Considering the self-congratulatory tone of my most recent articles I have decided to write about my most glaring mistakes. Whew, where do I even begin with such a cornucopia of errors at my disposal? My father once told me, “Brenda, you don’t mess up often, but when you do, it’s big.” (I had backed his car into a ditch and he had to call a tow truck to get me out.)
1. When I was 16, I was taken in by the police for underage drinking because I hid in the party host’s closet instead of running. Actually, that’s pretty funny now that I think about it.
2. I forgot to send my bridesmaids invitations to the rehearsal dinner. Fortunately, I had bought them each a Pashmina, so they forgave me.
3. I used to carry a Glock for work sometimes. One night, after a particularly exhausting day, I remembered that I left it in the car and went downstairs to get it. On the way back upstairs to my apartment, I accidentally opened somebody else’s apartment door thinking it was mine. It wasn’t in its proper case, it was in my hand. Hilarity ensued.
4. I did my own fresh floral work for my wedding. The night before the big day, I realized I had forgotten to order greenery/filler from the wholesaler. As a result, I was up until past 4 am cutting green stuff from my front hedges for the centerpieces, hoping none of my neighbors saw me since there was really no adequate way of explaining what I was doing with pruning shears out front at 2 am. My bouquet greenery wound up being fronds from one of the palm trees.
5. When my husband and I first started dating, he let me play amateur landscaper/gardener. I tore all the existing stuff out. I planted all new stuff, none of which grew. My mother-in-law resented me for a while over this one.
6. I accidentally broke my mother-in-law’s heirloom crystal pitcher by pouring boiling water into it.
7. I accidentally broke the sprinkler pump by leaving it on overnight. Fortunately, I bore a male child. Now I’m golden.
Ok, that’s enough self-flagellation for now.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Restaurant Review: Bern's Steak House, Tampa
Bern's is awesome. I highly recommend it if you're ever in the Tampa area and someone else is paying. Plan on between $100-$150 for two, without alcohol. They have one of the most famous wine cellars in the world. Take the tour (they offer one to diners). The wine list is the size of a phone book of a large city. Vermouth is served with an eyedropper. They grown their own vegetables and fish is fresh from tanks. Actually the decor is one of the things they are known for, I think it's cool, most think it's garish, especially the lobby. Think Victorian House of Ill Repute. I'd tell you how I know what a bordello looks like, but that's between me and my priest.
A must do is the dessert room. It's separate from the dining rooms. You get up from your table and go, but is available separately from dinner, in fact, a lot of people do that.
It's gotten a reputation as too touristy now, and some say it's gone a little downhill since Bern passed on. I've seen incredibly negative reviews and have no idea what they're talking about. Every time I've been there it's been consistently excellent in every way.
Snooty but true story: When I was in treatment somehow a group of us got to talking about restaurants and stuff since the food was so bad. Keep in mind this was like a last resort type place, state funded for people with no insurance, the end of the line so to speak. Being completely oblivious to my surroundings I piped in with "For the best steak you really have to go to Bern's." Blank looks all around. The director, who knew me well by this point, said "Notice how she didn't mention Quincy's." My own blank look, followed by "What's a Quincy's?" (Apparently it's a chain type place like Ponderosa or something.)
A must do is the dessert room. It's separate from the dining rooms. You get up from your table and go, but is available separately from dinner, in fact, a lot of people do that.
It's gotten a reputation as too touristy now, and some say it's gone a little downhill since Bern passed on. I've seen incredibly negative reviews and have no idea what they're talking about. Every time I've been there it's been consistently excellent in every way.
Snooty but true story: When I was in treatment somehow a group of us got to talking about restaurants and stuff since the food was so bad. Keep in mind this was like a last resort type place, state funded for people with no insurance, the end of the line so to speak. Being completely oblivious to my surroundings I piped in with "For the best steak you really have to go to Bern's." Blank looks all around. The director, who knew me well by this point, said "Notice how she didn't mention Quincy's." My own blank look, followed by "What's a Quincy's?" (Apparently it's a chain type place like Ponderosa or something.)
Saturday, June 23, 2007
My Ellie May Life
I’ve been feeling a lot like Ellie-May Clampett lately.
I should begin by telling you a little about where I grew up. Philadelphia homes are mostly rowhouses. Or, as other folks call them, “townhouses.” Personally, I don’t like that euphemism. It sounds pretentious to me. And we Philadelphians hate pretension. Common childhood expressions were: “You ain’t the boss of me!”, “Who died and left you boss!?!, and “Who do you think you are, Mr. Big Shot!?!”. In any event, we all had the same floor plan. Thus, it is a concept with which I’ve had a hard time coming to terms. It never occurred to me that one could have a choice in such things.
Fast-forward fifteen years and I am a suburban housewife. When I married my husband, my daughter and I moved into “his” house. It’s a semi-tricked out ranch with wood floors, crown molding—fancy stuff I’d never heard of while growing up. (My father actually had his baseboards carpeted and flecks of glitter mixed in with his popcorn ceiling. Sorry for the visual. Please accept my apology).* Because our current house was purchased before we met it has never truly felt like my own, or even “ours”. Even most of the furniture is his. I always feel funny about making any changes, as if I need permission or something.
Now we are planning to have a new house built. I’ve hit the big time. Ain’t swimming with the guppies anymore. No sirree! (Cue Jefferson’s theme song.) Giddy with joy, we put the ranch on the market and chose a custom builder in New Braunfels, TX. It’s extremely exciting, yet bewildering and scary at the same time. I’ve never done this before. I have no frame of reference.
What I’ve come up with so far is a 2 story white brick country French style home—2600 square feet of fun (not too shabby for a formerly homeless mentally ill drunk!). Heh, heh. (Yeah, so, I married well—don’t hate). Is it any wonder I’m crazy about that man o’ mine? These are the major decisions I’ve made so far:
Instead of a formal dining room (we use the one we have now twice a year—max) we’re going to have a media room (AKA hubby’s play room). Although I will miss my formal dining room, as a practical matter we’ll get more use out of a media room. My dining room table holds laundry much more often than food.
Instead of just a breakfast nook, we’ll have a semi-formal eating area just off the kitchen with a fireplace so it will also function as a sort of hearth room.
I’m going to have an island in the kitchen with a secondary sink. Yay me! (Golly Paw, you mean we get to pick our own faucets!).
Particularly exciting is the master bath’s walk through shower and the morning kitchen in the upstairs loft/gameroom.
Since I can, I’m going to have a studio. (I jump up and down and do an Elaine-style happy dance at the thought of this one!)
OK, now that I’m done bragging (Gee Paw, look at them there fancy colored rocks for countertops! Granny: “I wouldn’t trust no flat shaped rocks. Can’t they afford that new-fangled laminate?”) let’s hop into the Way-Back Machine and head to the year 2000.
When I was living in a halfway house, we had daily counseling. One day the counselor brought in a stack of magazines and told us to make a collage of what could be possible in the future, if we stayed clean and sober. Since she said possible, not probable, I let my wild imagination soar. I cut and pasted wood floors, a piano, crown molding, and fresh flowers in a beautiful vase. Sometime later, I asked to see my chart and saw that the counselor’s note for that session read, “Brenda’s expectations seem unrealistic.”
I forgot all about that collage until one day in 2004. I was in my kitchen arranging flowers I grew in my garden. I was standing on hard wood floors. I looked up at the crown molding. And I cried.
My name is Brenda and I am an alcoholic.
P.S.: I’m still working on the piano.
* Sadly, this wasn’t in the ‘70’s, it was in the ‘90’s.
I should begin by telling you a little about where I grew up. Philadelphia homes are mostly rowhouses. Or, as other folks call them, “townhouses.” Personally, I don’t like that euphemism. It sounds pretentious to me. And we Philadelphians hate pretension. Common childhood expressions were: “You ain’t the boss of me!”, “Who died and left you boss!?!, and “Who do you think you are, Mr. Big Shot!?!”. In any event, we all had the same floor plan. Thus, it is a concept with which I’ve had a hard time coming to terms. It never occurred to me that one could have a choice in such things.
Fast-forward fifteen years and I am a suburban housewife. When I married my husband, my daughter and I moved into “his” house. It’s a semi-tricked out ranch with wood floors, crown molding—fancy stuff I’d never heard of while growing up. (My father actually had his baseboards carpeted and flecks of glitter mixed in with his popcorn ceiling. Sorry for the visual. Please accept my apology).* Because our current house was purchased before we met it has never truly felt like my own, or even “ours”. Even most of the furniture is his. I always feel funny about making any changes, as if I need permission or something.
Now we are planning to have a new house built. I’ve hit the big time. Ain’t swimming with the guppies anymore. No sirree! (Cue Jefferson’s theme song.) Giddy with joy, we put the ranch on the market and chose a custom builder in New Braunfels, TX. It’s extremely exciting, yet bewildering and scary at the same time. I’ve never done this before. I have no frame of reference.
What I’ve come up with so far is a 2 story white brick country French style home—2600 square feet of fun (not too shabby for a formerly homeless mentally ill drunk!). Heh, heh. (Yeah, so, I married well—don’t hate). Is it any wonder I’m crazy about that man o’ mine? These are the major decisions I’ve made so far:
Instead of a formal dining room (we use the one we have now twice a year—max) we’re going to have a media room (AKA hubby’s play room). Although I will miss my formal dining room, as a practical matter we’ll get more use out of a media room. My dining room table holds laundry much more often than food.
Instead of just a breakfast nook, we’ll have a semi-formal eating area just off the kitchen with a fireplace so it will also function as a sort of hearth room.
I’m going to have an island in the kitchen with a secondary sink. Yay me! (Golly Paw, you mean we get to pick our own faucets!).
Particularly exciting is the master bath’s walk through shower and the morning kitchen in the upstairs loft/gameroom.
Since I can, I’m going to have a studio. (I jump up and down and do an Elaine-style happy dance at the thought of this one!)
OK, now that I’m done bragging (Gee Paw, look at them there fancy colored rocks for countertops! Granny: “I wouldn’t trust no flat shaped rocks. Can’t they afford that new-fangled laminate?”) let’s hop into the Way-Back Machine and head to the year 2000.
When I was living in a halfway house, we had daily counseling. One day the counselor brought in a stack of magazines and told us to make a collage of what could be possible in the future, if we stayed clean and sober. Since she said possible, not probable, I let my wild imagination soar. I cut and pasted wood floors, a piano, crown molding, and fresh flowers in a beautiful vase. Sometime later, I asked to see my chart and saw that the counselor’s note for that session read, “Brenda’s expectations seem unrealistic.”
I forgot all about that collage until one day in 2004. I was in my kitchen arranging flowers I grew in my garden. I was standing on hard wood floors. I looked up at the crown molding. And I cried.
My name is Brenda and I am an alcoholic.
P.S.: I’m still working on the piano.
* Sadly, this wasn’t in the ‘70’s, it was in the ‘90’s.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)