Extended Family Blogging

Well, as my friend PC got me into blogging, so too have I introduced my cousin to this part of the online world.

I've included a link to her (mildly) amusing blog in the link section.

Enjoy!

Mandarins are special people food

“Mandarins are special people food. When we have guests come over, we want to be able to go to the pantry and know that there is a tin of mandarins in there.”

I can remember my stepmother being very empathic about this. She was furious that she'd found an empty tin of mandarins in the recyling.

With three teenagers at home, my parents had begun shopping at Price-Costco, buying the family groceries in bulk. The station wagon would pull into the driveway and they'd call my siblings and me out to the garage to help begin carting in cases of more green beans than anyone would want to eat in a lifetime as far as I could see. They'd gone overboard with French’s dried onions, canned peas, raisins and the aforementioned tinned mandarins in light syrup.

Not even extra fancy mandarins mind you, or mandarins packed in juice. Just your regular, run of the mill, light syrup mandarins.

Now, I have never, ever, ever, seen my parents serve a dish containing mandarins to guests that just “pop over”. A vodka tonic or other refeshment - yes. Tasty nibbly crackers with aged cheese and olives, yes, but mandarins? Tin opened and plopped into a bowl? No. Never. Not once. My Dad hasn’t in my recollection ever presented a mock Chinese stir-fry with mandarins to people that just happen to visit. He’s whipped up Indian chicken vindaloo, marinated beef satay, embezzlers purses, spinakopita, roast beef with roast vegetables, Boeuf Wellington with homemade horseradish. All of these items have been served to folks that have visited, but, none of these dishes contain mandarins.

Which is why it was curious that the parents of a family on a budget would be so up in arms that one of their teenagers had eaten a tin of fruit that cost under a dollar, way less than a dollar when you factor in that they were buying pallets worth of the same thing. A true low cost meal.

When I moved out, the first thing I bought when I went the grocery store was tinned mandarins. Drunk with new found freedom and purchasing power they were the first item opened when I got home and I ate them all - straight from the tin. I even left the empty tin on the counter for a few days.

So, if you happen to drop by, while mandarins are special people food you won’t find them here. After several months of gourging myself on the things, I can't stomach them now. I do however like knowing that I can get them whenever I want. So, if you do happen to drop my, how about some capers instead?

Wanna taste of the ladies?

Cleaning up my apartment, and I came across what should be really be a prior crime shot. A picture of how I saw my brother for the 1st 13 years of my life.

Fist raised, coming towards me for some "excersise", or "rough housing" as my step-mother put it.

Note the rings, and the nice snap buttons on his blue shirt. I had one in brown...

These boots were made for walkin…

A sentence to be wary of in any on line profile is “I like cowboy boots.” Take it from me.

It was one of those rare, rainy California weekends. The kind of indoor day that drives me to the net to pass the time. It so happened that I’d been chatting online, back and forth with a guy via email for a while. Will and I had gotten to the point of exchanging numbers and were around to the point of actually speaking on the phone.

You can tell a lot from a person by their voice. Someone might be able to maintain a fun face behind their email program, but it’s a lot harder to hide being a dud when you’re on the phone. From our conversation, all seemed normal and nice. Will and I shared musical tastes, we were around the same age, had comparable senses of humor - these are all good things to have in common.

So after an hour or so of chatting on the phone I agreed to drive on over, we could watch a bit of television, chat in person, maybe head out for a coffee or something.

Upon arrival, Will meets me on the landing in jeans, boots, a white t-shirt. He ushers me into his apartment where a Seinfeld rerun is just beginning. All normal there. He offers me some bottled water, and then asks “Do you like cowboy boots?”

Now, this is not a question I generally get, or, truth be told, expect. I often get where are you from, how long have you been growing your hair, do you pay taxes, are you legal, that sort of thing.

Thinking fast I explain that I don’t “own” any cowboy boots, but, I have in fact worn them on stage for several shows I’ve been in. Truthfully I only remember wearing them in Annie Get Your Gun, but I probably wore them in another production at some point.

My answer seems to please Will. He follows his first question up with “Would I feel embarrassed wearing them in public.” A little strange, but, I answered, that, no, I don’t think I would be.

Now, while I found it strange, the question caused me to have a sort of out of body experience. I was suddenly caught in a vision of all the “Help Desk”/Technical support assistance guys I’ve known at previous jobs. I could see the guys wearing cowboy boots with their acid wash jeans, old heavy metal rock concert t-shirts from the 1980s that they haven’t been able to give up tucked in and belted tight. The Scorpions logo stretched across an ever-expanding waistline.

I really need to learn to say “yes”.

Anyway, Will was delighted with my answer, and, he ran into the bedroom and returns with 3 pairs of cowboy boots; camel brown, black, and taupe. Will then asked me to put on the pair that I liked best.

Which is how I came to find myself on his couch, bottled water in hand and a pair of tight fitting black cowboy boots watching Seinfeld, desperate for the show to end so I can put my nice Rockport blue shoes back on and leave.

I don't cry at weddings

As a rule, I don't cry at weddings. Weddings don't normally move me one way or another. I can understand the emotion being them - two people so in love, saying they'll spend the rest of their respective forevers together, blah, blah, blah - but, I just don't connect. I guess I just don't believe in forevers anymore.

Perhaps it's due to my parents divorce happening when I was so young. I don't remember them ever being together. My brother and I were one of the few children growing up with divorced parents in New Zealand, so I may have had a jaded outlook on the entire marriage affair. I mean, if it (it being divorce) could happen with my parents, then it, meant people change, and, what's todays' truth isn't necessarily tomorrows' truth.

So, seeing people up in front of others talking about their undying love has always seemed a little, well, hollow.

I can remember my Dad's remarriage. I was mad. Mad as hell. In my defense, I was 9. And, AND! I had never met the woman he was marrying. I didn't even know my Dad was seeing someone! We,( "we" being my brother, my Dad & I) were living in Brunei at the time.

For the school holidays my brother and I had been visiting my Mum in New Zealand. Surprisingly my Dad met the Air New Zealand flight my brother and I were on in Singapore. Ok, hold onto your hats - this was 1981, and kids flew alone all the time. I normally got to hand out the sweets at the end of the flight being a "help" to the airstewardesses. In any event, my Dad had me walking to Kindergarden when I was 4 years old. So, (working on) intercontinental flights was nothing.

Anyway, we didn't end up back in Brunei. My brother and I were hauled into a cramped phone booth in Changi International Airport in Singapore, we had a receiver thrust into our hands and we were made to listen to some American chick with a really weird accent tell us how excited she was, that she couldn't wait to meet us and become our "Mom".

It's still a sore point to my step mother that in her wedding pictures I have a look that can peel paint at 15 paces. Well, it's 1981, so I think she should be pleased I have an artistic look on my face rather than having a bad perm (which my Dad had) and shoulder pads (which she had). Still, they're not my wedding photos so I guess a little peevishness on her part is forgivable.

My brother got married in the late 1990's. The boy that had hanged my soft toys from my bedroom ceiling, mummified my Wonder Woman doll, strapped me to a tree and whipped me with holly, tried to suffocate me, got me drunk, kept me from seeking medical help when I had a fractured arm, complained that he didn't get a slurpee when I'd split my knee open, did drugs scott free while I was suspected of being an addict, shot small animals and skinned them, the boy that had administered daily beatings to me, got married.

Somewhere, the boy had become a man while we weren't together. He'd found a woman to temper him, and married her. The same violent child had been remade as an urbane man burst into tears seeing his soon to be wife walk down the aisle towards him.

Still - no tears from me there. Dry as a bone.

Though I almost did come tears at being made to watch their wedding video under duress. Thank goodness it was only the "highlights" and not the whole damn thing. I had to be there for the live event for heaven's sake. We're only on this earth for a short time, and your time shouldn't be taken up with watching someone else get dressed up and walk down an aisle on telly.

Which brings me to last Sunday. My friend Megan got married in San Diego, to a man she's loved for years. I began cajoling her once she broke up with the "love of her life" when we were both coworkers. I'd helped prod her towards this new man, this wonderful guy, that unfortunately wasn't gay, Well, if I couldn't have him, someone I loved should.

She's feisty, funny, smart, strong, caring, witty, locquacious, loving and Megan posses a beautiful soul.

So, seeing her get married was the 1st time I think I've experienced what marriage is truly about. Megan was married in San Diego, at the Catamaran Hotel, on October 9th, 2005 right on the beach.

As she appeared on a balcony overlooking the sand and surf, the sun highlighted her dress, making an aura around her. She descended the steps glowing, looking remarkablt like an earth goddess of old - tears held in her eyes as she made her way down the aisle on her fathers arm. Megan had eyes only for Jim, which was probably for the best. She even forgot which hand to place the ring on when the time came.

But, as I sat watching the ceremony I was surprised to fell wetness on my cheeks. Well, rules are made to be broken.

I was crying at a wedding, and it was quite ok with me.

That's the natural look?

Agent hunting is hard work. I have an agent at the moment, but of course, you’re always looking for the next step up until you’re with a top tier agency.

Along the way you’re sure to meet up with some, well, questionable folks.

I had a call a couple of months back now, from an agents assistant who’d seen my headshot and asked if I’d come in for a meeting with the head of their commercial division. Sounded great to me, so muggins said yes!

Well, to be fair, I submit myself on a daily basis, and with my day job I sometimes forget everything I’ve submitted for. And, it’s not unheard of to be called in for a job based on your headshot.

Anyway, the call turned out to be a cattle call for the agency in question. The audition was to memorize some copy (a photo copy of a loan ad for the guys, and a moisturizer magazine ad for the girls) and then do a read for the head of the commercial division. I’m not sure how you head yourself, being the only commercial agent on staff, but there you go. Melissa, the head of the commercial division headed herself.

They’re actually a small to mid size agency, they have a name, they’re not in the top 10 by any means, but, they’re bigger than the agency I’m currently with.

So I gave my reading of the “copy”, and was told that I did a great reading. Then, Melissa asked if I was currently signed to an agency. I explained that yes, I was. To which she replied, “Then what the hell are you doing here?” I mentioned that they’d contacted me, and asked me to come in.

Well, we chatted for a bit, she wanted to know if I skateboarded, I don’t, but, she asked that I contact her in a week if I was still interested. I left quite pleased, having successfully auditioned for a short film earlier that week.

I was still very interested, until I started receiving the agency emails.

Now my current head shots are theatrical, rather than commercial. Melissa wanted me to get some new commercial head shots done which is not unheard of. She also included a list of photographers that the agency recommends, and asked to be contacted prior to booking the shoot. Part of their contract required their final sign off on any photographer.

Well, all the photographers that were recommended were a tad on the expensive side. And while Melissa was touting how wonderful they were, I couldn’t help thinking that I was looking at proof sheets from the 1970’s. The majority of submissions are done on line these days, yet, they also recommended a printer for getting pictures run off.



I couldn’t see myself getting any photos done with the recommended lot, so talked with my good friend Elena (who has some superb headshots, both commercial & theatrical) and made an appointment with her guy – for less than 1/2 the price of what was on Melissa’s recommendation list.



Well, Melissa said no, I couldn’t use this guy, and that I need to pick someone from her list to make sure I “didn’t get the wrong shots”, as she didn’t want me to “throw away my money”.

To which I replied “it appears that the recommended photographers are rather expensive for the service they’re performing. Do you receive a commission or finders fee for referring clients to them?”

Melissa wouldn’t answer this question, but, she DID direct me to another photographer, not on the main list, which she thought might be a better fit.



Needless to say, I didn’t end up signing with her after that!

But enough about me, what do you think of me?

Now, don’t get me wrong, you can’t like yourself too much. The Charlie Brown record I owned as a young child taught me that. Lucy coming over the mono speaker saying she had "thick beauty" that went down "layer after layer". Wise words indeed.

Lucy said she’d been loving herself for years, and still felt she had a long, long way to go. When poor moon-headed Charlie Brown asked if she felt she might be conceited Lucy replied with all the disdain that Lucy can muster that that, was impossible, as you can’t like yourself too much. Formative words for a 6 year old.

And, surprisingly spot on. Well, comedy is like that, a kernal of truth surrounding a joke. Though how better off would so many people be if they could just love themselves the way they are.

Which, brings me to a date of a while back; Rudel. We’d met online, had chatted back and forth in emails for a while. Exchanged photos, telephone numbers and thoughts on a number of topics.

Rudel had a lot of pictures to share. Most of them “pensive”. That is, him, looking off camera with either a thoughtful or constipated look. Depending on how you interpreted the shot. Sometimes combining both, a constipated expression wondering when a bowel movement would occur.

Anyway, we met for dinner. I had decided upon Indian, and Rudel had agreed. He informed me upon picking me up that he was vegetarian. Well, a vegetarian that ate fish, milk, cheese, just no beef, as his body no longer produced the enzymes to digest red meat.

I was tempted to ask what tests he’d performed to ascertain this sudden lack of enzymes, and did we perhaps need to stop by an emergency room. Anyway, the dinner was pleasant, though I found myself getting more and more waspish by the end of the evening. I considered myself lucky to get out of there for a $40 meal.

Well, Rudel had a better time than me, as he asked me out again. I guess being a sucker for a pretty face, or a glutton for punishment, you be the judge, I went. This time it was Japanese, where I was maligned for liking California rolls. Needless to say, I didn't pay this time.

Well, longer story longer, we went to his place to chat after dinner. Where I noticed upon walking him, a picture of him. Nothing too unusual about that, other than it greeted you upon walking into his place. Rudel eagerly offered to give me a tour of his apartment.

In the hallway, his cheery face greeted me from four pictures, in the bathroom Rudel looked again pensively downwards (the constipated look suitably fitting the room). The guest room had more shots of his face, and his master bedroom had him not only on the bedside table, but also on the walls. Framed, and lit.

I mentioned the many photographs of himself that were adorning the walls. Rudel was shocked to think there might be someone else there.

He ran to get a photo displayed on the coffee table with him, and his nephew. He was adamant that he didn’t only have pictures of himself displayed. I asked if the only reason this was out was because he really liked the way he looked in the shot, and the nephew was only incidental. Rudel mumbled something about liking the way he looked in the picture, but, his nephew was there too. Which is an error I’m sure would be corrected once Rudel became more proficient in Photoshop. Nephew, what nephew?

Now, I finally think I met someone who liked themselves too much. I do have pictures of me at my house. However, these are with friends, not solo. In fact, the only solo shot I have displaed is one that was taken by my mother, and I didn't tell her to take it.

None of my other pictures are of me, posed by me, directing friends to take me in the “pose” I had adopted. Rudel proudly explained that he’d thought of each shot, and had made his friends and siblings take the pictures. Then he broke out his laptop for an evening of viewing him in different poses in places he visited.

For some reason he started to get offended when I asked if there were any pictures with his shirt off. Don’t get me wrong, he had plenty of shots of him without a shirt, and in his underwear and swimwear. But, he was offended that I only wanted to see those.

He stated that if I thought of him as just meat, I could leave.

So I did.

I mean, don’t press me, give me an out, any out, I’ll take it!

Thank fully he hasn’t called again.

But, at least I’ll always have the (many) pictures he gave me.

Not long for this world

When I was growing up in New Zealand, my older brother was my nemesis. We’re 18 months apart, and actually get along really well now. J used to great pleasure in beating me up, and I took great pleasure in trying to avoid daily beatings.

I had some very good friends when I was younger, all girls which apparently was of some concern to my father, but not so much the various psychologists he consulted. Anyway. stayovers were always a treat.

I had an extensive collection of stuffed animals; I still have most of them now! There’s Koala Bear, Gregory – Koala Bears’ best friend, Yellow (a yellow bear), Dumpty Doo, and a whole bunch of others. Thinking back in their names right now, I see that I veered from the very creative “Dumpty Doo” to the banal “Yellow”, who is, in fact, yellow.

I remember staying over at my friend, Jodi Ann Parker’s house. They had this huge dog; well, huge to a 6 year old, called Dfa. “D for dog” was his full name, but we all called him Dfa. I guess I also had friends who were either lazy, needing help remembering that it was a dog and not a cat, or, really cutely creative. You be the judge.

The house where we lived at the time in Khandallah was called Minihaha. Named after the Indian princess. How a house in New Zealand built in the early half of last century was named after an American Indian princess is strange and a mystery I never looked into, but there you go.

My brother J and I finally had separate rooms at Minihaha, having shared a rooms since we were tiny. Mine private room being called the “old kitchen”. It was actually the old kitchen. It had a pantry, which you could access by rolling up a panel in the wall. This made the room rather cold during the New Zealand winter, and just as cold during the week of the New Zealand summer.

Anyway, I digress. I returned to Minihaha from my sleep over to find every soft toy I owned gently swinging by their necks from rope nooses all fixed to the ceiling of the old kitchen. Apparently as I had not been around for my brother to pound on, he’d taken to lynching all of my precious soft toy friends. A mass hanging is not something an under 10 year old reacts to well.

Forget about your worries and your wife

Had a VERY strange dream last night - it was a Doris Day/Cary Grant movie. An old Hollywood Comedy. The plot was Doris Day as a hussy stealing Cary Grant away from his wife. Being an old Hollywood Comedy there was, of course, musical numbers. What I remember best is Doris Day singing to Cary the following - to the tune of "The Bear Necessities":

Forget about your worries and your wife,
If you find that you can get with me,
We'll see how far we can be.

Hey - I just dreamed it, I never said my unconsciousness was the Tim Rice of lyricists....

Birthdays!

Birthdays, what to say about birthdays? Well, another one of mine has come and gone. This year with intentionally little fan fair.

Now, my brother and I have had a contentious relationship throughout the years, with us settling into an affectionate comradeship that could never have existed 15 years ago. This year I sent him an electronic birthday greeting, to which I received “Big D, a virtual card, how thoughtful. I shall place it on my virtual mantelpiece in cyberspace for all my virtual friends to see.”

J (my brother) & M (my sister-in-law) always seem to take holidays in celebration of my birthing. Here is the (real) post card I received from them this year:



“Dear Big D,
As has become our custom, we have once again celebrated your B-day with a trip to an exotic location. This year we have gone all out! We have taken a suite at the City Palace complex in Vdaipur on the shores of Lake Pichola. And last night for your birthday we dined at the Lake Palace Hotel, which floats majestically in the middle of the lake. Look it up on the web, search “Lake Palace Vdaipur.” A grand opulent affair – no expense was spared on this special occasion. I hope you appreciate it, we always try and do something you’ll enjoy.
Love,
J & M
*A word of advice, if you travel to India, remember this. – Do NOT eat chicken curry at a small roadside restaurant in the middle of NO WHERE – run by Hindu vegetarians who have never heard of salmonella! The result is as bad as what you can imagine!”

They’ve traveled to Indonesia for my birthday, Fiji & Tonga too! They must certainly hope I live a long time so they can continue their August travel tradition. I’m sure if I pass away in the near future they’ll just switch it to a memorial tour, but that doesn’t have the same panache as a birthday bash.

This certainly was a year for postcards. My Mum sent me a postcard too – my Nanny (grandmother) had a stroke earlier this year. Mum has had her moved to a full time care center in New Zealand. I found out late last week that Nanny believes it’s 1946. She knows she’s not in her 40’s, and accepts she could be 70 or 80, but she is firm on the year being 1946. Nanny doesn’t know who Mum is, who her grandkids are or really why she’s in this strange place. She isn’t talking, but she is beginning to write again which is how Mum has been communicating with her. For my birthday Nanny signed a postcard for me, “love from Nanny.”



I think that may just be the best birthday present I ever got.

Friend's Like These

My pen pal in England – yes, a true blue postal service using pen pal – asked for some recent pictures of me. Well, specifically she asked for copies of my latest headshots. So, being a nice pen pal I sent off a couple of pics for her perusal.

I just got her return letter, “par avion”, I have it in front of me so as not to miss quote. Her first, FIRST sentence, mind you reads “Just got your pics/letter today, tah – can’t believe how much you’ve aged!!”

Not only did she use two, count them, TWO exclamation points (!!!) she apparently “can’t believe” that I’ve aged. We’ve been writing now for about 12 years, did she think I was friggin Peter Pan for gods sake? That perhaps like Dorian Grey I have a portrait stashed in the attack?

Well, just another reason to dislike the English as much as the French I say.

On a note of why America isn’t as bad as the Canadians think – I was carded buying champagne today. In a Trader Joes I frequent no less!! (A sentence that *deserves* two punctuation marks.)

So take that English pen pal, yeah, while you may think I have “aged unbelievably” I still get carded when shopping for libations.

A nothing post.

Well, here I am again on my blog, blogging. It took a while to find a browser that was compatible with the darn site. Nice. Listening to Swedish pop, now, I don't understand Swedish but I'm sure it's all very tasteful.

Speaking of tasteful, I'm still not sure why my mother likes underwear purchased in America rather than New Zealand, but she does. I've again been tasked with picking up new smalls & body lotion for her. There's nothing quite like going into Target & searching through the lingerie section for a soft cup 40D bra. If you haven't done so, please go, don't take my word for it.

When will the day arrive when a man can't search for large soft cup bras without encountering looks? Hmmm? When is that day going to arrive?

I also find it hard to believe that in all of New Zealand there's not another skin lotion as good as African Royale's "Soft As Me" skin lotion. However, my mother won't hear of it. So, I've been given $100 U.S. dollars to get the lotion that she proclaims causes her skins to sing "food" when she applies it.

Now, just how many bra's I can get for $100, and how much lotion you can purchase for another $100 I'm not sure, the only thing I am glad of is that these items aren't found in the same store.