The One With the WOW Moment

Do you ever have those nights when you can’t shut your thoughts off to sleep? Sometimes that happens to me with music. Last night I couldn’t shut the music off. I think it started with American Idol last night. I can’t bring myself to watch the early rounds of Idol. I am not a fan of public humiliation. Even these earlier rounds of elimination are a little painful. But last night in one of the promo films, Simon Cowell told one of the girls that she was a good singer, but in the whole song there was nothing that made him just say, “Wow!” I realized that is why I watch the show, too. I am wishing… hoping… for that wow moment. It didn’t happen last night on Idol. Then I went to bed, and my own music started playing on that relelentless stereo of my brain. I arranged and rearranged. I wrote new songs and then tossed them. I tried to turn the music off, or at least down low enough to sleep, but with not much success. I finally had to come down and have a go at the keyboard for a while.

In the course of making my Christmas CD, I had a few wow moments. Honestly, probably more than my fair share. The most vivid one in my memory happened the day before Halloween, less than two weeks before the CD had to be completed. We were performing a rescue mission on a song which I had mostly decided to give up. We worked most of the afternoon and finished the first two verses of the song. I was happy... it was really good. Maybe not wow, but really good. We took a break, and when we returned, the tracks were simply gone! I don’t know if I didn’t save them right, accidentally deleted them… I just don’t know. I felt so bad I wanted to cry, but the vocalist just rolled up sleeves and said, “Let’s just do it better this time, then.” And for the next four hours, that is what we did. It was so much better that when the music poured through my headphones, it was electrifying. I found myself lip-synching, as though I could pour my own energy into the voice, and strangely, I would hear the sound come out exactly how I wanted. It was such a high that even though we were completely starving, we let pizza grow cold for two hours rather than take a break, and even after the recording was finished, I couldn’t stop editing it until 2:00 in the morning because I just had to keep listening to it over and over. I couldn’t even wipe the silly smile off my face. The instrumentals weren’t perfect. The performance was not flawless. I can still pick out parts that ought to be fixed. But that didn’t stop it from being just… wow.

I guess that is what keeps me up at night, even though I am going to pay for that today, since I have to cater a dinner for 100 tonight, and so there is no rest. I guess I just can’t help sitting on the edge of my seat along with Simon, looking for that wow moment. Those times make everything worth it. When was your last wow moment?

The One With the Dead Ringer

I noticed that on Facebook everyone is saying it is “Doppelganger Week.” You are supposed to post a photo of the celebrity that everyone is always telling you you look like. Well, no one has ever told me I look like a celebrity. Nor am I self-aware enough to look at someone and think, “Wow, I look a lot like that person.” So I went to www.myheritage.com and clicked on Celebrities and Fun, and I uploaded a picture of myself. It runs what I hope is a very low-tech face recognition program, and then tells you the celebrities that you look the most like. You think,  oh, cool... maybe I will look like someone really pretty, right? Here is what I got. I am going to go hide, now.

The One Where Joe Took Back What Was His

Okay. So I wasn't going to post for a couple of days, because we are down in San Diego for Ethan's Marine Recruit graduation. Which, by the way, is pretty darned amazing. We saw him today, and it was crazy... it reminded me of what it was like welcoming home a son from a two-year mission. They don't look quite like you remember, and they don't sound quite the same. But this, after only three months. After seeing what they have put him through, the rapid transformation is understandable. But still kind of strange. I have some great photos, but I forgot my card reader. So the photos, and the post about the graduation, will wait until we get home. Meanwhile, here I am in a cool condo in Escondido, and I opened up my little blog, and saw that picture of Joe staring back at me. It occurred to me that there is a story that really needs to be told. Yes. The quintessential Joe story.

First of all, let me just say that Wendy went out and found herself a husband that was very much like our dad...many of his good qualities, and a few of the bad. Joe won't mind me saying that, because he love love loved my dad. He is generous to a fault, faithful, thrifty, brave, reverent... clean... oh wait. That is the boy scouts. Joe also came equipped with a bit of a temper. That has mellowed over the years that I have known him, but make no mistake: it is still in there... just in case he needs it.

As he did, one morning a few weeks ago. Last year his son's Specialized bike was stolen... right out of their garage. As the months went by, they knew they would never see the bike again. But one day... the most incredible thing happened. He was driving his 14-year-old daughter and her friend to school, looked out his window, and there it was! A boy riding that Specialized Hard Rock... right there in plain sight. Joe called the boy a bad name under his breath where no one could hear it, and then rolled down the window. "Hey! Where did you get that bike?" The boy stopped, looked at Joe for a moment, and then bold as brass: "I got it from you." And then he continued to ride along toward the school. Clearly the boy had no idea who he was messing with. (pardon the grammar)

Joe's blood began to boil. He drove alongside the boy all the way to the junior high school, calling out to him the whole way. "Hey, get off my bike." Getting angrier by the minute. "You better give me back that bike..." But the boy didn't even look his way. He just rode all the way to school, and went straight for the bike rack. Joe pulled in and got out of his car. "Are you going to give me back my bike?" The boy didn't even answer. He just parked the bike, and stepped back. Joe looked him squarely in the eye, and then marched over, hoisted the bike up and stowed it in his car. The boy stood, wide-eyed, for another moment, and then took off into the school.

Triumphant, Joe got back in the car and took off. "Can you believe the nerve of that kid?" he asked his daughter and her friend. "No," his daughter replied. Usually he is such a nice guy. "Wait. You know him?" Joe asked. "Well, yeah... don't you remember? He is from church. His mom got a divorce...?"

And then the light began to dawn. That wasn't his son's bike that was stolen. That was the bike that he fixed up and gave to the lady at church who had gotten divorced... for her 12-year-old son who didn't have a bike to ride to school. When Joe asked the boy where he got the bike, and he answered, "I got it from you," he was not being flippant... just entirely truthful. Yes. At this point in the story, let us pause. A minute of silence for what may be the Biggest Jerk Moment of All Time. Are you feeling it? Okay, let us continue.

Horrified, Joe had to call the boy's mother and explain his mistake. I would like to say there was a happy ending. Remember in "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas," the Grinch told Cindy Lou Who that he had to take the Christmas tree back to his workshop to fix it... because there was a light on one side that didn't light quite right? So maybe Joe tried that tack... "I was just picking it up to give it a tune-up for you, little fellow..." Yeah, that's the ticket... a tune-up.

So of course Joe returned the bike. He probably did tune it up. Here is how that day went for the boy: Poor kid went to his first class, still holding it all together. Someone asked him how he was... and the dam broke. He burst into tears, choking out the words, "Some big dude just jacked my bike!"

Yup. The big dude bike-jacker killer-of-young-boys'-dreams... that is my brother-in-law. I love that guy. And I'm feeling his pain. Because at one point or another we all make the mistake that makes us feel like a complete heel. And I have to admit, as Joe told me about it, we laughed until we cried. Because what else can you do? Just cry?

The One With the Kitty Backpack

Yesterday one of those little weasel kindergartners stole Skippy’s Lightning McQueen backpack. He came out at the end of class and it wasn’t hanging on the hook. What is up with that? He told me that every bad thing happened to him today. He got pushed down, and scraped, and had no snack. I believe him. Kindergarten is brutal. I made a strategic error when I was volunteering in the classroom a few weeks ago. I was minding my own business, helping five kids at a tiny table to assemble paper reindeer. I gradually became aware of a conversation between two of them. The little girl was explaining how she doesn’t like nicknames and the little boy was slinging them at her, one after another, each one making her more upset than the last. Now, this is not my first time in kindergarten, so you would think I would have been smart enough to stay out of an argument that had nothing to do with me. But no. I had to be a hero. I have no idea how I was so foolish as to let this come out of my mouth, but I confessed that DK calls me Cupcake, and that sometimes I don’t like it.

I really put myself out there, emotionally speaking, and that little brat took advantage and would not stop calling me Cupcake! It was getting embarrassing, and I was worried that the kindergarten teachers were going to hear. So I did the only thing I could do. I sat down in the tiny little chair next to him and hissed at him in my meanest grown-up voice, “If you don’t stop calling me Cupcake, I’m going to tell on you. Do you understand me?” Poor Skippy. It is a tot-eat-tot world.

Skip narrowly avoided public humiliation this morning. Ethan and DK got him off to school. With his backpack gone, they were looking for a pack for him to tote to school. Hanging on the closet door was the kitty backpack. He got it for Christmas last year. It is literally a cat, with straps. It is like wearable roadkill. But he is five. He doesn’t really know any better. I guess it all comes down to one thing: Who’s your friend?

It is why I usually can’t watch much of the initial American Idol shows. I have a very low tolerance for seeing people embarrass themselves in public. Every year I can’t help but ask myself, when some sweet, tone-deaf guy from Idaho gets up and butchers yet another Stevie Wonder song: Doesn’t he have a single friend in the world? No one who will take him aside and tell him, look, Dougie, you’re a nice guy. You have a lot of great qualities. You do that awesome armpit puppet thing. You play a mean game of chess. Your knock-knock jokes are seriously...well, you know. But Dougie, I am your friend, so I am going to tell you what no one else will. Here it is: You can’t sing. You couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. I know when we have office karaoke, everyone tells you how great you are. They are either tone-deaf or cruel. Or both. Don’t do it, Dougie. Save your money for that Star Trek Convention you’ve had your eye on. And whatever you do, don’t wear the kitty backpack in public!