I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be.
That's just another brilliant thing Joan Didion said with which I'm in complete agreement.
Over lunch with a friend today, he pointed out how much I've "softened" since we first met in June 2009, how much more relaxed I've become. Talking abut life recently with a wise septuagenarian, she characterized my evolution as a result of opening myself up to life since mine fell apart.
So, yes, it's been some time since I bid farewell to the woman who allowed herself to be governed by rules and restrictions, the woman who used to walk the exact same route every day for years, never scrambling out onto a rock or scaling the ladder to the pipeline walkway.
What hasn't changed is my baseless optimism.
I say "optimistic" because I can still go to the Criterion this gray Sunday morning to see "Holiday Inn" and watch Fred Astaire dancing with various nimble-footed partners and think to myself that if I put my mind to it, I could learn ballroom dancing.
I say "baseless" because after dancing in cute shoes for three straight hours last Saturday night to Mr. Fine Wine, I had a fine blister on my pinky toe for days.
Nor am I being grandiose when I say I will read all the books I want to in this lifetime.
Three different people have recently given me books they thought I'd love reading. I used to limit my reading time to after I'd finished doing everything else I "should" be doing, until I realized reading is exactly that. Preferably on a beach, but I can make do on the couch with a cup of hot chocolate for now.
Then when I go back to see my second movie of the day, "Brooklyn," an exquisitely-shot coming-of-age story about an Irish girl who moves to America, I discover I need to read Colm Toibin's novel of the same name and probably a lot more Nick Hornby given his deft handling of the screenplay.
The film also reminds me of some key life goals: I need to get away from where I live more often. Write letters more often. Entertain more often. Say yes to some of the more unexpected offers I get.
One of the most wonderful things anyone ever wrote to me in an e-mail was, "It was great seeing you! You always seem to add laughter to a room." If, as the boardinghouse owner in "Brooklyn" said, giddiness is the eighth deadly sin, I want to be guilty of it.
I want to see the humor in everything I possibly can.
Walking past Sugar Shack Donuts under this afternoon's sodden skies, I notice that of the nine cars in the parking lot, three of them are cop cars. Surely there's a joke in that.
And with my O'Donnell Irish roots, I wouldn't even be wrong in making it.
Showing posts with label holiday inn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label holiday inn. Show all posts
Sunday, November 29, 2015
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Have a Shot and Pass the Cookies
Holiday Inn
Open tonight
Don't ask, just go and God bless America!
It's a week away from Christmas, so it's kind of tough to get away from it at this point.
Not that I was trying to by going to the VMFA to see "Holiday Inn," the 1942 Bing Crosby/Fred Astaire movie that debuted the Christmas classic "White Christmas." Sure, I'd seen it before, but I hadn't heard WCVE's jazz DJ Peter Solomon talk about Irving Berlin and his music, which sounded pretty interesting to me.
And it was surprising to learn that Berlin couldn't read music and could only play the black keys of the piano (always playing in F#), which would explain his having a secretary write down the music he conceived of...for his entire career and he lived to be 101.
Two hours of Bing singing and Fred dancing would be enough, but when you add in the snappy 40s dialogue, it's a little slice of heaven for a wordy bird like me. A perfect example is the scene where the manager is ordering last-minute flowers from the flower shop girl for the demanding diva.
Her: What would you like?
Him: Orchids, the finest you've got.
her: Corsage?
Him: No, no. A dozen loose, looking like they don't care.
That line makes perfect sense to me; I only wish I'd thought of it first (and maybe that someone would want to send me carefree-looking flowers).
I decided against staying for the post-film discussion, not that I wouldn't have enjoyed it, but I had a cookie exchange party to go to out in the sticks. Well, the sticks to me anyway; it was over near Tan-A, way out of my comfort zone. And then I got lost and had to call for directions (from a pay phone, no less), making me even later.
But it didn't really matter because there were still plenty of cookies and people left when I arrived, including my smitten couple friend who'd come to make eyes at each other while staring at the fake fire on the TV screen.
This is my second year for this party and once again there was an embarrassment of cookies laid out. Whoopie pies, pistachio/craisin, chocolate with caramel and salt, red velvet crackles, Mexican wedding cookies, shortbread, snickerdoodles and at least a dozen other kinds were spread around the kitchen and living room.
My hosts were serving cider and eggnog, so naturally I went with the more decadent nog, nicely spiked. One guest, who had been unaware that the nog was already fortified, had been helpfully serving it and adding booze at that point. Needless to say, those who got the "double shots" were feeling the effects in no time.
Because my hosts blog and tweet, there were a fair number of the same at the party. One guest told me he followed me on Twitter and I had to correct him (you may read my blog, but I'm not a 140-character kind of girl). A coffee fanatic, he was also incredulous that I don't do coffee or tea. But what pushed him over the edge was my lack of a cell phone.
He could not comprehend how I live without one. "I'm touching mine even as we talk," he said by way of explanation, his hand deep in his pocket. "How DO you communicate?" I don't know, but somehow I manage, I told him. Later he made a big deal about my tights, though, so I forgave him the rest.
It was great fun being with a different crowd than the one I usually hang out with. The merits of the McRib were debated, bad penis jokes were delivered and closet organization skills were surveyed. There was a shirt-folding demonstration. I particularly enjoyed the discussion of laying out sushi on a naked human body rather than a plate at a soiree (coming soon to a party near you).
At one point, a guest brought in gifts of airline bottles of Jose Cuervo, which the recipients decided to do as body shots (something I'm proud to say I've never done). Unfortunately, the host had no limes (although he did have sea salt flakes), but the group made do with Real Lemon juice, you know, the kind in the plastic pseudo-lemon squirter bottle.
So, yes, they licked the expensive salt flakes off their hands, shot their cheap tequila and then squirted lemon juice down their throats ("It doesn't help," one girl exclaimed afterwards). It was mildly disturbing to one who truly appreciates good tequila (which this was not) and, on the other hand, it was some of the best entertainment of the evening. Especially with a Southpark carol playing in the background.
In fact, the party could have been written up much the way Holiday Inn was in the "newspaper blurb " from the movie that began this post.
A & K's Annual Cookie Exchange
Happening tonight
Don't ask, just go and Chef bless America
Open tonight
Don't ask, just go and God bless America!
It's a week away from Christmas, so it's kind of tough to get away from it at this point.
Not that I was trying to by going to the VMFA to see "Holiday Inn," the 1942 Bing Crosby/Fred Astaire movie that debuted the Christmas classic "White Christmas." Sure, I'd seen it before, but I hadn't heard WCVE's jazz DJ Peter Solomon talk about Irving Berlin and his music, which sounded pretty interesting to me.
And it was surprising to learn that Berlin couldn't read music and could only play the black keys of the piano (always playing in F#), which would explain his having a secretary write down the music he conceived of...for his entire career and he lived to be 101.
Two hours of Bing singing and Fred dancing would be enough, but when you add in the snappy 40s dialogue, it's a little slice of heaven for a wordy bird like me. A perfect example is the scene where the manager is ordering last-minute flowers from the flower shop girl for the demanding diva.
Her: What would you like?
Him: Orchids, the finest you've got.
her: Corsage?
Him: No, no. A dozen loose, looking like they don't care.
That line makes perfect sense to me; I only wish I'd thought of it first (and maybe that someone would want to send me carefree-looking flowers).
I decided against staying for the post-film discussion, not that I wouldn't have enjoyed it, but I had a cookie exchange party to go to out in the sticks. Well, the sticks to me anyway; it was over near Tan-A, way out of my comfort zone. And then I got lost and had to call for directions (from a pay phone, no less), making me even later.
But it didn't really matter because there were still plenty of cookies and people left when I arrived, including my smitten couple friend who'd come to make eyes at each other while staring at the fake fire on the TV screen.
This is my second year for this party and once again there was an embarrassment of cookies laid out. Whoopie pies, pistachio/craisin, chocolate with caramel and salt, red velvet crackles, Mexican wedding cookies, shortbread, snickerdoodles and at least a dozen other kinds were spread around the kitchen and living room.
My hosts were serving cider and eggnog, so naturally I went with the more decadent nog, nicely spiked. One guest, who had been unaware that the nog was already fortified, had been helpfully serving it and adding booze at that point. Needless to say, those who got the "double shots" were feeling the effects in no time.
Because my hosts blog and tweet, there were a fair number of the same at the party. One guest told me he followed me on Twitter and I had to correct him (you may read my blog, but I'm not a 140-character kind of girl). A coffee fanatic, he was also incredulous that I don't do coffee or tea. But what pushed him over the edge was my lack of a cell phone.
He could not comprehend how I live without one. "I'm touching mine even as we talk," he said by way of explanation, his hand deep in his pocket. "How DO you communicate?" I don't know, but somehow I manage, I told him. Later he made a big deal about my tights, though, so I forgave him the rest.
It was great fun being with a different crowd than the one I usually hang out with. The merits of the McRib were debated, bad penis jokes were delivered and closet organization skills were surveyed. There was a shirt-folding demonstration. I particularly enjoyed the discussion of laying out sushi on a naked human body rather than a plate at a soiree (coming soon to a party near you).
At one point, a guest brought in gifts of airline bottles of Jose Cuervo, which the recipients decided to do as body shots (something I'm proud to say I've never done). Unfortunately, the host had no limes (although he did have sea salt flakes), but the group made do with Real Lemon juice, you know, the kind in the plastic pseudo-lemon squirter bottle.
So, yes, they licked the expensive salt flakes off their hands, shot their cheap tequila and then squirted lemon juice down their throats ("It doesn't help," one girl exclaimed afterwards). It was mildly disturbing to one who truly appreciates good tequila (which this was not) and, on the other hand, it was some of the best entertainment of the evening. Especially with a Southpark carol playing in the background.
In fact, the party could have been written up much the way Holiday Inn was in the "newspaper blurb " from the movie that began this post.
A & K's Annual Cookie Exchange
Happening tonight
Don't ask, just go and Chef bless America
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