Monthly Archives: October 2017

Pump Up The Volume

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Pump Up The Volume

Things have been super heavy lately. Time to take a break from all the heartache, put on some party hats, turn up the music and dance on the tables….metaphorically speaking.

Pump Up The Volume by M/A/R/R/S –

 

As I’m listening to this song, I’m transported back to the late 80s when I had a part time job video taping weddings. Pump Up The Volume was played at 99.9% of the weddings I attended and we all did the electric slide to it. That was a fun job except for the 37.5 pounds of equipment that was attached to my body for 8 – 14 hour days depending on the wedding package the bride and groom settled on. Scratch that, depending on the package the parents of the bride were willing to buy. Actually the job was fun most of the time, it just lacked in consistency. The work was steady May – November but you never knew what kind of party it was until you got there.

Sometimes we taped the bride and her bridesmaids getting ready for the wedding. This added 3 to 4 hours to the day and maybe got me an extra 30 bucks so, meh. I was young and broke so I slipped into my pseudo tux (complete with black bow tie), set the alarm for an ungodly hour and schlepped to wherever I needed to be. It was usually a row house in Chambersburg. At the time Chambersburg was about 112% Italian and the weddings became somewhat predictable. We affectionately referred to these brides as “Burger Bits”.

There was always a Tony or a Vinny to greet me at the door along with duplicates of Lisa and Maria. There was always food – Italian bakery cookies, crumb cakes, fresh fruit and coffee. God bless them for having coffee at every hour of the day. The houses were small and the families were large. Cousins, blood and honorary Aunts and Uncles, “business associates” and neighbors galore. There was usually someone on the line from Italy kissing into the phone. The mother of the bride oscillated between being on the verge of nostalgic tears and ready to skin someone alive for transgressions like – not getting all the lint off of a suit jacket or bringing the wrong brand of milk to go with all of that coffee. It was….intense.

The brides were beautiful and sweet, all the time. I was amazed at their composure while I stalked them with a large video camera and a light that could double as a beacon for wayward coastal ships. They were poised, confident and radiated happiness. There were a few exceptions but nothing like the Bridezillas you hear about today. If they got the “getting ready” package their video inevitably included this song –

 

Dear Gawd I hate that song with the heat of a thousand suns. I don’t know how Phil, the owner of the company, didn’t off himself after editing his 7,341st bride getting ready to that song. I still have nightmares about it. After capturing the happy bride and her bridesmaids in all of their glory, I was off to the church to secure a good location.

Parking was always a bitch in Chambersburg. And having to park half a block or more away from the church was fine, if you didn’t have to haul half your body weight in equipment to and from the car. Add rain to the mix and well it just sucked. The churches and priests varied on their rules for video taping weddings. The alter was almost always off limits in Catholic churches and sometimes you could feel the resentment from the clergy. They didn’t consider us a value add to the holy ceremony. I wasn’t there to have a philosophical debate I just needed to shoot the damn wedding. I already had issues with the Catholic Church and this hostility didn’t help matters….but I digress.

After the ceremony and the inevitable humungous receiving line, there were always family photos in the church. I’d stick around for that and then get ready for the official “photo shoot” which would take place in a park or at the reception venue. The Photographer called the shots, I just hoped for some candid laughter and smiles among the wedding party. Something to make the video look different from the Photo Album.

After the Photo Shoot it was time to get to the reception. If I was lucky there was time to pee and eat a granola bar. By this point I was usually 8 hours into the day and in need of caffeine to get through the next 6 or 7 hours. The reception is where things got really interesting or really boring. I would bounce between the guest cocktail hour and the bridal party which was usually in a separate “VIP” room. The VIP room typically had it’s own bathroom, bar service and food. The wait staff was always on full ass-kissing mode around the bridal party so if you’re looking for the jumbo shrimp, that’s where it resides.

You could tell a lot about the future of the marriage based on the cocktail hour. Some couples were already pissed off at each other which wasn’t a good sign. We did have repeat customers for some second and third weddings, true story. Also, the way people treated the “staff” varied wildly. I was either treated like family or a piece of furniture, there was no in-between.

Some families had us eat at the parents table, which seems over the top to me. Um, we just met 10 hours ago shouldn’t I be in the back of the room with the co-workers that they “had” to invite? Other families didn’t reserve us a meal at all. A 14 hour day and no meal for the skinny video chick. The photographer always got fed, we were second class citizens until the boss finally added it to the contract. I’m sure for some people it just slipped their minds, so the addendum to the contract helped them to remember.

My job was to capture candid, happy moments when guests least expected it. It’s difficult to creep up on people when you’re sporting a 3 foot long camera, 12 inches wide with a blinding light attached to it. Good thing I was cute and friendly. Some guests simply weren’t having it and I got the “no, honey” look with hand gestures that sent me on my way sans coverage. I used to joke that some of these people were afraid they’d get ousted on “America’s Most Wanted” until I realized that some were likely mobbed up and that I should keep my mouth shut.

I always got hit on by some drunk guy in the bridal party. I managed to avoid bad situations by making sure I parked near other guests and always made trips to my car when other people were around. It was a definite downside to the job, I had to be extremely careful.

The best weddings were the ones where my boss worked with me. Phil became a close friend and it was always more fun when he was around. He loved the MC Hammer song – “U Can’t Touch This” and we always stole a dance when the DJ played it.

This song always puts a smile on my face (unlike that hell cat “Going to the Chapel”) and makes me think of my friend.

 

 

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Of Course, Me too.

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Of Course, Me too.

“Me too” is trending on social media right now. It’s a way for people (mostly women but not exclusively) to identify that they have been sexually harassed or assaulted at some point. At the risk of sounding trendy, this is a tinder box of triggers for a lot of us.

Where to start…..early y’all I grew up in the 70’s when women were definitely not seen as equals. I was a kid – probably 5 the first time someone tried to get fresh with me. We were visiting a friend of my mother. It was a family but the guy and his offspring were overly sexual. I remember seeing boob mugs and a novelty lady parts on the guys desk. His son, a few years older than me, kept trying to get me naked. I was 5 years old. I refused to get naked for him despite his relentless requests.

Fast forward to me at 7 years old, living in New Jersey. There was a teen boy that lived by my babysitter. He got me to make out with him in a fort. What teen wants to make out with a 7 year old? He was definitely a predator in training. I remember him telling me how we would get married when I was 16. Even at 7, I knew he was full of shit.

Leap to my teen years and I wasn’t making great life choices. I had a brief stint with drugs and alcohol which lasted about 18 months. It was the early 80s and there were times when I was stupid enough to hitch hike, sometimes alone. One time in particular, the driver took me to a remote location. I knew I was in trouble and my teen brain was in overdrive. I liked to think I was cool but I was very inexperienced and afraid. I talked my way out of an assault by making up a story about a boyfriend in South River that had ties to the mob. I rattled of names of guys and streets that were completely fabricated. The driver must have believed me because things didn’t escalate. That was a really close call.

Fortunately I stopped drinking and using drugs at the age of 15. I got sent to an adolescent rehab which was a fairly new concept in 1983. Ten months later, I was in a sexual relationship with the man who was previously my counselor in rehab. I have tried to convince myself that this was consensual. It was in some ways but it wasn’t a level playing field. He was 32, I was 16. If a 32 year old man shows any interest in my daughter when she is 16, there will be hell to pay.

When I started working, harassment was just another thing you had to deal with on the job. I was a cashier at a grocery store for several years in my late teens. One older man in the dairy department insisted on hugging all of the girls and then he would make comments about their breast size. I hated this and mentioned it to management. The hugging stopped but I was looked at as a trouble maker from that point on. “Oh, it’s no big deal, he’s just old and likes hugs” my co-workers would say. “Really” I would retort, “he just commented on your cup size.”

I worked for a large corporation in the early 90s. I was good at my job and got consistent promotions. I was there about 4 years when one of my former managers heard that I had ended a relationship. The next day a box from Victoria’s Secret was on my desk. It contained two camisole nightgowns with matching robes and two pairs of thigh high stockings. It cost a small fortune and instantly made me feel uncomfortable. This man was no longer my manager and we rarely spoke. And if that wasn’t enough, his wife worked for the same company. So I handled it in a way that would leave him some dignity. I thanked him for the gift and said “I’m sure you only meant this as a friendly gesture but it makes me uncomfortable”. I requested that he take it back, he refused and I let it drop. By this point, I had learned the importance of deescalation.

I remember going to a sober get together with male acquaintances that said they would not give me a ride home unless I blew them. I started walking and they eventually caught up with me to give me a ride but I didn’t feel safe. Even sober, I could not escape creeps. There was one man in particular that would go to the same weekly AA meeting as me, he harassed me every time he saw me. Every. Single. Time. The kicker was that he sponsored my sponsor’s husband. She had a fit when she witnessed his behavior one night. She had not idea he treated me that way. To me he was just another asshole that I tried to ignore. It didn’t even cross my mind to tell her about it.

I will say these things don’t happen with the frequency they once did. I’ve been married for 15 years and I am self-employed. I’d like to think the world is starting to change but it is more likely that I have aged out of the target zone. Now my focus is preparing my children for the situations they may encounter. Time to make “me too” the exception instead of the norm, it’s beyond time.

 

 

Last Call

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Last Call

I encountered a situation yesterday that was a first in my ten years as a hospice volunteer. A couple of days ago the Volunteer Coordinator sent out an email asking for a volunteer. She gave a summary of the case including the town, first name of the patient and a description of the requested visit. The patient was in my town so I responded immediately that I would like to help this family. The next day a secure email was sent to me with the patient name, address and contact information.

Last night I called the patient’s wife to schedule the visit. A woman answered the phone and I asked if it was Helen, my contact. “No”, the shaky voice replied. I explained the reason for my call and a slight sense of dread was building. “No need to visit, he died about an hour ago. He’s still on the floor waiting for the funeral director to get him.” I could hear the tears in the voice on the other end of the phone and then it clicked, I know this person.

“Jan, is that you?” I asked, sure that I knew the person on the other end of the line. “Yes” she replied. I gave my full name, said how sorry I was and asked if there was anything I could do in that moment. There wasn’t anything to do, except to express my deepest condolences which is what I did. She thanked me for the call and we said good-bye.

I could picture my acquaintance on the phone. Tears, that keep coming when you think you’re all cried out. I could feel her concern for her newly widowed mother. I wondered if she ate dinner or if she would sleep over her parents home to ease the adjustment of that awful first night. I imagined a fitful night with not much sleep, except for an hour or so when the emotional exhaustion just overwhelms your body and forces you to rest despite your mind’s best efforts to keep you up. I could sense the headache, the nasal congestion and the scratchy throat, remnants of many tears shed. I felt her grief and I took a little piece with me. I still have it.

Sir Drake

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Sir Drake

My son takes legendary shits. He started in his toddler years and in his well-traveled youth, has destroyed bathrooms all across this great land. He’s also taken his toilet destroying ways across the pond. It’s seriously something we need to consider when we plan a trip.

One of my husband’s favorite tales to tell goes back to when our boy was about 4. They were on a man trip to NYC and were in the bowels of the city (sorry couldn’t resist) when need struck. At first my husband was hoping to find a bathroom that wasn’t in the underground but nature wouldn’t wait. So they had to find a bathroom in a NYC subway station.

I’ve lived most of my life within a fifty mile radius of NYC and have been there many times. In my almost half a century on this earth, I have managed to avoid subway bathrooms. In fact I have a knack for finding decent bathrooms wherever I am. Pro tip, higher-end hotels typically have nice bathrooms near the banquet rooms and they are almost always unlocked. You can usually cruise right in unless you are sloppy drunk or look like a homeless person.

After my husband confirmed that our son “really” had to go, he found a bathroom attached to a Dunkin’ Donuts. For those not familiar, Dunkin’ Donuts sells donuts and coffee and they are not known for having spectacular bathrooms. The Dunkin’ Donuts in a crowded subway station are less than ideal.

The details are sketchy and the “incident” happened a decade ago…I can tell you this, the hubs got our boy out of there as quick as possible. Something about the toilet making a weird gurgling sound…comparable to the death rattle sound that people make with their dying breath. There was a line of still drunk and hungover customers waiting to use the facilities and my husband gave the “it’s broken” warning before picking up the boy and high tailing it out of there. They heard screams behind them in their haste to exit but they didn’t look back.

I’ve lost track of how many times we’ve had to search for plungers in vacation rental homes. The more savvy rental units have a plunger visible others don’t and that results in an awkward phone call or a trip to the local hardware store. He’s usually good the first couple of days on a trip but then when the “back up” gets cleared, things get dicey.

A couple of years ago I was reading in my bedroom when my son ran in with a panicked look on his face. “Mom there’s water coming in through the laundry room window”, he said sounding scared. Well that doesn’t make sense I thought to myself and got downstairs in record time. Turns out the water was coming from the ceiling. I ran back upstairs and discovered the problem.

My son had taken a crap and then took a shower. He didn’t notice that the toilet was still running. Toilet water and sewage was overflowing, I quickly shut off the water valve. I heard screaming from downstairs and knew that my husband was aware of the situation. It was a bit of a mess but the damage wasn’t too bad. The laundry room got a face lift with new drywall and a paint job. We wondered if we could avoid this in the future.

My husband is an Engineer so he’s analytical by nature. Whenever we need a new appliance he spends hours researching the available options, creates a spreadsheet and consults the Gods of Reason. He doesn’t “rush” into things, his decisions are practical and well thought out. So when he decided to buy a new toilet for our son’s bathroom, I was confident in his choice.

The “Drake II” by TOTO (not the band) was the winner. My husband was determined that this particular toilet would take care of our clogging problem. He read the specs and was intrigued by the “double cyclone” feature. It sounded more like a carnival ride than a toilet to me and we were all pretty excited about it. A few days later, Sir Drake, the second, joined our family and has been a beloved member for 3 years now.

And for the record, I have received no compensation for this post. We simply appreciate a good product that lives up to it’s promise. We aren’t alone, there are tons of positive reviews online. Some are very enthusiastic. Here’s part of my favorite Drake review:

5.0 out of 5 starsBuy it! Buy it now! This is a great toilet

on May 27, 2014

For all the greatness that is the Toto Drake 2, it gets better. One might think that it isn’t possible to improve upon perfection. One would be wrong. With the addition of one small accessory, your life not only has meaning, it has new direction. It is possible that after installing this item that one day you might be the President. Or CEO of GM. Choose your lofty goal. With the addition of the wax-less seal made by the clever people at the Fernco company, your joy will be complete.


So ride. Ride your steed to elysian fields of glory. Ride like the wind.