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August 31st, 2010
I’ve been reading and thinking a lot lately about what we eat and, more importantly, why we eat what we eat. In Mark Sisson’s The Primal Blueprint, he postulates that humans did not evolve to digest and metabolize grains effectively, and this leads to insulin resistance, weight gain, fatigue, lowered immunity, etc. In other words, it makes you fat and miserable. But conventional wisdom tells us that we simply must eat grains – bread, rice, cereal, granola, oatmeal, corn (yes, it’s a grain!) and all that other carb-y goodness.
But I started wondering: Could I be healthy without eating grains?
A few years ago, I went on a low-carb diet at the same time I was practicing yoga five days a week for at least an hour a day (I never half-ass anything). And not only was I fine as HELL, I felt terrific. I was going to school full-time, working and maintaining a pretty healthy social life, but I had plenty of energy and remained relatively stress-free (that part was probably due more to the yoga than my diet, but still). I also remember that I rarely got sick during that time period. All in all, life was good.
(Also, I was very bendy.)
But everyone kept telling me that I MUST. EAT. GRAINS! You need the carbs for energy! You need fiber! You need the nutrients! I believed them, so I started eating carbs again and gained back all the weight plus some. Clearly, “everyone” is a bunch of stone-cold geniuses.
Now before you start accusing me of subsisting on Wonder Bread and cupcakes, get a load of THIS: I remember eating a sandwich at a friend’s house when I was little. When my mom came to pick me up, I thanked her mother for the delicious lunch (GOOD MANNERS: I HAZ THEM), but when I got in the car, I started yelling to my mom, “Mama, it was SO GROSS! The bread was all smushy and squishy and it stuck to the roof of my mouth and it was HORRIBLE! What was WRONG with it, Mama?! I think her bread was ROTTEN!” My mom laughed all the way home, because her dumbass daughter was probably the only school-aged kid in America who’d never eaten a piece of white sandwich bread.
I love my cupcakes SO MUCH (as well as all other desserts, for that matter), but the foods that turn my dials up to 11 are, for the most part, savory, rich, creamy dishes and vegetables: nuts (and all nut butters), steak, artichokes, cheese, seafood, brussels sprouts, butter, avocados, asparagus, organ meats (shut up), spinach…just typing this list makes my mouth water. I also love fruits – ALL fruits, but especially berries. I can eat a pint of blackberries in a single sitting, and my mom can’t keep a cantaloupe in the house.
I don’t hate bread and pasta, but overall, they’re merely holders for the stuff I REALLY like – pizza toppings and my mom’s meat sauce, to name two. Lasagna is good every once in a while, but again, it’s mostly the cheese and meat that I crave.
The single exception here is Asian food. I could eat Thai food all day every day for the rest of my life and die a happy woman. And I turn my nose up at rice UNLESS it’s part of a sushi roll.
But Mark Sisson (and a lot of other experts) say you can achieve optimum health by cutting out grains 80 percent of the time. Which means that 20 percent of the time, I can eat pad thai and sushi. Huh.
So do I really NEED to eat grains?
I decided to find out.
Last week, without doing any preparation, I woke up one morning and decided to try to eat very few carbs that day. It was surprisingly easy. I haven’t kept a food journal or anything, but I remember scrambled eggs with sauteed spinach and cheese, berries and cottage cheese, plain yogurt with a teaspoon of honey, some other fruit, nuts, green beans and turkey tenderloin. And unlike every other day of my life, I didn’t feel guilty about anything I ate, and I didn’t go to bed hungry. I decided to do it again the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
And here I am a week later, five pounds lighter and with 10 times more energy.
Am I trying to recruit you into the Low Carb Revolution? No. Why? Because I hate preachy douchebag know-it-alls. Also because I think it’s a highly individual lifestyle decision. Some people eat grains and tolerate them just fine. Their weight stays in check, their metabolisms function efficiently, and they’re otherwise very healthy. Others don’t tolerate grains as well but can’t imagine life without them – some of my meat-and-potatoes friends fall into this category. They’re not big vegetable- or fruit-eaters, and they probably DO need grains for carbs, fiber and other nutrients. Still others exercise enough that they can eat anything they want and it doesn’t matter, because they’re going to burn it off anyway.
I now believe that I’m a person who doesn’t tolerate grains well. And while I love to exercise, I hate the mentality (self-imposed) that I HAVE to exercise every single day until I barf just so I won’t be fat. Talk about sucking all the joy out of physical activity. Fortunately, my diet is varied enough that I can get everything I need from meat, seafood, vegetables and fruit. And 20 percent of the time, I can go to Danh’s Garden, pig out on pad thai and tom kha and feel perfectly OK about that.
I just got tired of battling the same 10 to 15 pounds. I got tired of watching my middle expand no matter how many crunches I did. I got tired of dreading exercise. I got tired of getting sick easily. I got tired of always being tired.
So I did something about it.
And I think that’s very Bachelor Girl indeed.
Your primal
Kel
August 24th, 2010
Chihuahua and The Guy do not get along.
To be more accurate, I should say that Chihuahua hates The Guy’s guts and wishes he would leave. And in Chihuahua vocabulary, leave = die.
A List of Chihuahua’s Recent Transgressions:
1. Peeing on his bed.
2. Barfing on his pillow.
3. Farting on his pillow.
4. Biting him when he dares to suggest that perhaps she should go defile somebody else’s pillow.
5. Scattering chunks of Beneful for Fat Dogs (TM) all over his kitchen.
6. Trying (sometimes successfully) to steal his food.
7. Scratching a hole in the back cushion of his chair.
8. Wetting his floor (copiously).
9. Pooping in the doorway of his bedroom so he’ll be sure to step in it with his bare feet.
10. Chewing his underwear.
11. Attacking him when he comes near me (that one’s a real romance-enhancer, let me tell you).
Clearly, she’s doing little to endear herself to her future adoptive father.
Chihuahua doesn’t work and play well with others, never has. Her relationship with my father (her grandfather) was almost this contentious. He wrote poems about it, people. But one day, he finally laid down the law: Either Chihuahua learned to toe the line, or my dad would treat her like any other rat.
To my knowledge, the last time my father did battle with a rat was in about 1999, when my parents were living in suburban Atlanta. One night, after they’d gotten ready for bed, my mother walked into the kitchen and saw a rather large rat scaling the outside of the breakfast room window. My dad says she swooned; my mother vehemently denies this. Anyway, my dad, cowboy that he is, resorted to his usual solution to intruders, be they animal or human – one of his many guns.
He was OUTSIDE.
In the SUBURBS.
Of ATLANTA.
SHOOTING at a RAT.
IN HIS UNDERWEAR.
(And we wonder why we never get invited to the neighborhood block party.)
Needless to say, after considering her options, Chihuahua decided she might be better off if she simply avoided my father altogether. She doesn’t pee on his rug, and he doesn’t shoot her. It’s not exactly warm and fuzzy, but Chihuahua lives to fight another day, and Dad and I are still on speaking terms.
It doesn’t matter one whit to Chihuahua that The Guy treats her like a queen; from her point of view, he is an interloper determined to take her rightful place as my life partner, and she is having NONE OF IT.
“BALD MAN THINK HE BETTER THAN CHIHUAHUA,” she says. “WHO BALD MAN THINK HE IS. HE NEVER WANT WATCH LAW & ORDER, ATE HOTDOG AND NOT GIVE CHIHUAHUA ONE BITE. CHIHUAHUA POOP ON BALD MAN HEAD WHEN CHIHUAHUA GET CHIHUAHUA CHANCE. CHIHUAHUA USE CHIHUAHUA TEETH, TEAR OUT JUGULAR IN SLEEP. AUNT CAROL READ TO CHIHUAHUA, LET WATCH CHIHUAHUA TENNIS. NANA GIVE CHIHUAHUA ICE CREAM EVERY NIGHT, FEED CHIHUAHUA FRENCH FRIES EVERY DAY. CHIHUAHUA WANT LIVE WITH CHIHUAHUA NANA FOREVER.”
Much as she loves them, though, Chihuahua’s mother does NOT want to live with her parents and aunt Carol forever, so we have to find a way to make this work.
(Single for all these years, and what’s the biggest impediment to my successful marriage so far? My spoiled-rotten rat dog, that’s what.)
Fortunately, though, my mom (as usual) found a potential solution. She read some advice column somewhere about a woman whose cats hate her boyfriend. The article said the boyfriend should do two things:
1. Completely ignore the cats unless they initiate contact.
2. Become the primary feeder of the cats.
It said the cats see him as a threat somethingsomethingsomething leader of the pack (I wasn’t really listening). Anyway, we’re giving it a shot with Chihuahua. She’s very cat-like in some respects, so it’s bound to work, right?
As I see it, there are two possible outcomes:
1. Chihuahua and The Guy start getting along (i.e., no more soiling his pillow).
2. We end up having to call The Dog Whisperer. God only knows how much THAT will cost.
I just can’t believe it. Chihuahua’s never been a good citizen (just ask my friends who regularly come over for Sunday dinner, and they’ll be happy to show you their bleeding eardrums), but I never thought that once I’d found the love of my life, she’d take this opportunity to start acting like Little Edie Beale.
Chihuahua say, “CHIHUAHUA NEVER LIKE BALD MAN UNLESS HE COOK HOTDOG FOR CHIHUAHUA EVERY DAY AND BUILD CHIHUAHUA DOGHOUSE WITH AIR CONDITIONER AND MAID, MOTHER DARLING.”
I’m at a loss, y’all. Has anybody else ever dealt with this ridiculous problem? Am I going to end up one of those people who feeds her dog Prozac in wadded-up pieces of cheese every day?
Your confounded
Kel
August 23rd, 2010
–Ernest Hemingway
That was my friend Casey’s Facebook status last week, to which I responded, “HEY!”
I’m the theatre critic for the Shreveport Times, and while I’ve given one or two harsh reviews during my tenure, I have yet to shoot anyone.
(Nor do I expect to.)
(Just saying.)
(In describing my wedding trousseau to my very patient friend Erik, I said, “I want to look like…I want it to look like…like what a theatre critic would wear to get married!” He stared at me for a minute, then said matter-of-factly, “I’m picturing a suit.” “A suit? Why a suit?” “Because most of you are men,” he answered.)
(Enough with the parentheticals.)
I reviewed a musical Friday night, in fact, and to my delight, it was a sold-out show. Don’t misunderstand – I don’t think the number of tickets sold in advance is necessarily an indication of a production’s merit; I’m just happy that enough people to fill East Bank Theatre actually wanted to go see a show.
That’s probably the number-one reason I sought this job in the first place. Sure, I have definite ideas about what constitutes good theatre, and I’m not afraid to voice my opinions publicly, which is probably the top requirement for being a theatre critic. As you can imagine, it’s not a job that makes one very popular, especially in an area the size of Shreveport-Bossier.
But more importantly, I want to do everything I can to promote the arts locally. And if the price for that is a few malcontents taking potshots at me in the comments of my reviews, then I guess that’s just the price I have to pay.
(Thankfully, that has only happened a couple of times.)
(I said I was going to stop this, didn’t I?)
When I talk to my non-theatre-going friends, though, they give a litany of reasons for not seeing more shows: 1) It’s expensive. 2) I’d have to dress up. 3) Plays are boring. 4) I don’t like it when people randomly burst into song. 5) Only society snobs go to The Theatah. 6) I don’t have time. 7) I wouldn’t know how to act. 9) I can’t take my kids.
1) Community theatre productions barely cost more than movies nowadays. 2) Generally speaking, you don’t have to dress up any more than you would for work or church. 3) Some plays are boring, yes, but not all of them are – don’t forget, many movies (e.g., Closer, A Few Good Men, Steel Magnolias) were originally plays. 4) I’d hate it too if some fat, middle-aged banker started belting “Lovely Ladies” while waiting in the checkout line at the Piggly Wiggly, but it’s a little different when you’re sitting in an auditorium. 5) If only society snobs went to The Theatah, they wouldn’t let me in the parking lot. 6) If you have time to watch a Real Housewives of Toledo marathon, then you have time to see a show. 7) You don’t HAVE to act. That’s what you’re paying to watch them do. 9) And no, I wouldn’t recommend taking your kids to see Bent, but there are a good many children’s theatre productions that highly entertaining for adults and stimulating enough to keep your toddler from melting down and eating his ticket.
All of that aside, there’s just no substitute for the intimacy of theatre. The actors on on stage in front of you; you can hear them breathe and see them sweat. They only get one shot – if they mess up, nobody yells “Cut!” and they don’t get another take. Simply, the stakes are higher, and that makes it more exciting.
If the best parts of my job are that I get to see a lot of great shows and support local artists, then the worst part is the appalling manners (or lack thereof) of some of my fellow audience members. I guess because of the popularity of movies, people don’t know anymore how they’re expected to behave in a playhouse. And most people weren’t raised right, as we say here in Shreveport.
For them, I write the following. But it’s very easy, really. There aren’t labyrinthian, Emily-Post-esque etiquette guidelines attached to theatre-going; most of them are pretty common-sense stuff. Nevertheless:
1. There’s no need to “dress up” (though dressing up is by no means discouraged), but don’t show up looking like you just ran down to the corner store to get a pint of ice cream and the latest Us Weekly during a commercial break in The City. Show some respect.
2. Get there 30 minutes before the show starts. This gives you plenty of time to get your ticket, drink a glass of wine, go to the bathroom and find your seat.
3. Silence your cell phone. Duh.
4. Don’t text. Don’t check your email. Don’t update your Facebook status. Check into the theatre on Foursquare during intermission. Pay attention to the production you spent good money to see.
5. Don’t unwrap hard candy. I can’t explain it and neither can The Guy, but we agree that nothing – absolutely nothing – echoes through a quiet theatre quite like some grandma unwrapping a Hall’s. This isn’t a movie; the actors can hear you. Try not to distract them.
6. For God’s sake, DO NOT GET UP AND LEAVE THE THEATRE DURING AN ACT EXCEPT FOR AN EMERGENCY. Your wine glass being empty is not an emergency. Wait until intermission.
7. Hearing aids and listening devices can interfere with the production’s sound system. Turn them down to a reasonable level. Better still, let an usher know if you have one or the other. That way, if something goes wrong, they can find you.
8. Do not fall asleep, especially if you’re sitting in the first four rows or so.
9. If something strikes you as funny, laugh. Loudly. Feel free to snort if the spirit moves you.
10. Did you really love the production? Stick around and tell the actors after the performance. They often come out to the lobby and greet the audience after the show.
It’s a good thing The Guy and I aren’t going to New York City on our honeymoon, because we’d blow our entire budget seeing show after show and end up having to sleep in Katie Ett’s closet.
But I’m curious: Those of you who do go to The Theatah regularly, what are some of your favorite shows? There’s little I like to talk about more than books and plays.
Those of you who don’t, why don’t you? What would make you go more often?
Your dramatic
Kel
August 18th, 2010
A few weeks ago, The Guy and I made a grave error.
We watched the season premiere of Mad Men.
And now we’re hooked, damn it all.
Neither of us are big television people. I mean, sure, we watch it sometimes, but we mostly watch the History Channel, Food Network and the Travel Channel. Frankly, we just don’t have a lot of time for TV series, and we’d really rather watch movies or read anyway.
But this show has brought out an interesting dynamic in our relationship. For one thing – and he’ll never say this – I know he wishes I had a rear end like a Christmas ham like Joan Holloway does. More than once, he’s sighed, “I wish women still dressed like that.” “They are wearing some serious underwear under those costumes,” I remind him. But though I don’t relish the thought of wearing a girdle every single day (my Kymaro Shaper and my Spanx squeeze my stuffing out as it is, thankyouverymuch), I actually kind of agree with him. When my mom and I started discussing my Christmas in the Sky dress, we didn’t even consider going shopping – she went straight into the attic and pulled out a Vogue pattern from about 1962, a copy of the dress and coat Jackie Kennedy wore on her first state visit to France, when President Kennedy famously remarked, “I am the man who accompanied Jacqueline Kennedy to Paris.”
More fascinating is the way he reacts to the early-60’s sexism that’s (realistically) rampant in the show. With very few exceptions, the male characters completely dismiss the females. At best, they view them as powerfully sexual creatures; at worst, they treat them like children. Every time it happens, The Guy’s jaw drops, and I’m always quick to say, “That actually happened.” Which I realize sounds sort of ridiculous coming from someone born in 1977, but thanks to my mom, my grandmother, college professors and countless other women who lived through it and told the tale, I know it’s true.
My mom, perhaps the greatest feminist influence I’ll ever have, wanted to be a veterinarian when she was a little girl. (I won’t tell her age because she’ll kill me, but suffice it to say this would’ve been in the early to mid 50’s.) She definitely could have been one, too – she’s great with all animals, even ones I won’t touch, and she’s good at math and science. Her grandmother, though, told her to get that idea right out of her head. Ladies, she said, did NOT become veterinarians. Which was true, I guess, at least in Shreveport, Louisiana. Mom’s only viable options were Nurse, Teacher, Model, Stewardess or Secretary.
Well, Mom likes people a lot less than she does animals; she likes children even less; she’s about five feet tall in her stocking feet; and she doesn’t particularly like to fly.
Secretary it was. Starting in about 1965, right smack in the middle of Mad Men territory.
She wore a hat and gloves to work every day, along with the ubiquitous girdle. She hated to miss work for anything, because when she came back, the men (and almost everyone she worked with was male) would tease her about having her period. She was a damn good secretary – over the years, she got promoted to work for a series of increasingly powerful men – but like most other women at the time, she was largely looked over, disregarded and ignored.
—-
That’s why it irritates me so much when people – especially women – claim they’re “anti-feminist.” They blame the feminist movement that started in the 60’s for the decay of morality and the erosion of “family values.” But if you have a college education, if you own your own business, if you can get a prescription for birth control pills without the doctor lecturing you about becoming a slut, if you can report a rape at the police station and get taken seriously, if you can divorce your abusive husband without being ostracized by your entire community and if you can have any career you want, INCLUDING Secretary, then you have the feminist movement to thank. It’s exactly that simple.
Mom didn’t burn her bra or anything, but she sure as shit made sure I knew who Gloria Steinem, Camille Paglia and Betty Friedan were. I like to say I knew who Helen Gurley Brown was before I knew “Jesus Loves Me.” That might be a slight exaggeration, but neither of us are entirely sure.
—-
I’ve been wearing my red lipstick a little more often, and this fall, I might buy a few pencil skirts and tight sweaters. Heck, I may even get myself a pen necklace.
But all things considered, I’m pretty glad my bosses are women, and they’ll never ask me to make them martinis unless I’m making one for myself, too.
Your refreshingly retro
Kel
P.S. The Guy asked me to tell you all that he doesn’t care if a woman never makes him a martini at work.
He doesn’t care if it’s a man OR a woman. He just wants a martini at work.
August 10th, 2010
I think a person’s ability and willingness to deal with kitty litter is sort of like paper towels: You’re born with a roll of a certain size, and every time you’re faced with kitty litter, you metaphorically tear one off, clean up the kitty litter and throw it away.
I used the majority of my roll before first grade.
In fact, that’s the code phrase The Guy and I use whenever we encounter a kitty litter situation: “Honey, do you need more paper towels?”
“Yes, my love, I do. We better go to Sam’s, because this is about to use my ENTIRE ROLL.”
Seriously, you can ask my mom; I was an unnaturally self-aware child, and I could identify kitty litter from a mile away by the time I was old enough to focus my eyeballs. To be honest, it made life difficult for me. In circumstances in which other kids would happily go with the flow, I resisted, because I could tell, in some very basic way, that whatever some dimwit adult wanted me to do was kitty litter and therefore unimportant. I guess you could say that’s pretty egotistical, because it’s not like children have agendas and to-do lists and calendars, right? The upside, of course, was that I also realized as a wee Kel that time was precious, and I was not about to waste mine engaging in some kitty litter activity just because the teacher or whomever couldn’t be bothered to give me something worthwhile to do.
For instance:
–When I was about three, the preschool teacher at my private school asked us to draw pictures of our families. I loved drawing and coloring, so I took up my sheet of manila paper and happily complied. I drew my grandfather, my grandmother, my aunt Carol, my mom, my brothers and myself. When it came time to draw Dad, though, I faced a conundrum. My dad is very dark-skinned, with black hair and green eyes. That side of my family is what’s known as “Black Irish” – they have dark features rather than the fair skin, pale eyes and red hair typically associated with Irish people. The overall look is very unusual, and I didn’t know what color crayon to use for my dad’s skin. He’s not Brown, but he’s not Flesh, either, nor is he Indian Red. Not finding any of the colors in my 64-pack suitable, I figured it was better to leave him out than risk inaccuracy. So that’s exactly what I did.
Well, you would’ve thought I drew a picture of myself strangling a cat while setting my parents’ house on fire. The teacher, the principal and the school psychologist had my parents on the phone faster than you can say “family conflict.”
That night, my parents sat me down, very concerned indeed, and asked me why I left my father out of my family portrait.
I explained myself, and thus my relieved family very seriously started considering public school.
(Years later, I told this story to my ex-boyfriend’s mother, who presented me the next Christmas with my very own box of Multicultural Crayons so I would never run into this particular difficulty again. I still have them. Better safe than sorry, I always say.)
–Maybe a year after that, around the Thanksgiving holiday, another teacher gave the class mimeographed pictures of turkeys. We were to color them then cut them out, and the teacher promised to hang them all on the bulletin board.
I took my time coloring my turkey, and after I was completely satisfied, I began to cut him out. When I was about halfway through, I looked up and realized that almost everyone else was finished with their turkeys. Knowing full well that this turkey business was kitty-litter busy work, I simply ripped the rest of my turkey from the page and handed it to the teacher.
Guess who spent the entirety of the Christmas holidays cutting out construction-paper rings to make garland for the Christmas tree because the teacher was concerned about my “motor-skills development.”
I did not yet know the acronym “FML,” but I can assure you, that’s how I felt my fourth Christmas.
–Kindergarten.
Oh, Kindergarten.
In Kindergarten, we little kids had our first real homework. My brothers were well into their college careers at this point; college kids obviously have quite a lot of homework and studying to do, so because I wanted to be just like my big brothers in every way (except that they didn’t take ballet and never wore hair bows), I was pretty excited about having homework of my own. I thought it a very sophisticated and important responsibility indeed.
The first homework I can remember (for reasons which shall soon become obvious) is yet another mimeographed sheet of paper with pictures of farm animals. Our assignment was to color each animal, then write its name below the picture. I distinctly recall being very concerned about getting my homework absolutely correct and perfect. I wanted to make an A.
Every day after school, I went to my grandparents’ house. That afternoon, I took out my homework folder and showed Nana my worksheet. We read the directions together, and I sat down at the dining room table to get started. First up: the noble pig.
Right away, I hit a stumbling block.
“Nana, should I make the pig this color pink or this color pink?” I asked, holding two crayons out to her.
My grandmother, a wonderfully artistic soul, declared, “That pig can be any color you want it to be!”
Well, that opened up a whole new world of possibility for me. Suddenly, an idea crystallized in my mind: I would make the worksheet an EXPLOSION of candy-colored animals! The teacher would marvel at my creativity! Surely I would get an A! My brothers and my parents and my Nana and my Papa and my aunt Carol would be so proud!
So I set about coloring a purple pig, and an orange cow and a blue goat. I neatly wrote their names underneath the brilliantly-colored animals, and I carefully put my homework back in its folder, very eager to show the teacher my handiwork the next morning.
You know exactly where this is going, don’t you?
Yep.
For a long while thereafter, I had to study a book about farm animals. I insisted to my teacher that I knew what colors cows came in; my other grandfather in Texas was a cattle rancher! But it didn’t matter. She was most concerned about my lack of contact with nature, not to mention reality.
—-
I’ll spare you any more stories, but I think those three sum up my entire school career quite nicely.
—-
Difficult though my school years were, they gave me a very critical view of the world around me. And I don’t mean “critical” as in “pessimistic;” in fact, I consider myself an eternal optimist. But they made me carefully consider the things people told me and asked me to do. Sometimes, I came to the same conclusions they did, and others, I realized they didn’t have my best interests in mind. In other words, it made me exactly the kind of adult I am now: one who evaluates people, situations and tasks for herself.
They made me independent.
And I still believe that pigs can be any color you want them to be.
Your headstrong
Kel
August 9th, 2010
Oh my gosh, you guys. I apologize for my WEEK-LONG absence, but my limited ability to deal with bullshit and stress kind of imploded last week.
Please note: I need to talk about a lot of bullshit in this post, but that will almost certainly offend my mom, my more conservative friends and readers and, perhaps most worrisome, The Guy’s mom (a.k.a., Holy Marilyn, Mother of Guy), should she ever find this thing. So instead of using the word “bullshit” over and over, we’re going to call it “kitty litter.” OK? OK.
So that’s the last time I’m going to use the word “bullshit.”
I mean, you know, in this post. Not in real life.
(No sense making promises you can’t keep, I always say.)
Anyway.
So everything was more or less OK – stressful, as usual, but OK – until Wednesday. And actually, Wednesday started out very well, if a little nerve-wracking. See, Shreveport’s Downtown Development Authority, the Convention & Tourist Bureau, the Shreveport Regional Arts Council and several downtown restaurants got together and started this thing called the Wednesday Downtown Lunch Trolley. You can read all about it at the link, but it’s really cool; basically, it makes it easier for people working or visiting downtown to patronize some of the awesome restaurants in the area without the hassle of parking or the discomfort of walking in the heat. Since this was the first one, they wanted me to dress up like a 1960s-era stewardess and sort of host the thing. I got to wear a cute costume, and all I had to do was act bubbly and animated in front of a bunch of people I don’t know. It was my pleasure to do it – I’ll do almost anything to promote downtown Shreveport and support local businesses – but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t really, REALLY nervous.
(That article says I was dressed as a conductor. I WAS SO NOT A CONDUCTOR. See my wings?! I’m a stewardess! On a trolley! OBVIOUSLY.)
So after that was over, I got in my car to drive home, and Tanya the Wedding Planner called. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is when the kitty litter hit the fan.
This is a really, really long story, but I’ll boil it down to just the bare bones: The venue where The Guy and I are having our wedding and reception is city-owned (this we did not know). All city-owned venues have an exclusive contract with this one company to do their bar service if there is an event at which alcohol is served. No big. We were planning to use that company anyway. So Tanya called them up to get the details.
We wanted an open bar, of course, but because the majority of our guests don’t drink alcohol, either because of religious convictions or because they’re in recovery from addiction, we were planning to stick to just beer and wine.
The non-drinkers don’t mind being AROUND alcohol, but they’re not going to partake, and we figured, what’s the point of having 16 different liquors and who-knows-how-many mixers and whatnot if only a fraction are going to drink it anyway? All our friends and family who DO drink mostly drink beer and wine, and that stuff is cheaper anyway. Win-win, yes? Based on what other friends of ours paid for bar service at their weddings, we had budgeted between $350 and $500 for alcohol and soft drinks.
Ever the optimists are we. We should’ve known that was kitty litter.
Turns out that this exclusive contract the liquor company has with the city comes with a price tag: The city gets a cut of what they make from each event. So naturally, the company hikes up their prices for service at city-owned venues.
Without getting into too much detail, it was going to cost OVER A THOUSAND DOLLARS for an open bar at our wedding reception. For alcohol that most of our guests would not consume anyway. If that ain’t some kitty litter, then you’re going to have to tell me what is BECAUSE I JUST DON’T KNOW.
No way. NO. FREAKING. WAY. I love me some wine, folks, but not enough to pay OVER A GRAND for it. That’s kitty litter.
(I wrote something really ugly about it on my Facebook page, but Tanya wisely made me delete it. Let me tell you, that girl earns her fees. About 2.8 seconds after I posted it, my phone rang. “Hello?” I said. “TAKE THAT S–T DOWN,” came the reply.)
The Guy and I agonized and debated and polled all our friends, and we finally came to the following conclusions (in order of importance):
1. People are coming to our wedding and reception to celebrate with us, not get drunk.
2. Some of our best friends and people we love most in the world are in recovery from devastating addictions to alcohol and drugs. What does it say about our attitude toward sober living if we turn ourselves – and our pocketbooks – inside out in order to have alcohol at our wedding reception?
3. While our friends and family who do not drink (for whatever reason) don’t mind if other people do (they realize that alcohol is simply a part of mainstream society in 2010), they’d be much more comfortable without alcohol around.
4. Not being able to have a good time without booze is a bunch of lame kitty litter.
Nevertheless, I’m curious: What would you have done?
—-
Even though we got that settled, it just went downhill from there:
–We realized we’re AT budget, and we haven’t hired a caterer or ceremony musicians yet. So we had to do some fast re-budgeting, and let me tell you, THAT is complete and total kitty litter. Especially if you’re really bad at math like me.
–Friday morning, I was late to an appointment because I couldn’t find my keys. The Guy left them in MY UNLOCKED CAR OVERNIGHT.
(I think he’s trying to get rid of Fiona Fit.)
–Saturday, I was AN HOUR AND A HALF late to Katie’s children’s birthday party because a) my tire went flat and b) I got lost. Driving around lost in Oil City, Louisiana, where cell phones have no bars and GPS get possessed by Satan is kitty litter of the worst kind.
–The Guy and I had an intense discussion about whether or not 7:00 a.m. qualifies as “the middle of the night.” According to him, it does not. Kitty litter.
–Saturday night, when we were getting ready to go to a fundraising event for one of my favorite organizations, I decided my dress made me look fat, sat down cross-legged in the middle of the bathroom floor in my hot rollers like a five-year-old and flat refused to go anywhere. The Guy, who has the patience of Job, convinced me that if we didn’t go, we’d regret it and that we’d have a great time once we got there. He was right, but I think the point had been made: My coping skills DONE GONE.
–Sunday afternoon, The Guy and I went to lunch, and I almost went Naomi Campbell on the waitress when we realized that the sausages in his cassoulet were burned.
–(I hate myself for even typing the previous sentence.)
–I snapped at The Guy – the man who just the other day willingly gave me, his future beloved bride, the last Diet Dr. Pepper in his 12-pack – because he dared ask me if I could email him the spreadsheet I created with our wedding guest list. That is a VAT of kitty litter.
And somewhere in there, I realized that I was just really not fit for human consumption and that it might be best if I just kept to myself for a few days. I figured I’d spare you guys 28 paragraphs about my kitty litter white girl problems, at least until I could laugh about them. And it worked – after a few days of thinking, reading, writing and drinking a few glasses of wine, I’ve got my priorities straight once more and I’m no longer stomping all over Shreveport like some kind of rabid, hypoglycemic wildebeest and roaring, “JUST WHOSE [REDACTED] DO I HAVE TO [REDACTED] TO GET A STRING QUARTET AROUND HERE?!”
So what have you guys been up to this past week? Anybody else been whining about any amusing kitty litter?
Your back-in-the-saddle
Kelly
August 2nd, 2010
Or, At Least I Didn’t Do Something This Stupid at My OWN Wedding.
(Although There is Still Plenty of Time.)
—-
So Saturday night, The Guy and I went to our friends Tiffany and Bob’s wedding. It was very lovely and sweet, and the sit-down dinner reception, held at Sam’s Town Hotel & Casino here in Shreveport, promised a good time as well.
(Tiffany and Bob really know how to party, is the point I’m driving at here.)
The bride and groom didn’t see each other prior to the ceremony, so after it was over, the guests departed for Sam’s Town while the wedding party and the families hung around the church to take pictures. Fortunately, they had a cocktail hour planned, so everyone got a drink and a few nibbles while we mingled and waited for the reception to begin.
Just as Tanya the Wedding Planner started ushering everyone into the ballroom, The Guy decided he needed to visit the men’s room. Sigh. Our seats at the Austin Table would have to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Standing outside the restroom, I saw something poufy and white out of the corner of my eye. Oh, CRAP! They’re here!
I dialed The Guy’s cell. “What are you DOING in there?!” I demanded.
“Washing my hands!”
“Well, Tiffany and Bob just got here! They’ll be walking in any minute! HURRY!”
Hurry he did, and very shortly, we were seated. The reception started, and a good time was had by all.
Two Haley-ritas later, I had to visit the little girls’ room. I excused myself, walked out of the ballroom, across the lobby and into the restroom. I was pinning back my hair and trying to decide whether or not I needed to reapply my lipgloss when once again, something white caught my eye.
This time, it was not poufy.
Or pretty.
JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH, IT’S A URINAL!!
I’M IN THE MEN’S ROOM!!
I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN HERE!!
I’M CATHOLIC!!
GAAAAAAAAH!!
And I scurried out the door, back across the lobby and into the relative safety of the ladies’ room. Whew! Thank God nobody saw me!
No one will ever have to know, I chuckled to myself.
—-
Later on, The Guy and I were standing by the candy bar shoving cookies and complimentary liquor (WHAT. They’re invited to OUR wedding) in our faces when his cell phone rang.
“Uh, baby? Do you have your phone?”
“Yep,” I said through a mouthful of cookie.
“Where is it?”
“In my purse.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Then why are you calling me?”
I choked on some crumbs. “Uh, I dunno?”
“Get your phone,” he said, and I made my way across the dance floor to my purse, which was hanging on the back of a chair. I dug in it. Then I dumped it out on the table. No phone.
“Somebody’s got your phone,” The Guy said.
S–t! I thought. I sent some really bitchy text messages earlier!
And then I remembered my calendar and all my contacts and my email and my Facebook account and…
OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod.
For the second time that night, I ran into the ladies’ room. It was the only place I could think of that I’d had my phone besides the ballroom. I looked on the counter and in the stall I’d used.
No phone.
OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod.
I exited the restroom and was just about to burst into tears when I saw The Guy talking to another guy over by the men’s room. Actually, they weren’t so much talking as laughing their heads off.
“I believe this is yours,” The Guy said, holding my precious, precious Droid out to me. I wanted to kiss it.
Then I realized where it had been.
—-
The Good Samaritan had walked into the men’s room and seen a phone laying on the counter. Figuring it must belong to one of his fellow guests at the reception, he decided to try to find out whose it was. First, he called the last number dialed, which was The Guy’s. When he didn’t answer, he figured his next best bet was to call the number labeled “Home,” which is my parents.
MY PARENTS.
When they answered, he told them he had found this phone in the men’s room at Sam’s Town Casino, and he was wondering to whom it might belong.
This might be a good time to mention that my parents don’t exactly…you know…approve of gambling. I mean, they don’t get all judge-y and crazy about it, but suffice it to say all three Phelan children are strongly discouraged from gambling except as it pertains to buying raffle tickets for charity.
(We go, as a family, to a casino exactly once a year. My mentally-handicapped Aunt Carol thinks nickel slot machines are, like, OMG THE FUNNEST THING EVAR, so each May, when her birthday rolls around, my parents give her $20 and indulge her. They stand around and scoff and I read the spa menu while she feeds 400 nickels into a machine and pulls the handle the corresponding 400 times, then we eat at the buffet.)
So naturally, what with the mention of the men’s room and all, my parents figured the phone must belong to one of my two hell-raising brothers. Their sweet, innocent, good Catholic daughter would nevereverever visit a casino except on Aunt Carol’s birthday!
…unless, of course, there was steak, tequila and The Chicken Dance involved.
(WHAT. So I happen to like The Chicken Dance. Sue me.)
So not only did I have to tell The Guy of my men’s room escapade, I also had to tell his friend and my PARENTS. Who then assumed I was drunk.
Because there is NO WAY they raised a child who is too stupid to READ THE SIGN OUTSIDE THE DAMN RESTROOM before she goes be-bopping in there to fix her eyeliner.
No way.
IN A CASINO!
To make matters even worse, at the end of the night, The Good Samaritan came up to me and said, “I’ve told that story to, like, three people already! Everybody’s getting the biggest kick out of it!”
FanTASTic.
On the bright side (and there is usually a bright side when I humiliate myself in front of 200 people and the whole internet), at least The Good Samaritan made the effort to return the phone to its rightful owner instead of saying to himself, “Oh, look! A Droid! Don’t mind if I do.”
And for that I am deeply grateful.
But I’m sure as hell going to read the sign carefully the next time before I enter the restroom.
IN A CASINO!
Your repentant
Kel
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