Results tagged "Arts and Entertainment"

When she’s so irresistible.. and I can’t stand myself. Running around. Where is my camera. I need a camera. SOMEONE TAKE OUR PICTURE. But we are alone. If I could only swing my arm around my body and then up high and balanced from the ceiling while looking through the viewfinder to make sure that I don’t snap a shot of my elbow instead of the cuteness that is now sleeping on my chest. While I balance carefully to capture the deliciousness of tranquility… and how I stop to wonder  — how fast can I share this moment with the world.

THIS JUST IN! Sharks are SCARY!

And no, this is not a picture of a shark. I know that, THANKS. This is a much smaller fish that turned a wee bit camera shy after some serious tank flirtations… I was all, hey fish what’s up and he was like — “Have you seen the new Bright Young Things Spring 2011 Collection… Fabulous.” I admitted that I had but that the ‘convertible wardrobe’ kind of made me feel like 80s vinyl in a Classic 50s… To which he flung his yellow spotted multifunctional Pashmina to the sand, looking me up and down… just bubbling with frustration as I continued to faux pas myself all over the aquarium floor…

Brody: That’s not funny. That’s not funny at all.

I continue to be impressed by Long Island. I mean really. I grew up looking at Long Island from the shores of Connecticut wondering about how such a small sliver of land out there — a sand bar if you will, was able to hold all of those mechanics, buttafuocos and pizza parlors… Not to mention the supply of hair spray — how could anyone breathe over there? It was always a curiosity for me… although not too intense.. you know, between etiquette classes, horseback riding and parlor teas… with my pinky finger held sky high. Right? Because THAT is how I grew up. NOT….okay, well maybe horseback riding – but I worked in the stable too, SO THERE.  But I wasn’t quite accurate, as I danced around to Billy’s Uptown Girl, thinking  — you just KNOW Cristie Brinkley loves Long Island. And here we are years (upon years and years, but who — WHO is really counting?) later that I find myself not only living on Long Island, but only a mere 5-10 miles from Ms. Brinkley herself… Who, damned if you don’t believe it, looks like she just walked out of a Cover Girl ad AT ALL TIMES, without trying. I can remember my (now) husband telling me that we were moving to Long Island, oh so many 9 years ago… I was excited, but seriously — also saw myself in a world among greasemonkeys (not that there’s anything wrong with that) and the lovely women from Goodfellas…“A lot of pantsuits and double knits…”

Come to pass and shall never a weary eye go without sleep (nice huh?) I came to my senses and live in an area of Long Island that is quite the opposite of what I expected. And, although, we do have our share of sketchball criminals that try to pull the wool over your eyes when given the chance… you have to appreciate that they are taking care in using the best, most expensive wool on the market… bought and paid for with the money stolen right out of your pocket… But that isn’t what this is about. In fact, I haven’t even begun to talk about what this is about, aside from constantly being surprised by Long Island — and the area in which we live and all the clean air and vineyards and organic farms… children’s museums, beaches… orchards, history… art… and yes… AQUARIUMS.

But I should be getting on now. This post has grown long, without purpose… and I’ve already lied. There is really only one Aquarium on Long Island– in Riverhead. And until today, I have avoided going to visit it with every fiber of my being…. for no good reason. But not today. Today we went. We went and enjoyed fish after glorious fish, walking down the incline as the water grew murkier and darker… into the realms of the deep water species that look somewhat disturbing and ominous… as my son’s grip on my hand grew tighter and tighter, we kept moving… until we reached the mouth of a cave with the theme song to Jaws BLARING from the darkness… Will was scared…(duhnuh duhnuh duhnuh) I was mildly curious as I insisted that we turn the corner… only catching a glimpse of the Great White in the tank as Will screamed, breaking away…. RUNNING while Yelling “WE HAVE TO LEAVE”… as we made our departure I thought, huh, well that was intense. Did I mention how impressed I am with Long Island?

Have you ever stood so close to Lucifer that you can sort of smell the cigarette ashes that are embedded in the decades old paint?

(detail)

I have…
Just before every alarm at the San Francisco Museum of Modern art went off sending hoards of armed guards to the painting’s rescue… and while they attempted to frisk me for razor blades and sharpies, I broke free and screamed SAVE ALL THE LOBSTERS… because I’m allergic, so why should anyone else get to eat them? But then I thought better of myself and made my way out of the situation by peeing on the floor and yelling obsceneties at onlookers… because that’s what Pollock would have done.

Jackson Pollock died today in 1956.

And, don’t get me wrong… I’m not sitting here holding a white candle pretending that he was a gift to us or anything… I didn’t really even know about it… Facebook told me. And then I slipped into another dimension where I have to wonder what Pollock would have thought about the internet and all of this social media nonsense… a remembrance of his untimely (but maybe not) passing. If he was as cool as I imagine him to have been… then no. He wouldn’t have cared… but then he would have had a fit had no one said anything. A mean, somewhat sexy and yet still gruesome and gruffy artist that drank and drank… He even held a disdain for the work he created, not really wanting to explain himself and therefore we only have the explanation of others.  Like a man that relies on everyone else to tie his shoes… but still thinks he’s better than you, and still, wishing that he hadn’t gone out that fateful night… Warped and twisted with all kinds of mental issues playing out…. And aside from the whole.. WHATEVER of Ed Harris and, like, totally inventing Abstract Expressionism (can you hear my gum smack?)…

Is it just me?
What was, and still is, IT about this guy?

I need to write about something. But where to start is kind of escaping me right now. I could write about the weather, which is undeniably boring. Or I could write about how the babysitter was an hour late… and called to see if she should bother showing up at all… and I was all like, UM, YEAH! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? Because it is and isn’t her fault that she’s 19 and therefore does not understand that although it isn’t her fault that she doesn’t have her own car… it still is her fault on every possible level. But now I just remembered that I several other things to do… so the rest of this post is going to have to wait. 

So what did you do today? Did you dance through the streets? Did you brandish the arms? Did you stand guard? Did you talk the talk and walk the walk? Did you?

What’s that? I know, what do I expect? You to have this lavishly preposterous Monday? Well, actually yes. I expect to live vicariously through the people that read this… so GET ON WITH IT. Hey hey… don’t get angry. I’m not pointing any fingers… wait, what? What did I do? Why, LET ME TELL YOU.

I kicked off the day with a typical morning conversation with the doctor’s office — Yes, although they faxed the prescription on April 6th, it was never received. Which is why I don’t have my brain pills.. otherwise tainted as vitamins. Oh no.. never received and I am in complete D deficiency. Call back and leave a message? Why, aren’t I talking to a real person now? Oh, because you only fax and email requests that are left on the voicemail? Am I getting this right? You do realize that you are talking to me right now and you have my file open right in front of your nose… you know this, right? Because IT MAKES PERFECT SENSE.

Then I drove to a local strip mall to have some proposals bound while I took my son to Starbucks. Yes. That’s right. INSANITY. But that’s NOT ALL. First I went to the grocery store and bought lettuce… because I just might have a SALAD. I know. MADNESS.

And then, just before the babysitter called suggesting that she wasn’t going to make it until she felt me tightening my grip on her ponytail — dragging her through the telephone, I thought about throwing in a load of laundry… but then I forgot and sat down to write this glimmer of sparkling genius instead. Now aren’t you happy about that? I mean, what would you have done if you hadn’t read this? All things aside and nonsense about living your life… right? I mean really. And now what? And now WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? I’m going to make dinner because it’s 5:10pm and THAT’S WHAT WE DO AT 5:10pm. And thank GAWD I got all of this out of the way! Because somewhere scattered throughout the fabulousness of this weather trenched day I also did about 3 hours of actual design work. Real work. For real money. Which has left me limp and hanging by a thread… and before you get all manic and curse the gods of MY FOOT WHEN WILL SHE STOP? I’m going. I hope you had a good day too.  

It might be the world’s largest work in progress…

So don’t hold your breath for too long.

(side note – if you missed part one go here.)

I realized on this second round of renovations that this project is rather spiritual.. and not just because of Miss Native American Dorian Grey either… The last time we paid it a visit was in January.. We decided on a whim to get started, drove really fast up to the Berkshires and attacked… And then left for just over 2 months — Thus giving the house a chance to get comfortable with itself before the next attack. I mean, it really isn’t unlike America’s Next Top Model when Tyra takes the almost-too-young beauty with long flowing blonde locks and chops and shaves her head into a mohawk… not holding back with the jet black hair dye. Only to have her confidence shattered until she realizes how much better she looks and blows the competition off the catwalk… so to speak. Because, yes. I am that deep. 

AND – you heard it here first people. These things take time. Paying attention to detail, stripping, sanding, spackeling, sanding again, wallpapering, priming, and eventually painting. So – while we move on with the rest of our daily lives, we anticipate that several more reDefines are in store… and we just wonder what we’ll find….

And what of Miss Grey? Well – we’ve decided to pull out the tiny brushes for a little restoration party because even though we are just as scared of her as she is of us… she should stay. If not because of the fear in her eyes that we will paint over her… but just for safety’s sake… we don’t want any bad blood with a possible good ol’ fashioned haunting now do we? Hmmm?

Last week I was out walking with my son and parents in my hometown. It wasn’t too cold and it was before the storm of the century — which just turned out to be a snow storm anyway… We walked over a familiar bridge that crosses over the local train line to Manhattan, and when we came to the top of the stairs to descend… it happened again. Dizzy, ears ringing… pull it together… you’ve stood in this same spot hundreds of times in your life… pull it in.. vision focused. Whew, panic attack averted… but for what?

A few years ago… wait, no – many years ago.. because, right? who am I kidding… We went to Bermuda in the off season. It was Marchish and the island was empty… with the exception of the locals–WHO HATED US. But being full of ourselves we were immune to noticing the discerning “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE NOW” glances. Blame it on ignorance – we were on vacation and dammit, that island was OURS.

One night we were strolling along looking for a nice restaurant when we found the perfect establishment… through the windows we could feel the vibe pulling us in… a tiny little hole in the wall bistro.. people were laughing, the food looked awesome… it was as if there was a vacuum sucking us off the street–we read the menu outside… FIVE STARS — And, open in March(ish). We entered… We entered only to be met by a woman that quickly escorted us out… “I couldn’t possibly seat you without a reservation”, as we eyed the many open tables.

Now. Mr. Sal did not care…  I, however, felt that if we didn’t eat at this restaurant before leaving the island that the island would have defeated us… and please bare with me because I swear this post is going somewhere…  Clearly, we were not from there. Clearly, we were Yankees stomping the English land. But clearly we were not traipsing about in matching “BERMUDA!” tee shirts. Several calls were made – no answer. Time was desperate as we were flying out in a day or two. I felt severely NOT at ease. Finally, a man answered… “They don’t take reservations because they are only open on a limited basis.” WHAT? Firstly, what is with the word “THEY” as I quickly reeled back with dominate rapport — the exact words the woman had tossed at us while showing us the curb. “What did she look like?” Oh — and my tone softened as I described her as if she were standing in front of me. “Okay, I will make an exception – how about dinner at 9pm”. SUCCESS.

That night, after a few cocktails, we floated down the cobbled street to what had been built up in my mind to be the most amazing eatery in the entire world… We entered… only to be greeted by the same woman glaring at us… “oh YOU“. “THE GUESTS of HONOR“. “We Saved our BEST Table for you!“… the sarcasm froze the room. Literally. The other diners stared… the wait staff froze mid-spoonage. Platisicized, we were lifted onto one of those music video conveyor belts and unwillingly displaced from the doorway to our table. “What CAN I GET YOU“… “Anything for YOU.”  We wanted to get up and run out of what had now become Mrs. Lovett’s pie shop on Fleet Street. But then… sigh… but then the chef appeared and explained that we had walked into a private party the evening before and that in her excitement, the owner — that was leasing the space from another proprietor, had breached an agreement by uttering the word “reservation”. That, in fact — the restaurant was opened just for us — hoping to fill the rest of the tables in the off-season month. DEFEAT.

The next day, having barely touched the food that we were sure had been laced with meth, we decided to do a bit of sight seeing… the air was crisp–sky bluer than blue. We climbed the lighthouse stairs to the small opening–Mr. Sal went straight out while I froze at the door. All I could see was the thinnest of thin wrought iron railing at about knees height… I envisioned myself falling… I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I pulled myself back inside and sat on the floor. Frozen. What was happening? I was not afraid of heights.

From that day forward I have had panic attacks at ranging heights… from the top of the stairs at the train station.. to cathedral ceilings… to mall escalators… to dunes. It had been only a few years before this experience that I enjoyed climbing numerous cathedral domes and leaned daringly over ledges while traveling in Europe… As I kid I freely leaped off cliffs into miniscule bodies of water… “Bowls” if you will. So, after evaluating and talking to the experts that seem to think that “vertigo” is a made up word that only pertains to the planet Mars… I have decided that I need to go back to Bermuda to apologize. Come full circle. Find the woman that I know is still damning me to this day… and explain the confusion. Lift her curse… This is the only way. 

In the North East, autumn is truly the commander of all seasons. A complete and total unpredictable monster of a season that holds beauty and gale force winds in it’s grip–only to release when one least expects. Complete and total wash-outs turned to reds, yellows, oranges against the bluest possible sky. And temperatures that require layers–Ts covered by fun big sweaters and scarves acting as jackets. And then there are the boots. A designer’s delight. Comfort food to singe the slight chill in the air and sleepy from Budhi’s warm rice wine… A reprieve before the cold.

Every few weeks or so we receive phone calls from the local Suffolk County Police Associations and/or Fire Department Organizations attempting to raise funds via telethon. I know this due to the glory of caller ID, and I keep continuing to answer because these are really good causes to support.. I would support, I really want to — Just TAKE MY MONEY–HERE, JUST TAKE IT!! When you support they send you a fun sticker that says “DO NOT PULL ME OVER”… it’s priceless. The only problem is that I can’t get four words into the conversation without having the MAN  – and it is always a man (never once has a woman called) on the other end of the line, discontinue the pitch. The conversation goes like this:

RING RING
Me: “Hello”
MAN: “Yeah, uh Hi, Ryan there?”
Me: “Yes”
MAN: “Is he available?”
Me: “I’m Ryan”

Now, the role of “MAN”, at this point, can take on different breeds of MAN depending on who the man actually is on the other line — The “I HATE YOU SO MUCH I’M GOING TO FIND YOU AND TELL YOU SOMEDAY – Man” hangs up on me, and I imagine him taking a huge drag from a Marlboro Red, blowing it out and swearing my existence up and down the curse-word dictionary. He then leans around to the guy in the next cubicle and goes on and on about me and what is wrong with women? Why can’t we just, at the very least, be civil to the telemarketers that are only trying to support the local PBA and Fire Departments. He then says “F-This”, gets up and goes to the vending machine. The other breed of MAN – The “I HATE YOU AND I AM GOING TO TELL YOU NOW ABOUT HOW MUCH I HATE YOU – Man” is the one that makes me look at the receiver in unbridled disbelief — making my ears burn for a second or two, mind you. He’s the one that talks back to me like I am actually messing with him — vs. telling the truth. “Oh Yeah–Ha Ha, FUNNY LADY!” click. Or in really aggressive tones–“I SAID IS HE AVAILABLE” or “PUT HIM ON THE PHONE”.

I know who I am–just who do they think they are? Now, clearly I am the one hanging up, cursing– Damning the MAN. Perhaps this is how I taught my son to say “Uh-Oh” every time the phone rings.

A delicate dance, I know.

But I have built up an immunity to these situations — on an almost daily basis someone nice and pleasant usually questions the name. A great deal of people have tried to convince me that I’m spelling it wrong — it should be Rhyann or Rhian — or at least something other than “Ryan”  — which inherently insinuates MALE!! WHAT AM I CRAZY? Damn you daytime soaps of the 80s. Then — some are just dolts, like the pizza guy (of course not you Budhi–the other guy–I love you Budhi, PS. bring me more Saki) that said it was “weird”… but how can I care about the correctors and idiots when I’m spending all my free time trying to get through to the Police and Firefighter funds?

Not really.

So – yes, my name is Ryan. It has been my entire life – and, aside from a very strange phase in grade school where I wanted to change it to Robyn (yes, with the “y”), Ryan will continue to be my name for the rest of MAN-kind and I quite like it actually. It has a memorable quality to it — while it isn’t completely out of the ordinary. I have met other fem-Ryans… went to school with them–I actually ran into another lady-Ryan while shopping at outlets IN MAINE (Ehhm, for another time). It is an elite club. It adds another piece to the puzzle, if you will – another layer on the non-allergenic but still fluffy cake. Another THING that I have to test the next caller with. And if you like this, tune in next week where I talk all about how my ATM card had my middle name “Louise” spelled LOUSIE on it for at least 5 years before I realized it. Always a good time.  

Well…
I didn’t get everything I needed done yesterday completed…
Rumor has it that the sun is coming…
My ears were burning with a feature on… Designing Moms…

But the real reason I am up is that I had a nightmare. Not a good start to the day… but this one was so realistic that it woke me out of slumber and led me here to the keyboard. A few months ago I was hired via email to design a logo. Not a stretch for me.. although this client seemed obscure and would only communicate via email due to traveling. I took the project, beyond my better judgement–seemed interesting and I had received payment. It wasn’t until the deposit check bounced and phone calls were made that I found out that the individual was actually 1) a former somewhat disgruntled client from about 3 years ago, that was 2) pretending to be someone else that 3) was trying to pay me with his former employer’s information on a bogus check and 4) was actually in East Hampton–emailing me from a fake name with a gmail account. Knowing all this, it was sugested that I go to the police and file a report… but I took another route and decided to forget about it… Obviously, this man is insanely deranged and disturbed on many levels… call it Designer Stalking? The Hamptons are a small community and I can do without the drama…

The problem is… Yesterday his name popped up in a Tweet invitation to a networking event from another associate… And he’s attending. Creeped out? Now what….. Hence the nightmare that haunted my early morning sleep. I won’t go into details on the dream because they are becoming foggy [thank goodness].

But why, Oh why do I attract these people?