One of the reasons I started blogging is that everybody who knows me sooner or later gets to hear all my stories. Repeatedly. I needed new victims. Preferably victims whose eyes I do not see rolling when I pull out my story again. Victims who I won’t hear saying “oh, not that one again.” Victims who are out of sight and will therefore leave me unaware when they run screaming from the room.
My fellow bloggers.
So today, on the magic day when all of Hollywood turns out, dressed glamorously (or incredibly hideously) for the Academy Awards, I will dust the red carpet off the story of my own personal triumph.
It was an incredibly special night for me. An honor really. Well, actually two honors. Two Oscars. Two Awards. But I only got to make one speech.
It was the summer of 1983, and some really fun people worked in my office, one of whom, Jon, was a summer intern from the DC area. Carol, Mike, Jon and I all went to Jon’s house one night. You see, 1983 was still in the Bronze Age, and Jon’s parents were on the cutting age of technology, because they had a VCR. And Risky Business had just come out on video.
In the middle of the movie, we took a beer/bathroom break. And guess what I spotted, casually stuck on the bookshelf in the TV room of Rob’s house.
Oscar
And Oscar
It turned out that Jon’s father was a filmmaker. Documentary films. So, in honor of my acting career that died in a broom closet, my pals presented me with two Oscars for Documentary Filmmaking. Sadly, not one of us had a camera. Probably just as well, because my career would not have benefited by all the publicity surrounded my wearing blue jeans during my acceptance speech.
Receiving Oscar, and his twin, Oscar, was a special honor to me, since I had neither made, nor been in any documentary films, nor even fetched donuts and coffee for the real filmmakers. Regardless, I got to hold Oscar and Oscar, and I got to make a speech accepting my Academy Awards. So I am in an unusual club of people who have never actually acted or contributed in any way, shape or form to a movie, who has been presented an Academy Award.
Yes, I’mthat good.
* * *
If you’ve read this before, I hope you screamed quietly.
One of my first bloggin’ buddies, Georgette of Georgette Sullins’ Blog tagged me for a blogging game. My choice of morning activities was to respond or clean the house. Guess which I chose.
The Rules:
1. Post these rules. (CHECK)
2. Post a photo of yourself and eleven random facts about you. (CHECK-ish)
3. Answer the questions given to you in the tagger’s post. (CHECK)
4. Create eleven new questions and tag new people to answer them. (CHECK)
5. Go to their blog/twitter and let them know they have been tagged. (I’m goin’, I’m goin’)
Here’s me. Sort of.
Yes, I’m a hairy beast. Mine is more blondish red, but same idea (Google image)
Eleven facts you may not know about me.
No one has ever accused me of being neat.
I went to secretarial school.
People for whom I worked as a secretary in the 1970s are still trying to find stuff I filed.
My interest in politics started during the Vietnam War but really took off in my freshman year of college when a professor suggested I take his course then next semester. He thought I was brilliant, so I took his course for an easy “A.” It was a course on the Kennedys — the best history course I ever took.
I cannot work on one thing all day. My mind bounces around too much. I call it a “Superball”; others say it’s ADHD. You choose.
My husband John and I were introduced by my old boyfriend, Erik; they worked together. John and I often sat next to each other at firm functions and insulted each other mercilessly. Erik used to get really mad at me because “other people just don’t understand that you are joking.” John and I started dating 4-5 years after I broke up with the other guy. The “people that didn’t understand” were a bit surprised.
I was Daddy’s girl from the start. I’m guessing conception.
My brothers and sisters didn’t hate me because Daddy liked me best. They used me to get Dad to say “yes” to something they wanted. Worked for me.
I routinely skipped school in 4th grade.
I feel panicky whenever I have to drive across railroad tracks after living next to the NY-New Haven railroad line growing up.
When we got bored just hopping across the railroad tracks when a train was approaching, my brother and I used to pull down our pants and then hop across the tracks in front of approaching trains. Yup, every day is a gift.
Now, here are my answers to Georgette’s questions:
1. Did you have a cousin close in age to you?
Maureen, my mother’s sister Ruth’s daughter is 10 months older than me. Aunt Ruth was a widow and she and Maureen spent most Sundays at our house. Aunt Ruth was always placing Maureen and me back-to-back to see which was taller. Of course Maureen always “won.” It used to make me cry. I didn’t like Maureen much as a kid. We’re great friends now.
2. What was the first novel that transported you?
My sister Beth used to read my brother Fred and I the classics, right from the start, and I’ve always read voraciously. But the first time I remember really consciously being aware of the power of words to transport was when I read Great Expectations. I was then at the intersection between my own childhood and adolescence. Dickens, who was clearly an adult when he wrote it, was able to go back so clearly and understandingly into Pip’s childhood feelings that I was comforted that I’d always be able to go back to mine.
3. Is the work you do to pay the bills a passion or practical?
My career has been completely accidental. In my teens I dreamed of being an actress and a singer. My mother worked in an office and it seemed like the worst sort of drudgery imaginable. In my arrogance, I knew I was better than that. More interesting. More creative. Smarter. (See The Silver Lining – thankfully, I grew out of being such an ass. Mostly.)
But I had health problems – colitis they thought (it’s actually Crohn’s). I would always need health insurance and so my parents forced me, kicking and screaming, to secretarial school.
They were right. I HAVE always needed health insurance. But I managed to turn secretarial jobs into other (still office-bound) jobs that have been more rewarding and really interesting. I have been incredibly lucky.
My current job is wonderful. I get paid to write and to learn and to look at this wonderful view every day from my office window.
(Google image)
I have no complaints about taking the practical path.
4. Do you have a favorite country western song? If so, which is it?
5. If you could (or do) grow a garden would there be flowers or vegetables to fill it?
The only successful gardens I’ve ever had were vegetable ones. There is nothing like the taste of that first tomato.
6. What would you like to see in the US that you haven’t seen yet? Or abroad?
In the US, I’d like to see some more of the west, particularly the National Parks – the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone (Jellystone would be nice, too 😉 I’d love to meet Yogi and Boo-boo)
In Europe, I’d love to see Rome. But not when they’re trying to elect a Pope.
7. Have you ever caught a fish? If so, tell us about it.
One summer night when I was 7, our first summer living near the beach, my brother Fred grabbed me and we ran to the beach. There was a creek that ran with the tide, which was coming in. Fish were swimming upstream to spawn. The moon was full and shining off the silver scales of millions of fish. We went in the water and caught one with our hands, took it home and put it in the bathtub. We were going to keep it as a pet. He(?) surprisingly died and we buried him in our garden that year.
I’ve never seen anything like it. We never saw the fish migrate like that again — it was magical. I think of it every time I see moonlight on water.
8. What’s your favorite breakfast, lunch or dinner meal?
Dinner: Roast beef (medium rare) with gravy, egg noodles and green beans. I don’t eat too much beef any more so it is a rare and wonderful treat when I do.
9. Have you been surprised recently? What surprised you? When?
Blogging has surprised me constantly since I started doing it. I didn’t expect to make so many friends this way.
10. What is a state you have never traveled to, but you plan to visit someday?
Colorado. I’ve never been and I love mountains. It sounds like the perfect place. I’d also love to visit the Pacific Northwest.
11. Is there a 2012, 2013 movie you would recommend?
Lincoln and the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.
Now I get to ask questions:
Were you closer to Mom or Dad (if you were spawned by aliens, please explain)
There are moments in history that everyone alive at that time remember (for me it was the Kennedy assassination). What was your first?
Favorite pet ever
Funniest quote
Best insult you ever delivered and why the recipient deserved it.
First memory
What do you dislike most about blogging?
Do your friends/family members read your blog?
How would you be using your time right now if you weren’t answering my stupid questions
Your dream job.
What you expect to be reincarnated as in your next life?
And now, my victims. Please feel free to ignore this or do it. It is your choice. I will not be hurt, I will not, in fact, stop stalking you. I chose folks I thought would continue speaking to me after naming them. If you’re not on it, you weren’t forgotten. But feel free to answer my questions. Feel free, in fact to make up your own.
Not a box of chocolates (milk — I wouldn’t dream of giving you dark).
Not skimpy underwear.
Just some important information from a fake medical professional and expert patient to ensure you can get those from someone else next year. And the next. And the next.
Know the signs and share this one with your friends.
But they can sure as hell piss me off. Especially when someone refers to folks, readers, women, whomever as “bitches.” As in “yo! Bitches! Listen up!”
It is meant affectionately, I’m told.
Ummm. No. I don’t think so, buckaroo. I think it’s offensive. Very.
Am I alone though? Am I the only one? Am I the only person of my gender (or any other gender) who is offended when referred to collectively as “bitches”? Female dogs? Am I the only person of either gender who thinks it is annoying or offensive? Am I truly a fuddy-duddy?
I thought I’d take a poll to see what my millions of readers think. Because I always forget to post the results of “Other,” I won’t include it in my poll — instead you’ll be able to see where your opinion is in the greater scheme of FiftyFourAndAHalf-dom.
Feel free to expand on your answer in the comments, folks. I’m sure I’ll be adding mine to yours!
Before 1986 there were two things in life I was certain about. Things I never got wrong on a pop quiz. Things that I could recite in my sleep.
First my name. Elyse Ellen E….
When I got married I didn’t have to change my name. That was until the woman I worked for at the time announced that I absolutely could not change my name. So naturally the decision was made and I changed it.
Besides, nobody ever pronounced my maiden name correctly; it drove me crazy. Nobody pronounces my married name right either, but it’s John’s name not mine, so I don’t care. Butcher away, folks.
The second thing I always got right was my birthday. January 18, 1957. Simple. Easy. I had a document from the State of Connecticut with a raised seal to prove that I was born on that date around 3 a.m. in the morning (sorry Mom and Dad). But I didn’t know that I would end up changing my birthday when I got married too.
Actually, I can blame this one on the same boss. It was Anna’s fault. Yup.
The summer before we got married, I was working as a high level lobbyist and John was a lowly government employee. OK, actually, I was a lowly lobbying flunky and John was pretty high up in the U.S. government. But still.
One afternoon when I was supposed to meet John for some wedding prep stuff, something earth-shatteringly important happened involving my job. It was so vitally important to the rest of the history of the world that I can’t at this moment quite put my finger on just exactly what it was.
Anyway, we were supposed to go to the DC City Office and get our marriage license. Now stop it, readers. This event was nothing like you see in those old movies, with movie stars in great hats.
Really, there was nothing romantic about it at all. I don’t think. Not so I’ve heard, anyway.
So anyway, John got our marriage license, and we got married a month or so later in a lovely church service in the church where John’s parents had been married 40 years earlier. Family and friends were in attendance.
All was good until my birthday rolled around, when John made a major confession.
“Ummm, Lease,” he said quietly. “When I got the marriage license, I mistakenly put down January 17th not 18th as your birthday.”
“You what?”
“Yeah. Oops. I guess that means that either your birthday is January 17th or we’re not married.”
“No, I’m pretty sure it just means that I married an idiot.”
We would have happily left it at that if it hadn’t been for my family. They betrayed me. Each and every one of them called me on the 17th to wish me a Happy Birthday that year — thinking my new husband would be taking me out to dinner on my actual birthday January 18th.
I have a large family. Even distant cousins nine times removed called on the 17th.
“See,” John said proudly, “I was right. Your birthday is obviously on the 17th because everybody is calling to wish you a happy birthday!”
This scene has been replayed every blippin’ year for 25 years. This year it will be an even 26 birthdays. And never a call on the 18th.
To make matters worse, though, I put the final nail in my own coffin myself last year. You see, I wanted to let all my bloggin’ buddies know it was my birthday. Plus I needed to address the glaring issue of my stupid blog name. And so I wrote this post: People My Age.
And because I didn’t know how to schedule posts in those days, and because a lot of my readers were from Europe and Asia, well, I posted it on January bloody 17th.
So this year I’ve given up. My birthday is January 17th from now on. Or the 18th. Whenever. Gifts will be gracefully received all month long, however.
FiftyFourandAHalf 