Fanfreakingtastic

Firstly, and apropos of nothing, I would like to form a band called The Suicide Squirrels. Maybe not as much as I want a band named The Notorious They, though. The Notorious They is the best band name I’ve ever come up with.

Moving on…

No joke - this picture triggers my gag reflex.

There is a song that has been simultaneously entertaining and annoying me for eight long years. Sheryl Crow and Kid Rock’s “romantic” ballad/duet, “Picture.”

Let’s start by drinking in the following series of words: “Kid Rock’s romantic ballad/duet.” That right there is worth the price of admission, provided “admission” is listening to the song for free in your car. Because I mean, hey, I’m sure I’m not alone when I say Kid Rock personally defines my romantic ideal. Am I right, ladies, or am I right?

So there’s that. And the song, on the surface, is an inoffensive enough little ditty, so uncomplicated it wouldn’t strain even Britney’s vocals. It’s the kind of song that slips by unnoticed, unless you make the mistake of listening to the words. Let me give you a condensed version of Kid Rock’s side of the story: 

Livin’ my life in a slow hell
Different girl every night at the hotel
Been fuelin’ up on cocaine and whisky
Wish I had a good girl to miss me
I put your picture away
Sat down and cried today
I can’t look at you while I’m lyin’ next to her

Fair enough, Mr. Rock. You’ve obviously suffered a bad break-up and are now engaging in a downward spiral of self-destruction wrought of heartache and loss. And now for the lady’s take: 

Somethin’ just ain’t right
I been waitin’ on you for a long time
Fuelin’ up on heartaches and cheap wine
I put your picture away
I wonder where you been
I can’t look at you while I’m lyin’ next to him

Pretty much the same story. Makes sense. After the break-up, she longingly wonders where he has wandered off to and what he is doing. She, too, finding false comfort in some random person. Fine.

Here’s my issue: THEY’VE BEEN SEPARATED FOR THREE DAYS.  1,2,3. THREE DAYS. THAT’S IT. Here’s how the song closes.

Both: Since you been gone my worlds been dark & grey (72 hours of dark and grey, ladies and gentlemen.)
Kid Rock: You reminded me of brighter days (Was it that hard to remember? IT WAS THREE DAYS AGO.)
Crow: I was headed to church
Rock: I was off to drink you away!

I just included that last little bit ’cause it’s hilarious. Anyway, back to business:

Both: I thought about you for a long time (THREE DAYS, PEOPLE.)
Can’t seem to get you off my mind (NOT SURPRISING.)
I can’t understand why we’re living life this way (Well, based on how you handle the passage of three days, perhaps because you’re RETARDED.)
I found your picture today (You FOUND it? You put it away the day before YESTERDAY. Do you have short term memory loss?)

In case you doubt my timeline, here’s what I cut out:

Rock: I ain’t seen the sun shine in 3 damn days

Crow: I called you last night in the hotel
Everyone knows but they wont tell
But their half hearted smiles tell me
Somethin’ just ain’t right
I ain’t heard from you in 3 damn nights

I submit this as evidence that we are, in fact, talking about the transpiring of no more than 72 hours. So what I want to know is, who are the people this song speaks to? Who out there lives life with the drama dial turned all the way to eleven, such that they can cram more histrionics into three days than I’ll put into ten years? I mean, by day two these people have reached an emotion it would take me two months (or more) to get to. SO FOREIGN TO ME. SERIOUSLY. I mean, I’m not trying to be Judgy McJudgalot. Diff’ent strokes for diff’ent folks, and all that. I’m just saying, FOREIGN. Also, I would submit the word, EXHAUSTING.

Lyrics.  They come in all shapes and sizes. Beautiful and poetic, unintentionally hilarious, and poorly written. Yes, those are the only three categories they come in. You want to add fluffy and fun? Okay, I might give you that fourth category. But no more.  And for our purposes today, we shall only concern ourselves with bad lyrics. Specifically, the sort of bad lyric which somehow turns into a little nugget of memorable badness my brain insists on carting around at all times, such that when a song comes on containing one of those nuggets I’m obligated to listen to it.

One order of Special Sincere Seventies Lovin', comin' right up

You wouldn’t think there’d be a bad lyric nugget in a Marvin Gaye song. I love Marvin Gaye. He gave us “What’s Going On’ and “Mercy, Mercy Me” and seemingly hundreds of other timeless classics. He also gave us ”Let’s Get it On.” Now, don’t get me wrong. I think “Let’s Get it On” is pretty fanglorious. It’s just this little nugget right here:

I ain’t gonna worry, I ain’t gonna push
Won’t push you, baby

Followed immediately by:

So come on, come on, come on, come on, come on, baby
Stop beatin’ ’round the bush, hey

Here’s the thing. Maybe I’m missing something in the delivery, but to my ears Marvin Gaye delivers these back-to-back couplets without the nariest hint of irony. Is he trying to be funny? Maybe the joke’s on me. I don’t know. To me, the song is nothing so much as a paean to the special sort of sincere seventies lovin’ that went extinct in the early 80’s. There is no room for irony in special sincere seventies lovin’. It is too sincere.

On the other end of the pop music spectrum from Marvin Gaye one finds Britney Spears. Now, I’m sure her songs are chock-full of unintentionally hilarious lyrics, but there’s only one my brain has put into its special collection. It’s from the song “Circus.” By the way, am I the only person who liked “Circus?” It’s probably my favorite Britney song, and based on an informal poll amongst friends it appears I stand alone in this. In any case, halfway through “Circus” Britney treats us to this gem:

So baby, I hope that you came prepared
I run a tight ship, so beware

Britney, gearing up to deliver some world class crazy eye.

Oh, Brit-Brit. Usually people who run a tight ship don’t have the courts take their estate away from them and put their father in charge of it. Making this line even better/worse is the corresponding moment in the video. Check out her eyes at the 1:54 mark. To quote my dear friend Hilary Ellis, she looks as crazy as a sh*thouse rat right there. If you will remember, Circus was Britney’s first big moment back from being bald and beating up cars with umbrellas. Why include such a mockable line complete with crazy eyes? Another one I collected from the same song:

I’m like a performer,
The dance floor is my stage

 You’re “like” a performer? Well, considering how lackluster your dancing is in the video and the fact you don’t actually sing, perhaps the line is perfectly apt.

Look at how cute this is! It's a She-Gator protectin' her young! And look how proud she is! ADORABLE!

Now for something completely different. While Marvin’s lyrics puzzle me and Britney’s make me laugh, this next song has a special magic for unleashing waves of wrath. “Free Bird,” by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Don’t get me wrong, I love Lynyrd Skynyrd. I know every word to “All I Can Do is Write About It.” It was on the radio yesterday, a rare occurrence even here in the Deep South. I was filled with glee as I sang along to, “did you ever see a she-gator protect her young?” and “do you like to see a youngin’ with his dog?” I mean, are those not the BEST LINES EVER? I challenge anyone to find a better lyric than, “did you ever see a she-gator protect her young?” It’s an impossible challenge, because there IS NO better lyric than, “did you ever see a she-gator protect her young?” If you are unfamiliar with this song, enlighten yourself to the awesome. Don’t say I never did nuthin’ fer ya.

Anyway, awesomeness of Lynyrd Skynyrd aside, there is the unawesomeness of Lynyrd Skynyrd to consider. This unawesomeness is wholly contained within the karaoke classic known as Free Bird. Or Freebird. However you spell it, it still contains this:

But please don’t take it badly,
‘Cause Lord knows I’m to blame.
But, if I stayed here with you girl,
Things just couldn’t be the same.
Cause I’m as free as a bird now,
And this bird you’ll never change. 

In case you’ve been living under a rock, and don’t know the beginning of Free Bird, he’s just told her he must be traveling on now, because there are too many places he needs to see. If he stayed there with her, it just wouldn’t be the same, because, essentially, he is over her and is ready to score some new, fresh chick that he will then similarly leave, once it is again time for him to be traveling on now, so that he might yet again see new places and score yet another new chick. He then offers the ameliorating statement that it has been a sweet love, but he can’t change his feelings about wanting to be traveling on now, seeing new places and scorning new chicks. (Ha! That was supposed to be “scoring” but some typos are too perfect to fix.)

As you can see, he is basically making an announcement of his douchebaggeryness, an announcement I hope would be greeted by the girl in question with the following: Although I am sorry I have wasted X amount of my life on you, thanks for the heads up. I will waste no further time, but I’ll be happy to pack your things into a cardboard box I found in the garage that reeks of something unidentifiable. Perhaps the neighborhood tomcat has been marking his territory. In any case, you will find all of your things in said cardboard box located on my front porch. Good luck with your traveling on now. I hope you don’t die in a fiery plane crash or anything.

But before the girl gets a chance to say any of these things, he says this:

But please don’t take it badly,
‘Cause Lord knows I’m to blame.

At which point the girl must abandon her planned, tactful response and go with a more forceful retort, stating that she is not, in fact, taking it badly, rather, the look on her face he has confused for taking it badly is the face she makes when she is trying to be nice to a guy who has just made an announcement of his douchebaggeryness, and while she was going to wish him good luck with his traveling on now, she has changed her mind and hopes he will die in a fiery plane crash.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how Lynyrd Skynyrd accumulated the negative karma that resulted in their deaths in a fiery plane crash.

The seventh grade was a good year for me. Or so I thought. It had a notorious reputation, as you left the safe haven of the elementary and entered the dangerous world of lockers and sevy hating eighth graders. As I received my yearbook my feeling was I had escaped the curse of the seventh grade. I was heading into summer with friends and a staff of teachers who liked me. This assessment was not correct.

Mrs. Ladwig, my math teacher, wrote the following in my yearbook:

Carrie – Should I write what is true or should I make you feel good? No, really, you are more capable but you are very charming. Remember, mediocrity is for gas station attendants. See you next year, E. Ladwig

Somehow, the “you are very charming” part doesn’t feel like an actual compliment in this context, but maybe that’s just me. Mrs. Polley wrote this:

Carrie – Have a good summer + do the best you can do next year…for a change! Mrs. P.

 In my defense, I have no memory of slacking off in that class. There was very little in the way of opportunity for class clownery or the various other forms of performance art I favored. It was first period and I do remember being sleepy a lot. Mr. Johnson, known universally as KJ, wrote this:

Carrie – Somedays, grrrr! Best wishes, KJ

Now, I do fondly remember an occasion wherein KJ began bragging about cheating on his taxes. As soon as he lit into this lecture I raised my hand high and kept it there while he boasted about how smart he was and how dumb the IRS was. Finally, annoyed, he called on me. “Do you have something to add to the conversation, Carrie?” I responded simply: “My dad is a special agent with the IRS.” Which was true, btw. Somedays, grrr, indeed, KJ. Somedays, grrr, indeed.

The incomparable Mrs. Giles.

After this, I got wise and stopped asking teachers to sign my annual. With one exception. Caroline Giles had been my science teacher. I knew at the time it was a special learning experience. What I didn’t know was that it would never be surpassed. Mrs. Giles was a profoundly gifted teacher and when we ate up the curriculum she kept going. At no point in my science education did I come to a class that was anything more than a review of what Mrs. Giles had taught us–in the 7th grade. One day she came to class dressed as Mrs. Mitochondria. She also appreciated performance art. Under Mrs. Giles tutelage we instituted a recycling program at our school, despite the school’s odd reluctance. We formed a Science Club and went to elementary schools and performed experiments (more performance art!). We memorized the Periodic Table of Elements. I named a stuffed dog I got for my birthday Dmitri Mendeleev. To this day I remember, “Na, I don’t want any salt,” and “A! U! You took my gold!” We had a stupid little phrase for every element. And they worked. (Obviously.) Mrs. Giles gave me my favorite assignment of all time. We were to create a fictional animal that made evolutionary sense. My creation was an amalgmation of hippo and whale characteristics that lived in the Amazon 30,000 years ago. Hippo-shaped, it had the whale-like trait of sifting out smaller animals through its peculiar jaws and eating them en masse. Years later, I was gratified by the discovery that hippos and whales are in fact close cousins . Mrs. Giles and I were way ahead of them.

Mrs. Giles did not stay long at Cascade Junior High. Only one year. She went back to where she came from – teaching teachers as a college professor. Although she was very professional about it, I could tell she was ostracized by the rest of the staff. They didn’t like her recycling campaign, they didn’t like her Mrs. Mitochondria costume, or the fact our classroom was always so loud. She had to start keeping the door shut. I knew she was glad to leave when she did. This is what she wrote in my yearbook:

Carrie – You’re a great thinker and you have fabulous ideas! I’ll really miss you, but if you become a teacher I might see you again. Mrs. Giles

A simple message, but one that meant a lot.

The Great Flu of 1918 2010 struck Sunday morning, not long after I’d eaten a bowl of Fiber One. I fear I will never enjoy you again, Fiber One. No, you were not the primary culprit in my suffering, but you were an accessory to the crime. The surprise attack came, as most surprise attacks do, without warning. After the initial volley I was able to fire off a few emergency e-mails. “TO KOURTNEY. STOP. WE ARE UNDER ATTACK. STOP. WILL NOT BE ABLE TO TAKE KIDS TO SCHOOL. STOP.” I wrote a blog post about Lindsey Vonn under a bizarre nausea haze, but before I could proofread and hit publish, I was under siege. I knew that this was no measely 24 hour bug thanks to the person who had given me this gift. (Looking at you, DEB.) She had already given me the lowdown on the progression of hostilities. I knew I was to be France, and Germany (ha! Get it? GERMany?)  was about to have its way with me.

The Liberation of Paris

After the blitzkrieg was launched in earnest Evan found me on the bathroom floor, unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling, gurgling. If I had been 27 and a revolutionary rock god that surely would have been the end of me, but luckily I am a small town 33 year old, so I was safe from death by choking on my own vomit.  For my part, I came to like so: “Why is my bed so hard? My back already hurts. The bed shouldn’t be so hard. Why is the ceiling different?” And then Evan saying, “are you seeing me now?” I was, and I remembered I was at war.

I passed out again, and again, and made another suicide attempt via taking a nosedive into the pedestal sink. (I still have a nice goose egg on my skull on account of that little manuever.) I had no defenses worth mentioning. Sure, I had looked healthy, but that apparent health was nothing but a Maginot Line, something the enemy forces simply went around, with their Panzer tanks of destruction and doom. Soon enough they were in Paris, and I was left an incoherent muttering mess, unable to say words, let alone complete sentences.

The occupation was long and sad and dreary. And actually, it’s not even really over. But I know the Allies are coming. Rumors have been spreading. I can hear them even now. They will bring with them the ability to eat hamburgers and chocolate and all will be good again. Godspeed, boys, Godspeed.

The understated elegance that is Johnny Weir.

Until Johnny Weir shows up (hopefully with feathers!) this Olympics does not have much to offer me. This doesn’t mean I haven’t been watching. I have. But with a certain emotional detachment. A certain ennui, if you will. This doesn’t mean I don’t have comments to make. I do.

If I may begin with the adorable figure skating pair from China. Zhao and Shen’s epic tale of hard work, loyalty, and passion for their sport reminds us that these traits are universally lauded, that no one country can claim jurisdiction over integrity and love. These beautiful qualities belong to us all. Which sucks. Remember when Katarina Witt chilled us to our very bones with her dark East German beauty? When she went toe to toe with our little Americans, scrappy, tough, running on instinct and heart alone. Not privy to the Communist war machine of an athletics program that East Germany boasted, they were instant underdogs. And sure, maybe the word on the street was that Rosalynn Sumners was a brat (that piece of 1984 gossip delivered hot and fresh from the Auburn, WA rumor mill) and yeah, that Debi Thomas was a punk, and, yes, in later interviews Katarina Witt did come off as a delightful human being, BUT – the point is - SHE WAS THE BAD GUY AND YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO ROOT AGAINST HER!*

Watch out Poland. She's coming for you.

My further point is this - the Olympics were more fun carved into Cold War blocs. Our Americans weren’t just trying to complete a triple toe loop, they were completing a triple toe loop FOR FREEDOM. These days, it feels like they’re doing a triple toe loop for the sake of a triple toe loop. Which is fine, I guess. But I’m not going to get all cappy about it. Meanwhile, NBC programming is forcing me to get all mushy over a couple of Red Chinese exemplifying all that is best in both humanity and sport. At least they beat the Russians.

In other American Olympics news, what in the H. E. double hockey sticks (See what I did there? Hockey sticks? Winter Olympics?) are our snowboard cross riders wearing? JEANS? REALLY? FREAKING BLUE JEANS? Each with identical patterns of faux holes and faux wear and tear? Now THIS makes me get all CAPPY. Note that every other nation has the decency to put their snowboarders in that, you know, snow time material. (Whatever. I live in the South. I don’t know what it’s called.) Snow time material  (which our mogul snowboarders wear) has the decency of offering color saturation and professional sheen. Is that so much to ask for at the Olympics? We Americans might like to think of ourselves as scrappy, but must we be so literal about it? Oh America, it is moments like this that make me think you’ve jumped the shark.

Keep it classy, America.

At least there’s still Weir to come.

*Just because you were supposed to root against Katarina Witt did not mean that I did. In one of my many clashes with Mrs. Stanley, First Grade Teacher, she shared with the class a newspaper clipping of Rosalynn Sumners. I had heard that Rosalynn had been mean to a friend of my sister’s, and so I did not like her. Not at all. Mrs. Stanley informed us we should root for her because she was the hometown girl. This, to me, felt like propaganda. Not only was I being told how to think, I didn’t agree with the message. I raised my hand and told Mrs. Stanley I would not be rooting for Rosalynn Sumners in her epic showdown on ice with the East German juggernaut. Judging by Mrs. Stanley’s reaction to this news it’s possible she reported me to the CIA as a likely participant in UnAmerican Activities.

This is what I stole from Ana-Lisa. Sorry, Ana.

Telling fortunes is a tricky business.

I grew up in a fortune telling sort of house. My mom read palms and my Granny had a thing for prophecy. I was born on Halloween. I was into ghosts and all things paranormal. Still am. And so when my friend Ana opened her bridal shower gift from Christy, a deck of tarot cards, I, Gollum-like, wanted them. When Ana was mildly spooked by the cards, I offered to take them home for safekeeping. Ring-like, they stayed with me.

Hundreds of readings later that tarot deck is now soft and worn. It represents many things to me. It has meant money. I used to pick up gigs in L.A., reading fortunes at parties. It has meant special treatment. I would sometimes hide in the break room at work, reading the manager’s fortunes instead of doing my job.  It has meant tedium. If you are at a party and you’re reading tarot, you can sit there until the cows come home.

But more than anything else, those cards represent an instant connection to people, often strangers. Your psychiatrist, doctor, or accountant may hear about your troubles, health, or finances, but your tarot reader hears all three. The cards are a vehicle of knowing, offering an unbettered short cut to intimacy. You would think that I learn a lot about people, reading their cards, but I do not. I do not remember 99% of readings. Even those I do remember are fairly meaningless to me.  It’s the person on other side of the table who finds it memorable. That said, I have learned a lot about people reading their cards. I have learned most people have a deeply held desire to be known, and that most people feel unknown. And so when they pick their cards, and I tell them the unique story their cards write, they feel I know them. And in a way, I do. I have a long held disdain for the sentiment that we should celebrate diversity. It is our commonalities that bring us together, they are the ties that bind, not our differences. Heartache is heartache is heartache, regardless of cause or color.

I have had many incarnations as a fortune teller. Including one in which I dressed up like a gypsy complete with Cher wig, blue eye shadow, dangling coin belt and wench bustier with peasant blouse. It was even hotter than you’re imagining. I did this two times, for our equestrian center’s Halloween party. What better way to spend your birthday than hanging out in a horse stall reading tarot in the freezing cold for hours on end, after having spent the previous 12 hours scrubbing said stalls until they were clean enough for surgery? There is no better way, my friends.

And so it was during the second such Halloween party, in my third hour of tarot reading, that my most memorable reading occurred. A girl came in, a member of the kitchen staff. She was young, blonde, pretty. Nervous. Her accent was deep South Carolina Blue Ridge. She was the sort of person who trusts. I could tell she was scared of the tarot cards, and I assured her no black magic was involved. I told her my theory, that tarot offered an interesting way of meditating on a problem. A card may spark you to look at an old situation in a new way.

She then selected her fifteen cards.

Whenever a reading is not just bad, but painfully, horribly bad, the kind of bad that is unsalvageable, I find myself going, “ha ha! Yeah… you know this is just a stupid parlor trick, right?” before launching into the reading. In this girl’s case, the cards screamed: YOU ARE IN A BAD RELATIONSHIP WITH A BAD MAN AND HE WILL RUIN YOUR LIFE.

Yes, creating traumatic memories gets a thumbs up, gypsy lady.

But she looks so young, surely this is some newly acquired boyfriend. No, she tells me she just got engaged. She’s about to move out of state with him. “Ha ha!” says I, “you know this is just a stupid parlor trick, right?”

For the rest of the night, as we all cleaned up after the party, I kept finding her off in a corner, despondent. “Ha ha!” I said repeatedly, “stupid parlor trick! Stupid parlor trick! It means nothing!” She looked unconvinced, but two weeks later she left South Carolina for parts unknown. Time went on and I left that job, staying in touch with some who still worked there. More than a year later I was speaking to one of the gals who worked in the kitchen. She asked me if I remembered the young girl. It took a few promptings, but I did. “She called to see if she could have her job back,” the woman told me, adding the girl had choked up several times during the conversation. Her husband had turned out to be a very bad man who tried to ruin her life. Apparently, the first thing the girl said was, “that gypsy woman was right!”

And so this girl will be a believer. She will forever associate the tarot with a marriage gone horribly wrong. And I shall live on in infamy in that poor woman’s memory as the gypsy woman who was right. Awesome.

When you work for a large corporation, and you’re in the service industry, and you do things like teach people how to ride horses, it’s important to be CPR certified and generally up to date on how to handle medical emergencies. The company I worked for had a gentleman whose job it was to keep us in line and ready for action. He was a nice man and good at his job and very, very passionate about it. He was also a possessor of verbal tics. He had exactly three:

• Ever so gently
• Don’t be bashful
• Get on the horn

An example sentence would be, “ever so gently, check for a pulse. If you’re not sure about the situation, don’t be bashful, get on the horn and call 911.” In a two hour seminar I guesstimate that he would say each of these phrases about 100 times. As a result, I am no longer super sure about my CPR steps (though I’d gladly give it by best shot if I needed to), but I do know that I should proceed ever so gently, not be bashful or  hesitate to get on the horn.

 One day I was driving to work whilst happily chatting with my friend Axel. It was a beautiful, sunshiney morning, and I was arriving late for some reason I can’t remember. As I approached the gatehouse I saw a woman sprawled out on the asphalt. “Oh crap,” I said to Axel, tedium in my voice. “There’s this guy whose always setting traps for the employees. I gotta go deal with a fake heart attack right now.” And it was true. Fake heart attacks and other emergencies would sometimes lay in wait to test our responses. With great annoyance I pulled over and got out, ready to do the required shtick.

Which is when I saw blood.

Uh oh, thought I.

Upon closer examination, a biking accident victim revealed herself. She had been speeding along when a guard stupidly closed the automatic gate directly in front of her, forcing her to brake suddenly. She went over the handlebars and things were not good. They were not good with her face and they were not good with her hands. Not good at all. She was clearly in shock. Her friend and I began ministering to her. It so happened that I kept a clean white sheet in my 4Runner at all times for Elvis transportation purposes. Luckily for this lady it had just been washed. I covered her with the sheet. The bright sun was blinding her, sweat was falling into her eyes, so I covered her completely. At any point did it occur to me that she looked like a dead body? No, it did not.

The guard, who had caused this mishap to begin with, said he couldn’t get a hold of her husband. I sped off to their home to find him. When I arrived, I found the hose still running. He had been washing patio furniture, but was gone now. I turned off the hose and headed back towards the gate house. By the time I arrived, an ambulance had taken her to the hospital. My day continued on without further incident.

A few weeks later the lady and her husband visited me, graciously thanking me for doing nothing more than stopping to help. (I didn’t do much, after all.) The poor lady was still dealing with nerve damage in her hands. It was then that I learned that the call the husband received was as follows. “You should come to guard house. Your wife has been in an accident.”

As he came around the final bend in the road, he did not see an injured woman under a doggie travel blanket. He saw this–>

I was at a complete loss for words. Innocent though it may have been, I was complicit in giving this man one of the greatest scares he’d ever know. Ultimately, I decided not to be bashful and ever so gently said, “I’m sorry it wasn’t a plaid stadium blanket.” Later, I got on the horn and told Axel about it.

…but you wouldn’t know it from the Love’s Embrace Kay Jewelers ad that’s been playing every five minutes in anticipation of Valentine’s Day. Or, as many know it, Singles Awareness Day. They also played this puppy before Christmas. Not everyday Kay Jewelers forks out for a rain machine, so they’re getting their money’s worth.

Woman receiving a pendant that captures the comfort found in each other's arms.

The 30 second spot begins with a mountain cabin in an electrical storm. A man and woman watch the storm from the window. There’s something not quite right about the guy. A little bit of smarmy, a little bit of mock turtleneck, a little bit of purposefully unshaven, I don’t know, but it adds up to a whole lot of not right.

The man is given the unenviable task of delivering the line: “In all the years we’ve been coming here I’ve never seen a storm like this.” Not even Marlon Brando at the height of his powers, let alone this guy, could bring this line to life. It is dead on arrival.

And then, it happens.

A crack of thunder and lightning.

And the woman spooks.

Do you hear me, people? The woman spooks. In a whirl of fright she spins away from the terrifying lightning and into the arms of smarmy guy. Okay. Here are a list of things that spook at electrical storms:

• Horses
• Rabbits
• Very small children
• Some dogs

Please note adult women was not on the list. Not even ALL dogs are on that list, only some dogs. I’d like to think that if a good percentage of dogs have the maturity to handle a situation, we would go ahead and presume that adult women would also share this fortitude.

After the woman has been forced to spook into smarmy guy’s arms, she must then listen to him say, “I’m right here,” and yes, the line is imbued with the sort of condescension you’ve already come to expect from this commercial. He then adds, “and I always be.” Again, NOT EVEN BRANDO. So many hands were dirtied in the creation of this thing! No one is free from sin – not the writer, director, smarmy guy, the ad campaign team, NO ONE. Not even our leading lady, who, so far, has managed to bring a certain je ne sais quoi, a certain elan, to this sad endeavor, leaves unscathed.

After enduring these many humiliations she must deliver her one and only line. Now, I may be projecting, but when she gazes up into smarmy guy’s face, I swear I see a look in her eyes, a look that says, “kill me now. I’ve just been forced to spook, whirl into a smarmy’s guy’s arms, and now I must deliver my line, ’cause Mama’s gotta pay the rent.” And she does. She says, “don’t let go. Ever.” NOT EVEN BETTE DAVIS– okay, no, I take that back. Bette Davis could make anything work.

Meanwhile, the narrator informs the man, “now you can surround her with the strength of your love.” You know, it wouldn’t be so bad, if hadn’t we already been treated to the spooking, the  condescension, the smarminess, but delivered at the conclusion of that nonsense it just sounds like so much chauvinism.

Sigh.

And in case you’ve been lucky enough to avoid it, here’s the spook in action.

P.S. Apparently this ad took heat back in November because it struck a lot of people as feeling like a slasher/horror film. I think that’s giving this guy way too much credit.

The tale I about to tell occurred many moons ago, arguably in 2003, but also quite possibly in 2004. These things are open to debate. One thing I know – it was July.  In the middle of the hottest month that sits right in the middle of the hottest season.  Hot, hot, hot.

It was a Friday, and I had spent my day trying to divert the course of a river. (It was eating away at my in-law’s lawn.)  I thought I could do this by transferring gravel from the far side of the bank to the near side of the bank. So it was shovel, dump, shovel, dump, all day long. Actually, it would be more accurate to say shovel, sweat, dump, shovel, sweat, dump, shovel, sweat, dump. Over the course of the day I drank two glasses of water. I thought this meant I was staying hydrated. This was back when I was young and stupid. I would exit the day older and wiser.

I hear that my sister and her then-boyfriend are going to be passing through town, so we make plans to eat at Sardi’s. Sardi’s is a local legend and purveyor of the best ribs in the South. I know whereof I speak – they catered my wedding. During the college years Sardi’s was our official hang-out. It was like a second home.  But after this Friday I would not return to Sardi’s for two years.

The site of my humiliation.

I shower, get cleaned up, I’m feeling great, looking forward to dinner. We have a lovely time. Our waitress is young and fun and cute and a good server. I would later come to look at her as a kind of personal savior. I am ravenous. We order fried things. Lots of fried things. I eat lots of fried things. Lots and lots of them. I also order two margaritas, but they are very small, on the rocks, and weak. Talk begins to wrap up. And I begin to not feel so well.

I go to the restroom. Nowadays, Sardi’s has redone some of the bathroom. At the time, it was rustic, with a concrete floor. Possibly I inspired the switch to linoleum. I exit the bathroom and wind my way through the overcrowded, jam packed dining area. Such is the nature of Friday nights at Sardi’s. Everybody else is up at the front, paying. We say our good-byes and go outside. All the while, things are starting to go bad. They are, in fact, going real bad, real fast, real hard. My hearing and my vision start to fade. My neo-cortex short circuits, and the reptilian part of my brain comes to the forefront, insisting I go into protectionist mode. You don’t want the lions to know you’re the sick zebra.

Instead of telling anyone that death appeared imminent, I instead tell Evan that I have to go to the bathroom. Nobody notices this is weird, as I just went. He smiles and says he’ll wait in the parking lot. I go back inside, get halfway across the crowded dining area, and pass out. As I fall I grab the straps of a woman’s purse that’s hooked over the back of her chair. I try to keep myself up, but I go all the way down. I immediately come back to, and stagger to my feet. I hear a guy laughing. He thinks I’m hammered. He says, ”oh my God!” while laughing, in that “I can’t believe that girl is so trashed!” kind of way.

My response? I slur at the man, “be cool, dude. Be cool.” Clearly, I was not in my right mind.

I manage to get myself into the bathroom and I close myself into a stall. I try throwing up, but nothing comes. I try going the bathroom, and that’s when all of a sudden I was in a wonderful place. It was garden-like, my friends were there. It was peaceful, pleasant, there was much laughter. I remember thinking, “this is so lovely, I’d like to stay here forever.” But there was something nagging at me, something trying to tug me away from this heavenly spot. It was a voice. It sounded alarmed. And slowly, my focus returned, and I realized it was the voice of my waitress.

Who was scaling the wall of the bathroom stall in order to come save me, as I had passed out, hit the concrete floor with my head like I meant it, and given myself a concussion.

The nimble woman managed her way over, unlocked the door and soon I was being tended to by a cadre of truly awesome women. People, tip your servers nicely. You never know when they may be saving what little of your dignity you have left. Yes, dignity, my friends. As attentive readers may have noticed, I was trying to go the bathroom when I Greg Louganis’ed my way into the concrete. Which meant that while my mind was in heaven, my body was sprawled out on a dirty bathroom floor, bare rump side up.

Not only was it as awesome as it sounds, it was even awesomer than that.

As I’m assisted into a sitting position I hear some of the servers suggest I am intoxicated. My waitress, God bless her, insists that I didn’t have much to drink, that there was no way my problems were being caused by alcohol. I vaguely gestured in her direction, slurring, “what she said.”

So, after some time Evan appears, and a bit after that, the EMTs arrive, and, finally, I puke up all that fried stuff in my stomach. And I immediately feel ten times better. Although still concussed.

Eventually it’s time for me to make my exit. I am, how do you say? Ah yes, humiliated, but there is no way out other than to go through the dining area. My sweet waitress assures me that we’ve been in the restroom so long every table has since turned over. I leave the bathroom and find she is right. It is a small comfort as I make my walk of shame to the parking lot.

And so, kids, the lesson here is – stay hydrated! Hydration is important! Without it, you can pass out half naked in public and that’s not fun! So don’t learn that lesson the hard way, take it from me – drink eight glasses a day, no matter what!

Yesterday, my friends, I went on a trail ride that will live on in infamy as the single greatest cluster to have occurred at our fine equestrian center.

It began more than a month ago, when Mr. Jones came by the barn. He was asking if he and his friends could park here. They were all going to “car pool” down to an Atlanta Falcons game, the “car” was a gigantic luxury coach bus they’d rented, and it needed room to turn around. We said sure they could do that, and Mr. Jones added that his son, his wife and three kids were coming for Thanksgiving and they wanted to ride horses on the Saturday following Thanksgiving. We said that’d be great.

The Falcons game arrives, and again Mr. Jones mentions the ride. They wanted a ride for four, but Ginger has been out with an abcess. They amended the ride to three adults and two kids for a pony ride. He says, “make the reservation for after lunch.” Then gets on the bus and leaves. Well, “after lunch” really isn’t too specific, and we’d already booked one ride in the early afternoon. I begin a game of phone tag with Mr. Jones that goes on forever, and he’s clearly annoyed by it. Which, in turn, annoys me. Finally, we connect and I book him for noon.

Now, a month goes by. Our schedule becomes so complicated with families booking, canceling, re-booking, changing their schedule, on and on, you’d need a flow chart to follow it. And also, three days ago, Butter’s arthritis flared up to the point she was put on stall rest.

Now, we have a black book in the office where rides are scheduled, and a giant erase board calendar on the wall outside. Somewhere in all that hullabaloo, that Jones family disappeared.

On Saturday we started very early. I had two pony rides, given two one hour lessons, ran to get lunch, because we had the Whitakers at noon, and when I came back – there were Joneses. There for the 11:30 ride. (11:30??? I have no idea where that came from.)

OHHHHHH NOOOOOOOOOO….. Says I. In that deep, distorted-by-slow-motion sort of way.

Melissa and I go into frantic mode.

Melissa, aboard Gigi, leads a trail ride. This one did not involve a near death experience.

There was much confusion and chaos, but ultimately we ended up with the little girl on Lady, the brother on Scout, the dad (a complete novice) – on Gigi – our new horse who had never been ridden EVER by anyone other than a very experienced rider, and the mom on Ginger.  Please do not call PETA on us. Melissa and I debated it long and hard, and Ginger had not been limping, she was six weeks out from her abcess, and so we put a boot on her and off we went.

Melissa and I are on foot.

I lead the way, with Lady behind me, and I have to set a wicked pace so the horses don’t get too jammed up – they need to be properly strung out. Plus, I had adrenaline on my side. Right as we’re leaving the arena, me in the front and Melissa in the back with the dad and Gigi, Melissa says, “can you do this by yourself?”

I practically yell, “NO. I need you with me.” Melissa laughs, “I’m not sure I am going to make it.”

I start cursing Melissa in my mind. What the hell is she doing? Trying to abandon me with these four complete novice riders, most of whom have never even sat on a horse before. I was angry. And so I walked faster. Now, I am short, but when I want to walk fast, I can hustle. So we’re flying along this trail, it’s an hour long, a lot of hills. And I mean HILLS.

We get halfway around. Now, we did this trail THE DAY PRIOR. What is in our way? A gigantic tree that has fallen across the trail during the night. It was semi-rotted, but truly a massive tree. At least 14 inches in diameter. We couldn’t walk over it because of the limbs and because that trail is like a gulley – the tree had fallen, hit the other side, broke in the middle and sat there making a V shape. I told Melissa to stay with the riders, that I was going to move it. I go over there and try to move it. There is no way. But I think, maybe I can break off enough limbs that they can walk over. So I am struggling with this, and Melissa says, gruffly, “you can’t move it so stop trying.”

 Nobody tells me I can’t move a downed tree. It is what I do.

I grab a limb and haul one end off, but I can’t let it go or it’ll roll back into the way. So everybody has to pass me while I am holding it in place. The mom was seriously freaked out. 

We continue on, and as Melissa led the group past the tree, she wound up in front and now I was back with the dad and Gigi. And he starts going on and on about how wonderful she is. He’d only ever ridden his sister’s Appaloosas, he said, and they’d thrown him twice. Gigi was a “babydoll” he said. Which made me smile. 

He also said he knew his dad was furious about the reservation problem but that he’d talk to him. 

We’re getting kind of close to the end, and kind of close to the end is one gigantic mother of a hill that goes straight up forever and forever. Melissa stops and says, “you’ll have to take the lead.” I’m thinking she needs a break from setting the pace, so I take over and march up the hill. Now, once you get to the top of this hill a bad thing happens – it keeps climbing. Not nearly as steep, but you don’t get a break. So I am climbing and climbing, head down, just doing it. This goes on forever. We finally reconnect with the main trail. The dad says, “I guess we lost somebody.”

What? I say.

“Yeah, Melissa’s not there anymore. I guess she got tired.”

Everything inside me freezes – MELISSA IS SEVERELY DIABETIC.

“Can you do this by yourself? I don’t think I can make it.”

Code words from a diabetic trying to tell her friend that her insulin pump isn’t working. What does her friend yell back?

“NO. I need you to come with me.”

I THEN REMEBER I DON’T HAVE MY CELL PHONE.

I tell the family Melissa is a diabetic and the father offers me Gigi. I say that’s okay, and I run as fast and as hard as I can back down the trail. There is no Melissa within 200 yards. I come back, and tell the dad that yes, I will take his horse. I would have rather had Lady, but I couldn’t take the horse from the little girl, Ginger was hurt, Scout had a little boy on him – only Gigi makes sense. But Gigi is young, green, and extremely herdbound. EXTREMELY herdbound. She’s only been taught one thing – walk on a trail.

The dad offers me his helmet and I decline – I remembered he was wearing a large, and that’s too big for me, and I can’t take a helmet off of anybody else. I don’t adjust the long, long stirrups, because I am figuring I am going to find Melissa and put her up on Gigi and she has such long legs.

I dramatically tell the dad, “I need you to lead your family back to the barn!” It was very Last of the Mohicans.

And off Gigi and I go, and bless her heart, she gives me no problem. Except she’s definitely freaking out on the inside, wondering what’s going on, feeling my tension, but I just keep telling her what a brave mare she is, and she believes me. We run back to where we last saw Melissa – there’s no Melissa. I cannot figure out where she could have gone. I run up the big long steep hill, and at the top of that hill is Petey the Mule’s pasture. He belongs to a neighbor. We race to the top of the hill, and Petey appears, spooking Gigi, who rears and wheels.

Now, you could say I fell off, but I think it is more accurate to say I made an emergency dismount.  I landed on my feet in any case, and took this as a sign that I needed to go ahead and shorten the stirrups.

I get back on and decide to head to the gatehouse. As the crow flies it’s not far away, and I figure if Melissa realized she was in trouble, she may have gone there. In any case, I can ask for help. Between Gigi and I and the gatehouse is woods, Petey’s pasture, and manicured landscaping that lines the drive to the gatehouse.

Unbelievably Gigi is incredibly brave and generous about wading through woods, snaking along Petey’s pasture, and putting a good number of hoofprints into the landscaped hillside.

We then go trotting right down the middle of Cleo Chapman Highway, as I am hoping the guard will see us and come out. That part was actually kind of cool. Our gatehouse is very grand, and I thought that this must of have been what it was like coming up to a big estate before there were cars.

Anyway, fantasyland aside, the stupid guard sees us, but won’t come out. So Gigi and I have to go through the gate like a car. I tell him what’s going on and circle while he’s making calls. Gigi doesn’t mind the traffic too much, but not getting anywhere, just circling, is making her antsy.

Finally the guard finds Melissa – she’d regained consciousness and cut straight through the woods towards the Equestrian Center, and because she had her cell phone, was able to call Hugh the maintenance man for help, and he had come and gotten her. She was okay.

So, there is nothing for it but to hoof it down Cleo Chapman Highway. We have ten minutes before our next ride, and Gigi and are I needed.

We trot along the side of the road for about a ½ a mile. Everybody who passes us waves, like oh look! Isn’t it nice to see a girl out for a ride on her white horse! And I wave back like, yeah! The last hour and a half have been fantastic!

Gigi and I arrived on time, and after a brief break, where Melissa and I strangely spent about ten minutes laughing hysterically, we took out an incredibly uneventful ride with the Whitakers, who had kindly allowed their ride to be bumped back to one.

 The end.