Seeking LVHWM

I didn’t realize that Starbucks is a pickup joint until this week, when I saw a man make a move on the woman in front of him in line. From where I stood waiting to pick up my iced venti Chai Tea Latte, I first noticed the woman when she walked through the door in her tight jeans, super-high-heeled black leather boots and tight, low-cut blouse. But she wasn’t overly sleazy, she was just dressed in the stereotypical “Las Vegas Hoochie with Money” style that is so prevalent, especially in Summerlin. She wore too much makeup, her hair was colored and straightened; she wore big jewelry and had manicured hands that are used to regular appointments at her local spa. The Vegas Hoochie with Money dresses fairly well but has no class – that’s what sets them apart. They fill the hottest Las Vegas clubs and restaurants where people go to be seen.

Anyway, of course I checked out her clothes, as women do, and suddenly I heard the man behind her in line ask if she was on Facebook. She flashed him a collagen smile, and they confirmed that they had probably seen each other there sometime. Obviously they are the types who collect Facebook friends as status symbols.

The man was another Las Vegas stereotype – the Las Vegas Super-Cool Guy. His jeans fell perfectly onto his expensive leather dress shoes; his shirt was just tight enough to show the line of his pecs caused by his daily gym workouts. His hair was overly styled – probably took him an hour and a half cup of hair gel – and he had a fake tan. The Las Vegas Super-Cool Guy doesn’t age well, because years of tanning and an overly cheesy smile tend to cause deep wrinkles.

These two Vegas types aren’t stupid; they just put image and money far above education. And by the way, don’t worry – if you’re reading this, you’re not one of those types. They wouldn’t waste precious grooming time reading about another person’s thoughts. It’s all about them.

Starbucks might as well have been a Club that morning, judging from the hardcore pursuit that happened by the stack of Chocolate Madelines and Petite Vanilla Scones. The woman turned to place her order, and Super-Cool Guy took advantage of the opportunity to check out her butt; she turned to speak to him again, so he got to check out her cleavage before turning his gaze back to her face. She turned back and forth between the Barista at the register and him several times, causing a sequence of eye movements – Face, Butt, Cleavage, Face, Butt, Cleavage, Face. He was in heaven.

It was time for the woman to pay, and Super-Cool Guy said, “I think I should buy coffee for two this time.” His cheesy swagger was so confident I almost laughed out loud. He had already caught me looking at them a couple of times, but I’m sure he thought I thought he was Super-Cool, instead of Super-Funny. The woman allowed him to pay for her coffee while I picked up my drink at the counter, and as I walked past to leave he was digging into his back pocket to give her his card.

They were humorously perfect for each other. Watch for them next time you are in a Las Vegas club – I’m sure you’ll see them. And if you’re single, consider Starbucks as your next mate-seeking location. I have proof that it can be successful!

George, a.k.a. Lassie

George knows that if he barks, it gets things done. Most commonly he barks when he can’t reach the rawhide bone he has hidden in the couch cushions or the toy that fell behind the end table.

But George has learned that his bark can do much more. Okay, don’t get your hopes up. It’s not like he alerts us to danger or barks to let us know someone is in trouble. Instead, he knows he can use his barking to his advantage.

George barks when he needs to go outside. Over time, though, we learned that he just stands by the door (and stares at us) when he needs to go out, so we tend to jump right up and open the door when we see him. Therefore, over time he learned that he can manipulate us that way. If we are sitting at the table eating, he will wait by the back door until we get up and fiddle with the lock, and then he runs to our now-empty chair and tries to get our food. Sometimes he doesn’t even care about the food – he just sits there in the chair as if to say, “Hello – where is MY spot at the table?”

Many times at night when we’re upstairs watching TV, we’ll hear George barking downstairs, and when it looks like he won’t stop, we go downstairs to see what he wants. It used to be that he wanted his bone that he couldn’t reach, but lately the bone IS in his reach; he just wants us to get it for him. Kind of like a baby who throws his toy on the floor just to create a game of watching the parent pick it up over and over.

But recently we noticed that George has a new demand. The other night we heard him whimpering and whining, and it continued until I got up to see where he was. I went to the top of the stairs and looked down in the darkness; then I flipped on the light switch. Immediately his whining stopped and he ran upstairs, past me, and joined Lance on the couch. He had been waiting for the stairwell light to be turned on. He’s done that several times since then, and we can’t figure out why he suddenly decided he doesn’t like dark stairs. But I don’t really blame him – I don’t go up stairs in the dark, either.

Resolutions

A new year, another list to make! I love to make lists - of things I need to do, places to go, books to read - a list on paper is a visualization of possibilites.

I also use lists as a way to get information out of my head so I can quit stressing. Why give yourself the pressure of trying to remember things when you can easily put it on paper? Mom taught me this valuable tool when I was a stressed-out teenager who couldn't sleep due to...well, whatever teens stress about. One night I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling, and when she asked me what was stressing me, I said in tears, "Everything!" So she sat on the edge of the bed with a pen and paper and made me list every single thing that bothered me: tests, rehearsals, an upcoming speech, an insensitive comment from a friend. And once everything was on paper, I saw that it wasn't so overwhelming after all. We looked at the list and determined whether or not I could do anything about any of the items. And after it all was out of my head and onto paper, I could sleep.

And boy does it feel good to mark off things as I accomplish them. When I was a kid and hated to clean my room, Mom used to write a checklist of jobs to help me complete the sometimes huge task. At the top she wrote "Shannon's To-Do List," and then drew boxes next to each item. I got immense satisfaction in putting a checkmark in each box as I put all my books on the shelf or put my stuffed animals on the bed. Lists made the job bearable.

I have about eight resolutions on my list for this year, and I predict that I will complete three of them. But that's okay. Some are difficult (finish my book, eat better) and some are easy (walk George to the park instead of driving, take my vitamins every day) but either way, when I accomplish anything I will be happy in the mere knowledge that I am bettering myself in some way. I'll find happiness in any small success.

Tonight my husband and I are going to watch the movie Patton, because we are making our way through the American Film Institute's list of the 100 best movies of all-time. When it's over, I will cross out the word "Patton" with a bright blue highlighter and bask in the satisfaction of another accomplishment.

Full House

We had twenty-four people at our house for a Christmas buffet on Saturday. Or to be more specific, we had 16 adults, 7 kids, and 1 baby. Writing this, I wonder at what age we start counting a baby or kid as a full person on a guest list...when they can walk? When they can eat a full meal? When they can contribute to conversation?

There was also one dog at the gathering...George, of course. In the early morning, George saw signs that people were coming over soon. We were in the kitchen early, moving constantly, cooking and clanging dishes. When George wasn't under our feet waiting for crumbs to fall, he was at the front window waiting for cars to pull up.

George's perspective of our get-together must have been confusing. Instead of getting his afternoon nap, he saw the house fill with feet and noise, then he chased kids from room to room (and humped them when the opportunity arose). Instead of having quiet, cozy time on the couch, he was petted by strange hands and fed crackers by a sly three-year-old. After the last person left four hours later, and after the mountain of dishes had been surmounted, George crashed with us in front of the TV, too tired to look up.

We were tired, too. I hadn't sat down or even eaten during the whole thing, fueled by adrenaline that kept me filling glasses and monitoring the activity in each room. I guess the fun of hosting a party is watching everyone else have fun, right?

And like George, we crashed on the couch, satisfied with our foray into the Christmas Party scene. 16 hungry adults, 7 hyper kids, 1 spitting-up baby, 1 spastic dog, and us. I'm glad we have a year to rest before the next one.

Mini Mice

This weekend, in the middle of Tech Week of Nevada Ballet Theatre’s production of The Nutcracker at Paris Las Vegas, I managed to find a few minutes in my schedule to sit in the audience during dress rehearsal and watch a bit of the Battle Scene in the first act.

Onstage, Clara fell asleep after parents’ Christmas party and the stage went dark, causing creepy shadows to fall around her. The music became sinister, and Drosselmeyer swirled his cape as Clara’s dream began. Then from a corner of the stage, a tiny mouse – a five-year-old child in a fluffy mouse costume – scampered across the stage, ran around Drosselmeyer and his cape, and then exited to the opposite side. And I began to cry.

Okay, I didn’t sob or anything, but the tears sure welled up.

I’ve always been a crybaby when it comes to live theatre or any type of live event that brings people together. When Jim Nabors sings Back Home Again in Indiana at the start of the Indy 500, I cry. When amid thousands of stranger in the stands of a baseball game who all stand together silently and respectfully for the National Anthem, I cry. And the Opening Ceremony of the Olympics? Forget it…I am a mess the whole time.

And sitting in the audience of a live performance always gets me (if it’s a good show, of course). There is a special magic in the air, when the composer’s creativity, the orchestra’s mastery, the performers’ enthusiasm, and the audience’s awe combine to give us…well, the best of humanity. In this age of automated phones, texting, TV, and mindless video games, we need more chances to come together and celebrate humankind’s creativity.

I sat in the audience this weekend, my eyes filled with tears, as the stage filled with tiny mice who scurried in well-rehearsed circles and fell to the ground and shook their feet in the air in fear of Drosselmeyer. These were the kids who had looked at me wide-eyed from their makeup-covered faces as they waited patiently in a line for their entrance. I adjusted their mouse ears and helped them find their lost ballet slippers. I marveled at their parents who volunteered hours of time to coordinate and corral a cast of 100 kids during the lengthy rehearsal process. This was the kids’ first live performance, and they were on the same Las Vegas stage where countless celebrities had entertained thousands.

I looked over at the Director who was giving notes over the microphone and hoped he wouldn’t look over at me. The Artistic Director of NBT also sat nearby, and I prayed he wouldn’t come talk to me and see my tears. But I couldn’t help my emotion – not only was it these kids’ first experience in the theatre, but it was also the show that my Mom took me to every Christmas – the music alone can bring me to tears because it encompasses all the memories and magic of Christmas.

I may be a slightly jaded ex-professional singer/dancer, but the magic of theatre still gets me. And I’m so glad that these kids are lucky enough to experience it.

I wish you all some tears of joy during this holiday.
Merry Christmas.


p.s. I watched the whole production on Sunday night and cried every time a new group of kids entered the stage. Boy, I’m a mess.

Happy Birthday

I hate cheesy, overly sentimental stories that are written solely to make the reader get all weepy, but this is the time of year when TV movies, shows, and radio programs pour on the sappy sweetness. In spite of myself, I have an appropriately heartwarming story for you.

My birthday was this weekend, and I reminisced about past birthday celebrations and tried to pick out my favorite memories. One of my favorites was when I turned 18 in London, and my aunt & uncle took my cousin and me to a Mexican restaurant in Leicester Square, where we celebrated my legal status with sugary margaritas and rides on the carnival attractions outside.

But the most touching birthday was when I was in high school and turned 16 or 17. My Drama Club had a Traveling Troupe that performed at local business clubs and organizations and took an annual trip to Madison State Hospital, a mental hospital where we met the patients and performed in each ward, sometimes with the doors locked behind us. We met shy teenagers who reminded us how lucky we were in our relatively-normal lives, sang songs in dingy rooms of senior citizens who joined in our choreography if they were so moved, and sometimes received marriage proposals from patients who hadn’t seen women in a long time. It was an eye-opening, meaningful trip for us privileged teens.

We happened to make that trip one year on my birthday, and we sang Christmas carols in a ward full of patients who had a tiny Christmas tree perched atop the piano. After our set of songs we mingled and greeted the patients, and someone happened to say that it was my birthday. This was great news to them. A man took a seat on the piano bench and played Happy Birthday while everyone sang to me. I sat on the bench next to him and smiled, surprised by the sudden attention.

Then a woman approached me and held out her hand. “Happy birthday,” she said shyly, and she gestured for me to open my hand. “Happy birthday,” she repeated, and she placed in my hand a shiny nickel. Surprised, I quietly thanked her and then watched her return to her chair by the window where she sat and watched the festivities in the room.

A nickel. It has to be the most selfless, meaningful, valuable gift I have ever received. I kept that nickel for a long time.

This year, to celebrate my birthday we went up to Mt. Charleston to build a snowman. He had curly “hair” on the top of his head, stones for eyes, and a small carrot for his nose, and we left him there in the forest to survey a nice view of snow-covered trees. He is probably covered in more snow by now, and I wonder if an animal has eaten his nose yet.

For my birthday, we also went to a movie, went out for high tea, and ate dinner at an expensive restaurant. But the simple snowman is what I’ll remember.

Christmas Trees

On Sunday we decorated for Christmas, and now the house has that festive vibe and a faint smell of pine. George spent the day following us from room to room as we unpacked boxes and climbed up and down ladders, and he finally fell asleep under the table during dinner because he didn’t get his usual afternoon nap.

I hadn’t planned on buying a real tree this year. Tired of the same decorations going in the same spot every year, I thought I would just make do with the small fake tree we usually put in the dining room. But at Home Depot on Sunday morning I had to walk past the area where all the trees were displayed and employees were cutting and wrapping trees, where families were picking out the perfect one to tie onto their car and take home.

It was the smell that got me - that sharp pine smell that suddenly made it feel like Christmas and put a warm, cozy feeling in my belly.

So I bought a tree in Home Depot. A small one that we put upstairs on a table in our TV room to be different this year. It’s short and fat and fun, and we covered it only with the ornaments we’ve bought when we’ve traveled, to make it personal and different.

Picking out a tree has to be at the top of my list of favorite holiday activities. It was always fun to go with Mom to the tree lot in the freezing cold and pick out just the right one. When I was little, my Grandma used to cut down a tree from the woods behind their house – usually a cedar whose branches were so flimsy that they would fall over like Charlie Brown’s tree when we hung anything on it. And before I was born, my Mom once used a tumbleweed as a Christmas tree, when she lived in New Mexico.

When our schedules cooperate, my husband and I go to Utah with our friends to get a tree from the forest there. And it is so much fun – her whole family piles into several trucks and we drive forever on bumpy unpaved roads to the location that her dad has scoped out already. And we walk, freezing, spreading out through the trees, searching for the perfect one. The great thing is that no one is rushed. No one gets impatient when I need to walk 100 yards back to the tree I saw before, just to see if it is better. They understand the fun of the hunt. And when everyone has their perfect tree, we throw them into the back of their pickups and head back to her parents’ house for hot soup and to warm up by the fire.

Tonight my husband and I will have our annual tradition of sitting by the Christmas tree after it’s decorated, with only the tree lit, and we’ll listen to Bing Crosby, sip eggnog, and sit and enjoy the calm of cold December night. I hope you all can find some quiet time by the tree, too.