I Love Annie

Son #1 and I went to a retro 50's diner for a cheeseburger the other night. (One word review: Yuck.)

We were just hanging out, waiting for our food when his eyes opened as wide as saucers. "Was Grannie an actress when she was younger?"

I turned to look at the TV screen behind me where "The Lucy Show" was showing. "No, that's Lucille Ball. She's a famous comedian."

"She looks exactly like Grannie!"

He then proceeded to point out every expression. "Did you see that one?!"

I had never noticed the similarities before but he was right. Grannie, who is also really funny (but more sarcastic than silly), missed her calling.

It Feels Like the First Time

Thanks to Facebook's "People You May Know" feature, I feel so almost famous (circa 1980-something). I'm hot blooded. Unless I have double vision, or Facebook is playing head games, I have eleven friends in common with the lead singer of Foreigner. He's a juke box hero. A dirty white boy. He's probably waiting for a girl like me. It's urgent.

Check it and see . . .

In other news, I want to know what love is.

When I Live My Dream

Years ago, I had a series of recurring dreams in which I was hanging out with Robert De Niro. In my dreams, we were always close friends. He would be sitting in a chair, wearing glasses, reading a book under a lamp while I lounged on the couch writing in my journal. I'm not sure we ever spoke. We were just comfortable together.

One morning in the late 90's, there was a report on the radio that De Niro was allegedly involved in a prostitution raid in Paris (note: never proven). For a split second upon hearing the news, I thought "That's impossible, he was with me last night." And a second later, I realized that my dream life was merging with reality.

Good Lord. That's probably how crazy people, like the chick who was arrested for stalking David Letterman (who, coincidentally, lived with my not-really-my-cousin Clare at the time), become insane. It could have been me. Poor Bobby.

Last night, I woke up in a bed, under a green blanket, with Albert Brooks. We were joking and laughing a lot. Later we met up with John Travolta for gin and tonics. (Do Scientologists even drink?) Then I ended up in a limo with Kelly Preston, Jennifer Aniston and some other famous chick (maybe Nicole Kidman but I hope not). We were driving around, putting on bright red lipstick and talking about whether to go out in Rochester or not. May cause a huge stir and not be fun at all, right? It's tough to be famous sometimes.

Then I woke up . . .

Coffee Anyone?

The attached, "must read" article from my brother Kevin is a great study in cultural anthropology.

In it, three things can be noted:
1) Owen Wilson is called the "Butterscotch Stallion"? Ew.
2) Coffee as a euphemism? Really?
3) Remind me not to move to West Hollywood any time soon . . .

Let's hope our country's shift to sea-to-sea conformity (vs. regional differences) maintains some boundaries; otherwise, I'm staying in the drive-thru at Dunkin' Donuts until at least the second date.

We're Too Cool to Fool

My mom and I went to the Clothesline Festival at the Memorial Art Gallery last weekend. It's remarkable how a) the artwork doesn't really change year-on-year and b) a lot of the entries probably shouldn't be called art. (Note: I thought it was called the Clothesline Art Festival but it's not. Did they remove the "art"? Or was it always sans "art"?) Anyhoo, it's just fun to stroll around outside on a warm, sunny day with my mom and people-watch.

We came to a stall where a photographer was displaying pictures from all over the world. I commented on one and he responded, "That was taken right here in Webster -- where life is worth living."

I said to him, "Love that. Is that the only town in the area that coined its own tag line?" and he said, "No, Irondequoit has one: Home of the Irondequoit Mall."

Compelling. And no longer true.

As I was driving to a client this week, I noticed that the town of Chili is "Home of Little Guy Soccer." Wow. What on earth? With a big claim like that, it just has to be something that other towns don't have (i.e., like the 1,300 kids ages 5-12 in the Pittsford Mustang Soccer Club), so can it be (fingers crossed) midgets? Inquiring minds want to know.

I think I want to start working on a tag line for Pittsford.

Some of my initial thoughts include:
Pittsford. Puts you there where things are hollow.
Pittsford. What you like is in the limo.
Pittsford. What you get is no tomorrow.
Pittsford. What you need you have to borrow.
Pittsford. Nien! It's mine!

But I think my favorite is:
Pittsford. I reject you first.

Thoughts?

Polyester Bride

My girlfriend Katherine used the following expression when talking about her love of George Clooney, “He would look so good on me.” True. He would look good on all of us – not at the same time, mind you. During that same conversation another girlfriend, Christine, claimed Matthew McConaughey as her own. Yep, he’s hot alright.

In this fictitious world we were living in (i.e., the one where we could date famous men), I couldn’t figure out who I wanted. Most stars are too good looking whereas I like intelligent and quirky. Tom Cruise is a one-man freak parade. Brad Pitt is way too cool and cannot be trusted. I was mulling over the benefits of Jon Stewart v. Paul Rudd – both cute and funny – when I realized that, the love of my life has been in front of me all along: John Cusack. My husband knows this but, somehow, I had overlooked him. Over the weekend, after watching “Must Love Dogs” for the umpteen time, which my husband taped for me for obvious reasons, it finally dawned on me that I should claim him after I repeatedly said to my children, “I’m in love with that man.”

Hot and talented -- presumably with good taste in music (can a man be judged by the soundtracks of the films he’s in or the Ramones t-shirts he wears when in character?), he’s sooooooo mine. And he has the world’s best bonus: a fabulous sister who may be even cooler than he is. Holidays would never be the same! I wonder if he likes unfamous, married, suburban, 40-something housewives with children . . .