battle of the bands, pt II

OK, where were we?

Saturday evening around 7 o'clock we got in the car, dressed as if we were going to a wedding to which we were actually invited. by the bride and groom. but we were not. en route, Michael told me that the manager and lead keyboardist of the Bad Hair band had told him—after encouraging him to swing by the wedding of Rich and Fabulous on Saturday, March 21, 2009 at Fancy Pants Country Club in Southeastern PA, because it was going to be a big crowd and we'd blend in—"if anyone asks why you're there, just tell them you're checking out the venue." 

i thought that was a little shady. why would we be checking out a venue at 10 o'clock on a Saturday night? (that's what time we got there because we got lost—but in our defense, the cocktail hour started at 9 and the band wasn't even going to start until 10.) anyway, i found that unappealing in a band leader—inviting strangers to a client's wedding, and then not being willing to cop to it—but that was beside the point at the time. we really just needed to hear this band live, once and for all. Ms. Slim Shady Band Leader had been calling Michael daily and i was beginning to suspect a little obsession on her part. we needed to make a decision soon, before she started boiling bunnies.

so we get to the Fancy Pants Country Club and are relieved that valet service was no longer available. we intended to stay for as brief a time as possible and having a valet fetch the car 10 minutes after he parked it would surely arouse suspicions. 

i strode across the parking lot, feeling un-worried about who might stop me or ask me questions—mostly because i had to pee and nothing was getting in the way of me going to the bathroom. i pushed through the front door of the club and thankfully the loo was right there by the entrance. 

there were a few ladies in there and i suddenly felt conspicuous with my heavy winter coat, while they were simply in their fancy wedding attire. but, my bladder took precedence over elderly wedding guests. and when i came out, they were gone anyway. awkward moment averted. 

we'd arrived at the worst time—the toasts and speeches were being given. cocktail hour was very much over, but dancing had not yet begun. we obviously did not have seats at a table waiting for us, so we were forced to mill around in the lobby, trying to look casual, like we meant to be there, like we abhor the whole idea of excessive toasts and speeches at a wedding reception and were thusly boycotting. 

i tried to find a place to stash my coat, but the coat check attendant was MIA, and Michael told me if i hung it up myself (which i started to do) someone would catch me and accuse me of stealing. he was probably right, but i was left holding my coat in a ball, which definitely added to the awkwardness. he offered to take it back to the car and i said, "thanks! i'll be hiding in the bathroom!" 

while the toasts and speeches lagged on, i poked through the courtesy basket in the ladies room (nothing good—mostly mint Lifesavers), fluffed up my hair in the mirror and ventured back out to the lobby. right on cue, Michael came back in through the door and we inched our way into the ballroom. there was a bar area set up in the back of the room and naturally people were hovering there, so we took a spot by a tall cocktail table and tried to look normal. i was so ready for a glass of wine at that point and seriously contemplated getting in line for the bar, but my wariness of bad karma helped me overcome the urge. who knows, i might not give a frig on my wedding day if strangers are trying to get a free drink at my reception, but better to err on the side of caution...

anyway, the band had finally started playing and they were good—the music sounded the way i'm sure the bride and groom wanted it to sound. it just wasn't our sound. it was clear the entire wedding we were crashing wasn't the kind of wedding we're envisioning. we stayed for the first few songs, meandered around the ballroom (i pretended to want to see the cake so we could get a better look at Bad Hair as a whole, especially the band leader, who was seated behind her keyboard, her red hair reminiscent of that of the little Lego people who come with the Lego sets) and it became clear with each song that they were not the band for us.

what solidified it for me, though, was the band leader's banter. she had a nasally, slightly irritating voice, and felt compelled to give commentary on everything. after each song they played she'd go, "wooooh! that was one of my favorites!" and when it was time for the first course she launched into a several-minute soliloquy on the food at the Fancy Pants Country Club, and how it was truly amazing and everyone should find their seats and enjoy it. "i'm going to play a little soft music for you now, while you eat," she told the crowd. "a little nice, soft music."

"no, no, no, no, no," i muttered to Michael, shaking my head violently. she reminded me of a character Kristen Wiig might play on SNL. funny, until it's your wedding.

"guess we're going with Fake Tans then," Michael said to me as we hightailed it out of there before someone offered to show us to our seats for dinner. 

"yup, we are," i said, knowing it was absolutely the right decision. 

we ambled across the parking lot, fake-fighting for the benefit of people who actually were not wondering where we were going ("you said you were going to bring the card!" "no, honey, i asked you to take it from the glove compartment!") and happily got back in the car. 

the next day i e-mailed the manager of Fake Tans and told him the gig was theirs. mission accomplished, thank god. 

and i have to say, i cannot wait to dance at our wedding. rock on.

mb

battle of the bands, pt I

last week was dedicated to choosing a band to play at the reception—a task i had no idea was so intense until we were knee deep in it. a word to the wise: the majority of wedding band leaders are needy, desperate, annoying-as-hell people who call and e-mail repeatedly as soon as they have your information. piranhas!

so i was relieved when we narrowed it down to two bands: for privacy's sake, we'll call the first Fake Tans and the second Bad Hair.

Fake Tans had played a wedding my parents attended over the summer—they raved about the band, said the dance floor was packed the entire reception, and apparently three guests booked the band that day for separate occasions. someone i went to high school with also used Fake Tans and gushed.

Bad Hair was a band i found on theknot.com, designated as a "knot pick"—i don't know how much value there is in that, but they played one of in the Inaugural Balls in DC in January, so i figured they must be decent.

we had two roadblocks with these bands. Fake Tans played showcases for potential clients, but at a facility way down in the middle of South Jersey, two hours away from the city. Inconvenient. And Bad Hair doesn't do showcases, for reasons i still don't understand. Also inconvenient.

so we had to be creative.

last Thursday night, Fake Tans was playing at a club in a town in South Jersey, due west of Atlantic City. still far and inconvenient from the city, but we had reached the point of desperation. it was a straight shot on the NJ Turnpike and what the hell else would we do on a Thursday night? so we made the trek to... The Adelphia.

people, i am not even kidding when i tell you the place has to be visible from space. like, the folks working on the Discovery up there in the universe can look down at any time and say, "oh, look, there's the Adelphia!" thanks to the pink neon trim that traces the entire building. Michael and i got lost because the directions were bad, but what finally got us on course was the glowing monstrosity in the distance.

"that has to be it," i muttered. and, of course, it was.

we found a spot in the jam-packed parking lot and started toward the main entrance. for a moment i didn't think we'd make it—i thought we might die from asphyxiation due to the wall of bad cologne and perfume that hit us about 20 feet from the building.

i am. not. joking.  

we fought our way through the fumes and into the front door, where we were greeted by a true gorge-fest for the senses. there were waterfalls, there were moving statues, there were fake palm trees, there was marble everywhere, there was a dance floor that pulled double-duty as a light show... i really didn't know what to look at, or for how long.

we both were in dire need of the restrooms, so i shot upstairs after being pointed in the direction of the ladies room, and discovered it was labeled "goddesses" above the door (the men's room was labeled, naturally, "gods"). i knew it was going to be a night to remember when i came upon a few fiftysomething women standing by the sinks, wearing skimpy tops and applying lipstick and hairspray, who looked at me in my smart trench coat and jeans like i'd come from another planet.

and really, i felt like i had.

back downstairs, Michael and i spied the band setting up at the head of the flashing, stroke-inducing dance floor and snagged a table off to the side. i was absolutely starving by that point and thought perhaps i was just delirious with hunger when i saw what was happening on on the dance floor.

i hadn't really noticed the crowd until then. and i was lost for words. there were people, all seemingly 40 and over, dancing. with abandon. to bad club songs being spun by the deejay. my eyes shot around the dance floor. each person was more... unique than the last. they all wore clothes that were too tight, too garish and too outdated. the hair was frosted, teased and gelled to helmet-like proportions. the dancing was bad, so ridiculously bad—some of them didn't even move their feet, but gave the suggestion of dancing by twisting their arms about. there was groping and lustful gazes and suggestive stares.

i stood there observing, taking it all in, wanting to remember the scene forever.

"this place," i yelled to Michael over the music, "is where middle-aged white people come to be free!"

i really didn't know whether to make fun of them or applaud them—i settled on a mixture of both. they were too much like a Saturday Night Live skit to take seriously, yet i could tell they were all blissfully happy—especially the dude dressed in black who looked like a reformed child molester who'd finally found a safe haven, dancing on his own in the corner—Lars without the real girl. and the bespectacled little fella who only came onto the dance floor when the band slowed things down with a rendition of "At Last"—he had no partner, but stood in the center of the floor with his hands in his pockets and swayed back and forth to the melody.

which reminds me: the band. in the midst of all my anthropology that night, i did manage to meet the band leader, a really cool guy who also happens to be a Yankee fan (sold!) and the band itself, when they started playing, blew us away. great sound, great energy—and we had to assume they had cooler gigs than the Adelphia, that this was just a pay-the-bills sort of engagement.

we ordered drinks and dinner (i will say this for the place—the food was fantastic) and listened to/watched the band through their first set. it was a truly, truly entertaining evening—in addition to the AARP Dance Fever, there was a portly gentleman selling things that glowed (rings, necklaces, etc) who flirted with me every time Michael left the table. and the sliver-haired fox who excused himself past me at one point, letting his hands linger on my hips several seconds too long. he was with a lady friend, but that didn't stop him from turning around once he'd gotten by me, to give me a classic dirty-old-man wink.

when we left—because, after all, we had a two-hour ride back to the city, and it was already 11 o'clock—the place was just getting warmed up. the crowd was still filing in and those already there were clearly settling in for another hot Thursday night at the Adelphia.

it would be a stark contrast to our experience seeing the Bad Hair band. check back tomorrow for that tale, and to find out who we actually picked.

mb

tragic

i am absolutely distraught over what happened to Natasha Richardson. i first heard about it at the crack of dawn yesterday, on 880 when my alarm clock went off. they said it was a head injury caused by a skiing accident, so i assumed she crashed into something, had a horrific tumble. but it wasn't serious, or didn't seem serious. she apparently just knocked her head on the snow when she fell, was walking and talking and laughing immediately after. 

and now—according to some reports—she's brain dead. 

i'm sorry, what?

i think perhaps—ironically—my knowledge of the human brain is lacking. i think perhaps i didn't realize how damn sensitive the thing is, how so much can go so wrong after a seemingly minor incident. 

my mom's brain bled several times between age 20 and 40, and then she had it operated on—had a bit of it removed, for chrissakes—and now she's fine. when i was 16, i passed out from dehydration in Times Square on a hot summer morning and hit my head so hard on Broadway that i was knocked unconscious. an MRI showed that i was fine. i'm sure certain people would beg to differ, but i've never shown any repercussions or side effects from that event. 

i thought the brain was pretty resilient, pretty resourceful. maybe it is, and Natasha Richardson just was horribly, horribly unlucky. 

or maybe the lesson here is: wear a helmet. wear a helmet when propelling yourself down a ski slope... or on a skateboard or a bicycle or down a football field... for god's sake, protect your head. 

i'm praying for a miracle here, i admit. hoping against hope. i'm not sure why i'm so invested—i always liked her as an actress, i think she and Liam Neeson are an example of what Hollywood couples should be, but i wasn't exactly president of her fan club. 

maybe the whole thing just has me spooked, thinking of how easily my life or my mom's life could have ended way too soon had things gone just a smidge differently. 

mb

how you know you're irish

i'm at the gym, six-thirty this morning, mid-workout and i start craving a pint, thinking how good a Smithwick's would taste right then (yeah, not quite a Guinness girl yet). i actually contemplated stopping in a pub on my way to work, if only to ensure the entire day does not go by without me indulging my heritage (while everyone else is indulging, i'll be in meetings). 

i managed to show some restraint. made it to work ale-free. it's a shame, though. i think in New York this day should be a holiday. it's nearly bigger than Christmas, and lots more fun. crowds were already gathering when i crossed Fifth Avenue. i really wanted to stay...

ah, well. back to work. but before i go: "may you live to be a hundred years... with one extra year to repent." 

Beannachtam na Feile Padraig!

mb

thank you, universe (and outgoing blue collar dude on 58th street)

"Gossip Girl" was filming in my work neighborhood this morning. i actually walked through the location set on my way to the office—there were lights, a ton of tech people, a limo with a pile of prop luggage on the sidewalk and a "handler" walking one of the stars to his mark.

but i never watch the show so it wasn't that thrilling. i made my way to 58th street, where all the trailers were set up, wishing that i could happen upon "Ugly Betty" filming instead (i'd surely make an ass out of myself if i did).  and as i was walking, a guy—who might have just been a loitering construction worker, or perhaps a grip or some other union guy with the show—waved me down. i pulled my earphones from my ears to hear what he had to say. it seemed important. 

"do you wanna be in the movies?" he asked me.

real original, pal. (though i admit for a split, split second i thought maybe he was someone with "Gossip Girl" and they were going to give me a walk-on part right then and there. such a loser.)

"no," i said, with a laugh.

"ohhh, you should be, you really should be," he told me as i walked by. then i heard him call after me, "you Irish?" 

i turned around and flashed a smile. "yeah," i told him.

"oh, god bless you," he said. 

and for the rest of the walk to my office, i had a huge grin on my face. regardless of who he was—casting director, boom mic operator or homeless bum—i appreciated the compliment, and the timing of it. it was a nice little lift on a Monday morning, especially after spending half of my Sunday night tossing and turning thanks to my hyperactive brain.  

that guy really made this Ugly Betty's day...

mb

the ides of march

life's been kicking me in the ass lately, thus my lack of entries here. in the last week i've discovered (1) that i owe the government a nauseating sum of money (scratch that: i owe my father a nauseating sum of money) because, basically, i suck at math. (2) my company unleashed a serious round of layoffs of Wednesday and we lost someone from our own little team - a very sobering, downright sad experience. (3) my Gram isn't doing so well, which breaks my heart like you have no idea. and (4) i'm realizing there's a flip side to being engaged. along with the happy-happy-joy-joy feelings, at least for me, there's a whole 'ohmigod-how-will-we-ever-do-this' scared shitless aspect. i blame the ginormous tax bill and current job uncertainty... and, of course, my fun habit of overthinking.

regardless, it's exhausting.

i've been coping by reading like a fiend (finished "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" last week and started "The Sun Also Rises") and working out as much as my muscles will allow and taking solace in the fact that spring is just around the corner. everything feels better in the springtime...

mb

confession

once upon a time, i never told anyone my problems. not my family, not my friends. i didn't even write about them in my diary. there are lengthy gaps in my journals during the more trying times of my adolescence—when my mom was having brain surgery, for example. the most dramatic things i wrote about were meaningless misunderstandings with friends and how i would go about meeting Joe McIntyre so that he could fall in love with me.

then sometime during high school, i think, or maybe college, my dad told me that people like people with problems. not, you know, massive mental problems...just people who aren't perfect. by keeping my worries and fears and dilemmas to myself, i was apparently projecting an air of perfection (ha! if they only knew...) whereby making me less relatable.

so, somehow—i don't quite remember the process, or the moment when it all changed—i changed my ways. i opened up. it was great. a relief. and my friends, it turned out, had a lot of the same problems!

since then, i have probably blabbed too much about my issues. i probably don't keep enough to myself. but that's what friends are for, right? right.

lately i've been wondering if that's what blogs are for. a friend at work told me the other day that she started a blog, and i balked at the fact that she hadn't told me about it, since she reads mine. that's when she said it was anonymous and private—only people she personally invites can read it. she forwarded me links to various entries and i was sucked in and slightly jealous. she was free to write whatever she wanted about whoever she wanted because it was utterly anonymous. such freedom!

sometimes i get a little frustrated with this blog because on any given day, i can't write about what i most want to write about without betraying someone's trust. wait, that sounds worse than it should. i just mean that, due to the nature of this blog, i can't exactly treat it as a diary, type freely. which is probably a good thing, except that i have this compulsion to spill my guts sometimes. OK, most of the time.

but i can scratch that itch right now by confessing something i can barely acknowledge to myself.

that strawberry cake i made on Sunday? it's all gone.

and by "gone" i don't mean "vanished into thin air" or "got stolen from my kitchen." i mean, it went down the hatch, all of it, and its pink spongy goodness is—as i type this—arranging itself as unflatteringly as possible around my hips and tush.

this is what happened:

i worked out for a long time on Sunday morning and then didn't each much during the day, so when i went back for a second piece that night i told myself i earned it, it was fine, no guilt necessary. plus, it was making me happy. nauseous, but happy.

then Monday night, after eating a Lean Cuisine for dinner (hey, the economy, man), i had another piece of cake while watching Brothers & Sisters on DVR. it was such a damn good episode that i had to go back for a second piece (somehow, in my brain, this logic made total sense).

then, last night, after another Lean Cuisine for dinner, i cut myself a piece of cake for dessert. which left one piece left in the pan. i rationalized that i was expecting company for dinner Wednesday night and i couldn't very well have one piece of cake left for two people to share.

so, yeah. into the belly it went. and as i put the empty pan into the sink to soak i said, out loud, to myself, "it's only Tuesday." as in, i ate an entire cake between Sunday night and Tuesday night. i cringed and then laughed and then cringed.

(i also spent an extra twenty minutes at the gym this morning.)

so there. a deep, dark secret off my chest. thank god.

i don't think my dad realized how much i'd revel in being imperfect when we had that chat many years ago.

mb

TGIM

so i've had one of those weekends where i am actually relieved it's almost Monday. sick, yes, but true. it was just a humdinger, and not in the good way. but i am grateful for one thing: i know how to comfort myself. it's really an invaluable skill to have, if you ask me.

this is what i've done this weekend (in between the humdinger parts):

- got a $5 manicure
- watched "Notting Hill" (yeah, ok, not an excellent movie, but Hugh Grant... come on)
- baked a pound cake from scratch (therapeutic)
- made linguine with white clam sauce (my favorite meal ever)
- watched "Finding Neverland" (i cry every time)
- worked out, a lot (and temporarily lost my iPod at the gym, but a kind soul gave it to the lost & found)
- watched "About a Boy" (needed a bit more of Hugh)
- baked a Duncan Hines strawberry cake (which i haven't had since, seriously, probably my eighth birthday - the smell alone was like a security blanket)
- had a nice chat with my Gram
- got about 10 hours of sleep last night (sorely needed)
- watched "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" (one of the truest romantic movies ever)

all of that got me through, i feel calm and rested now - and, yeah, so ready to go back to work.

how bizarre.

mb