girl-next-door type actors had better watch their steps! I'm on my way and the only thing stopping me is laundry.


...


Frick.



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