As you may recall, my husband has a penchant for regarding me as a stripper. This came to the fore yet again at a recent trip to Kohl's.
Many do not know this, but I actually do my best clothes shopping when Eamon is along. He makes me try on things I would never try on, and encourages me to express my inner 16-year-old, with often surprisingly successful results.
The down side is that occasionally, for Eamon, libido overrides both taste and common sense as he attempts to squeeze me into some truly unfortunate and inappropriate outfits. Thus it was as he handed me a striped halter top, asking, "How brave are you feeling?"
Well, I was feeling fairly brave, so I assented, returned to the fitting room, and strapped myself in. Friends, it was a sight to behold. I am not small-busted; colorful horizontal stripes across my rather ample endowment did nothing to minimize the effect. And then there was the deep front plunge, held up by only the tightest of knots secured around my neck.
In a word, I looked like a hoochie.
Bravely, I left the fitting room, caught Eamon's eye, and announced to all the world that I was a hoochy mama. He gave the top an appraising glance through squinted eyes. For a moment, there was a glimmer of hope on his face -- as if to say, maybe, just maybe I could be convinced to wear this outfit into society. But then he faced reality.
"No," he admitted, "that really is too hoochie."
A clerk, strolling by, opined, "Well, maybe ... " Then her face fell. "No, I guess not."
I know hoochie when I see it.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Friday, April 21, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #66: The part where Eamon alarms me over IM
Sometimes, instant messenger is not such a good thing:
kay: oh dear god:
kay: 'LESTAT' Opens Tuesday. Elton John and Bernie Taupin have a good track record for making pop hits, but can they find success in the cursed genre of the vampire musical?
eamondaly: oh sweet hominy.
kay: what???
eamon: oh, i say that now.
eamon: i'm trying to vary my ejaculations.
Crazy Crap Item #65: The part where I learn something new about Broadway
From the New York Times:
'LESTAT' Opens Tuesday. Elton John and Bernie Taupin have a good track record for making pop hits, but can they find success in the cursed genre of the vampire musical?
So, the 'vampire musical' is an established genre. Who knew?
'LESTAT' Opens Tuesday. Elton John and Bernie Taupin have a good track record for making pop hits, but can they find success in the cursed genre of the vampire musical?
So, the 'vampire musical' is an established genre. Who knew?
Monday, April 17, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #64: The part where I reckon with the awesome power of a 14-year-old girl's obsession with doomed love
This Easter, Eamon and I spent a lovely long weekend in the sylvan setting of the Daly estate -- this being the fabulous house Eamon's folks built in Fox Lake. It's on a lake, surrounded by foliage, wildlife, and so forth. Quite stunning.
Eamon was tending to the computer duties (upgrading his folks' computer's operating system), so I had a bit of time to myself. And Eamon's mother has a beautiful baby grand piano, set just in front of an expansive window overlooking the lake. So clearly, I had to try to play.
Dear friends, I am no piano whiz bang. I played a little piano from age 11 to age 15. The journey started at the local parks rec with a program involving lots of chords, and ended when I discovered my piano teacher also taught voice. I've barely sat down to the keyboard since, except to run vocal scales, prepare for musical theater auditions, and butcher the opening of "Under the Bamboo Tree" in a student production of Meet Me In St. Louis at Northwestern University.
Still, I like to try to plink out a tune or two every now and again, and it's always fun to see what riffs stick in my head, and what chords are utterly outside of my realm of recollection. Luckily, Eamon's mother, Helena, has a whole library of music books -- including lots of showtunes -- and more than a few are familiar to me. There are even some that were -- gasp! -- once part of my repertoire.
So as you can imagine, it was quite a little trip down memory lane to tinkle the ivories this past weekend. And it was nice to see that when my pathetic sightreading skills totally failed me -- which was frequently -- I still remembered my chords well enough to lean heavily on the accompanying notation to improvise the left hand. Using this dubious method, I plowed through "Edelweiss," "Try to remember," "Someone to Watch Over Me," and other such goodies.
And then a wondrous thing happened. I picked up "Maria" from West Side Story. And played through it, surprisingly well. And then "Somewhere." And then "One Hand, One Heart." I can't claim they were perfect, but they were oddly polished.
The reason?
Dear friends, I was once a 14-year-old girl. And like any 14-year-old girl, I knew that only I could understand the unbearable, unimaginable pain of perfect love thwarted. Playing these songs wasn't practice. It was like a holy act of worship. A deep expression of all that was profoundly meaningful.
And friends, when you've touched the very meaning of the human soul, you don't need chord charts. Not even 25 years later.
Eamon was tending to the computer duties (upgrading his folks' computer's operating system), so I had a bit of time to myself. And Eamon's mother has a beautiful baby grand piano, set just in front of an expansive window overlooking the lake. So clearly, I had to try to play.
Dear friends, I am no piano whiz bang. I played a little piano from age 11 to age 15. The journey started at the local parks rec with a program involving lots of chords, and ended when I discovered my piano teacher also taught voice. I've barely sat down to the keyboard since, except to run vocal scales, prepare for musical theater auditions, and butcher the opening of "Under the Bamboo Tree" in a student production of Meet Me In St. Louis at Northwestern University.
Still, I like to try to plink out a tune or two every now and again, and it's always fun to see what riffs stick in my head, and what chords are utterly outside of my realm of recollection. Luckily, Eamon's mother, Helena, has a whole library of music books -- including lots of showtunes -- and more than a few are familiar to me. There are even some that were -- gasp! -- once part of my repertoire.
So as you can imagine, it was quite a little trip down memory lane to tinkle the ivories this past weekend. And it was nice to see that when my pathetic sightreading skills totally failed me -- which was frequently -- I still remembered my chords well enough to lean heavily on the accompanying notation to improvise the left hand. Using this dubious method, I plowed through "Edelweiss," "Try to remember," "Someone to Watch Over Me," and other such goodies.
And then a wondrous thing happened. I picked up "Maria" from West Side Story. And played through it, surprisingly well. And then "Somewhere." And then "One Hand, One Heart." I can't claim they were perfect, but they were oddly polished.
The reason?
Dear friends, I was once a 14-year-old girl. And like any 14-year-old girl, I knew that only I could understand the unbearable, unimaginable pain of perfect love thwarted. Playing these songs wasn't practice. It was like a holy act of worship. A deep expression of all that was profoundly meaningful.
And friends, when you've touched the very meaning of the human soul, you don't need chord charts. Not even 25 years later.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #63: The part where I play the pedant
I've decided I'm the only person in the world who knows the difference between "review" and "revue."
I'm just sayin', is all.
I'm just sayin', is all.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #62: The part where I am once again mistaken for a bleach-blond rightie
So today, after long delay, I have opened my mail. Mind you, I generally attend to bills, paychecks, and anything that looks interesting immediately. It’s all the rest of the crap that goes into the ‘I’ll see to that later’ pile.
Included in this pile was an envelope with the return address of “Vision America.” Naturally, I assumed it was some sort of two-for-one eyeglass deal, and since I am as blind as the day is long, I filed it away to squint at later.
Later is today, and what do I discover but that “Vision America” is no such LensCrafter knock-off, but instead an organization bearing the tagline “Restoring the Original American Vision”!
First off, speaking as the writer of many a tagline, I must say, this is simply shoddy copywriting. The first rule of tagline writing is that you don’t have many words, so you make every one count. And, I think it can safely be said that REPEATING EVERY WORD OF THE NAME OF THE ORGANIZATION WITHIN THE TAGLINE is not good use of copywriting real-estate.
But honestly, upon opening the letter, that was not the first thing I noticed. It was the following phrases within in the letter which really caught my eye:
“Christianity is under assault in America”
“War on Christians and Values Conference”
Hmm, thought I. This may not be an eyeglass brochure after all.
A glance at the organization’s board of directors confirmed this notion. Last time I checked, Jerry Falwell is not an optometrist.
And here, dear friends, is the letter in toto:
Dear Kay,
Thank you for investing your time and gifts in advancing our message that Christianity is under assault in America, at our recent “War on Christians and Values Voters Conference.” I know that among your most precious possessions are your time and reputation, and last week you contributed both to the work of Vision America. I am grateful beyond measure and offer mine to any causes you advance in return.
My wife and I were in a hotel room late Friday night in Houston, where I spoke over the weekend. We were channel surfing and we saw Bill Maher in front of a picture of Omni Shoreham. That caused us to pause for a moment, and sure enough, he was ridiculing our conference. In the course of his remarks, he ended with a passionate plea for some true persecution of folks like you and me. We turned it off and praised God that we were worthy of being hated by the likes of Bill Maher. Maher, while denying and ridiculing the assertion that Christianity is under attack, was attacking Christianity.
We who love this country and understand the real nature of the culture war have much to do. I am thankful for the privilege of standing in your shadow and find joy in praying for your continuing success. When the CD’s are completed we will send you a copy of your presentation. If you would like a whole set, let us know.
For many of you, there is no mystery in this missive. I’ve long since established the existence of my alter ego. Once again I have been mistaken for a bleach-blond Coulter in training. Sad, but apparently unavoidable.
There's nothing so totally remarkable about the missive -- except that "Vision America" seems to invite guests to speak without collecting accurate contact information, which strikes me as sloppy, at the very least.
Mayhap I should add a tagline of my own to my professional website:
"Not that Kay Daly, I'm the sane one"
Included in this pile was an envelope with the return address of “Vision America.” Naturally, I assumed it was some sort of two-for-one eyeglass deal, and since I am as blind as the day is long, I filed it away to squint at later.
Later is today, and what do I discover but that “Vision America” is no such LensCrafter knock-off, but instead an organization bearing the tagline “Restoring the Original American Vision”!
First off, speaking as the writer of many a tagline, I must say, this is simply shoddy copywriting. The first rule of tagline writing is that you don’t have many words, so you make every one count. And, I think it can safely be said that REPEATING EVERY WORD OF THE NAME OF THE ORGANIZATION WITHIN THE TAGLINE is not good use of copywriting real-estate.
But honestly, upon opening the letter, that was not the first thing I noticed. It was the following phrases within in the letter which really caught my eye:
“Christianity is under assault in America”
“War on Christians and Values Conference”
Hmm, thought I. This may not be an eyeglass brochure after all.
A glance at the organization’s board of directors confirmed this notion. Last time I checked, Jerry Falwell is not an optometrist.
And here, dear friends, is the letter in toto:
Dear Kay,
Thank you for investing your time and gifts in advancing our message that Christianity is under assault in America, at our recent “War on Christians and Values Voters Conference.” I know that among your most precious possessions are your time and reputation, and last week you contributed both to the work of Vision America. I am grateful beyond measure and offer mine to any causes you advance in return.
My wife and I were in a hotel room late Friday night in Houston, where I spoke over the weekend. We were channel surfing and we saw Bill Maher in front of a picture of Omni Shoreham. That caused us to pause for a moment, and sure enough, he was ridiculing our conference. In the course of his remarks, he ended with a passionate plea for some true persecution of folks like you and me. We turned it off and praised God that we were worthy of being hated by the likes of Bill Maher. Maher, while denying and ridiculing the assertion that Christianity is under attack, was attacking Christianity.
We who love this country and understand the real nature of the culture war have much to do. I am thankful for the privilege of standing in your shadow and find joy in praying for your continuing success. When the CD’s are completed we will send you a copy of your presentation. If you would like a whole set, let us know.
For many of you, there is no mystery in this missive. I’ve long since established the existence of my alter ego. Once again I have been mistaken for a bleach-blond Coulter in training. Sad, but apparently unavoidable.
There's nothing so totally remarkable about the missive -- except that "Vision America" seems to invite guests to speak without collecting accurate contact information, which strikes me as sloppy, at the very least.
Mayhap I should add a tagline of my own to my professional website:
"Not that Kay Daly, I'm the sane one"
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #61: The part where I see the first robin of spring, Norwood Street style
Norwood Street is a nice place to live. We have traditions. Block parties. Neighborhood get-togethers. An honest-to-goodness Easter Egg hunt. Seriously.
But to my mind, no neighborhood tradition is as treasured as the yearly appearance of that harbinger of spring, Delores McDermott.
Delores lives across the street from us. She's 80-something, and has lived here for something like 125 years. Of her activities, I'm aware mainly of two: (1.) Delores sitting in her front window, watching the world go by; (2.) Delores sitting in her folding chair in her driveway, watching the world go by.
Eamon and I delight in Delores' neighborhood vigil, as we like to call it. She sits there, awash in a sense of serene benignity, making sure everything is alright on Norwood Street. As a result of her vigilence, we're kept abreast of all the important doings of our bustling street. For example, it was Delores who solved the mystery of the missing pumpkins.
Rumor has it, in years gone by, her folding chair vigil was shared with the former occupant of our home, Mrs. O'Malley, familiarly known as "Babe." In fine weather, she and Babe would meet for a vigil-a-deux; one day in Delores' driveway; the next on Babe's front lawn. Between them: a bucket of beers.
Those days are gone, but Delores keeps up her vigil solo. Which is why I was so pleased today to look out my office window and see Delores standing in her driveway, inspecting an army of nursery school students as the tottered up our cross street from the park to St. Gert's, our local Catholic church. Hands on hips, unsmilingly attentive. It's still too cold to set out the lawnchair, but I see this initial foray to the driveway as a harbinger of warmer days when Delores will sit in state once again.
But to my mind, no neighborhood tradition is as treasured as the yearly appearance of that harbinger of spring, Delores McDermott.
Delores lives across the street from us. She's 80-something, and has lived here for something like 125 years. Of her activities, I'm aware mainly of two: (1.) Delores sitting in her front window, watching the world go by; (2.) Delores sitting in her folding chair in her driveway, watching the world go by.
Eamon and I delight in Delores' neighborhood vigil, as we like to call it. She sits there, awash in a sense of serene benignity, making sure everything is alright on Norwood Street. As a result of her vigilence, we're kept abreast of all the important doings of our bustling street. For example, it was Delores who solved the mystery of the missing pumpkins.
Rumor has it, in years gone by, her folding chair vigil was shared with the former occupant of our home, Mrs. O'Malley, familiarly known as "Babe." In fine weather, she and Babe would meet for a vigil-a-deux; one day in Delores' driveway; the next on Babe's front lawn. Between them: a bucket of beers.
Those days are gone, but Delores keeps up her vigil solo. Which is why I was so pleased today to look out my office window and see Delores standing in her driveway, inspecting an army of nursery school students as the tottered up our cross street from the park to St. Gert's, our local Catholic church. Hands on hips, unsmilingly attentive. It's still too cold to set out the lawnchair, but I see this initial foray to the driveway as a harbinger of warmer days when Delores will sit in state once again.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #60: The part where I actually hear good vision
If you haven't already, be sure to go to this site to hear the fantastic Glaucoma hymn. Just go there, and make sure your sound is on. That is all.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #59: The part where I break the bank, Kay-style
Dear friends, I am not a fashion plate. I have gone through phases in my life where nearly every article of clothing I owned was either purchased from a thrift store or given to me aS hand-me-downs. I've worn '80s tunics in the mid-'90s, and still own Tshirts that advertise musicals I appeared in when I was a newly minted college graduate. I've treasured outfits that would only remain on my body if they were safety-pinned into place.
But every now and again, I feel like stylin'. Old-school stylin'. And thanks to "What Not To Wear," I've developed a new mantra: If the outfit looks bad, it's the outfit's fault. Which has done wonders to change my habitual hatred of cramped dressingrooms and 3-way mirrors.
So that's what happened this weekend. Most unaccountably, I wanted to try on clothes. I wanted to hear the static crackle in my hair as I pull yet one more knit top over my head. I wanted to give a pair of open-toed sandals a tryout as I perused the purses.
And I did.
Which leads to today's riddle:
How much shit can you get for $300 at TJ Maxx and Kohl's?
Answer: A whole lotta shit. And I did.
But every now and again, I feel like stylin'. Old-school stylin'. And thanks to "What Not To Wear," I've developed a new mantra: If the outfit looks bad, it's the outfit's fault. Which has done wonders to change my habitual hatred of cramped dressingrooms and 3-way mirrors.
So that's what happened this weekend. Most unaccountably, I wanted to try on clothes. I wanted to hear the static crackle in my hair as I pull yet one more knit top over my head. I wanted to give a pair of open-toed sandals a tryout as I perused the purses.
And I did.
Which leads to today's riddle:
How much shit can you get for $300 at TJ Maxx and Kohl's?
Answer: A whole lotta shit. And I did.
Crazy Crap Item #58: The part where Carol Burnett disses me
Ok, so I had a very strange dream last night. I dreamt that I had been in a performance of the musical, Once Upon a Mattress, a fairly dreary little show based on the fairy tale "The Princess and the Pea." I played the lead role, Winifred, a role originated by Carol Burnett on Broadway. Winifred, also known as 'Fred' is a rather ballsy, slapstick comedien with a big belt voice. I really don't fit the role, and have never wanted to play her.
Anyhoo, in my dream, my dear friend Michael Shattner informed me that he heard that Carol Burnett had seen my production, and had declared that my scene work was the worst she'd ever seen come out of Yale Theater School.
This distressed me throughout the dream and into my waking hours, until I finally realized that NONE OF IT MADE ANY SENSE.
Oh, how I loved waking up.
Anyhoo, in my dream, my dear friend Michael Shattner informed me that he heard that Carol Burnett had seen my production, and had declared that my scene work was the worst she'd ever seen come out of Yale Theater School.
This distressed me throughout the dream and into my waking hours, until I finally realized that NONE OF IT MADE ANY SENSE.
Oh, how I loved waking up.
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