Tag Archives: Johnny Depp

Don’t Worry, Martin Scorsese, I’m not a threat to your career…for now

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Maybe this is the new path of my life’s journey–what do YOU think?
I’m sorta new to Facebook and Twitter and all other forms of social networking, but I wanted to upload the video I shot of TheFurFiles during our most recent Skyped chick date–a shopping adventure and the final reveal of the chosen gown.

After spending two days researching “how to” on Google and WordPress.com, I discovered that I can’t upload self-made video the same way as photos are uploaded unless I purchase the upgrade–which I’m not about to do YET–and you’ll most definitely agree with that decision–as soon as you view my first foray into filmmaking.

The only way I could figure out how to accomplish this was to first upload to my Facebook account and then inbed it as a link. This took about two hours, not kidding.

Attempts to be famous
I tried to create something spectacular in iMovie. As you will see and AGREE, that didn’t happen. What is most upsetting to me–and which I will share with you as a tugboat wife’s confession– is the knowledge that I studied filmmaking in graduate school at San Diego State University.

Yup, I switched mid-stream from Education to the Dramatic Arts with the hopes that I would be a force to be reckoned with behind as well as in front of the camera. And we know where that led to, right? It led NOWHERE.

Has anyone ever heard of me? Am I on any Red Carpet? Are paps following my every move? Do I have a plastic surgeon on retainer? Is Johnny Depp in my Rolodex?

Six degrees of separation from Dustin Hoffman without a restraining order
Well…at one time I did have Dustin Hoffman’s dad’s telephone number, but I called so much, they changed the number. That is a possibly true and possibly not true story. I won’t tell.

How I annoyed Gene Wilder
During the aforementioned carefree college days, I worked part-time at a restaurant in a fancy shmancy area on the a beach. I won’t give the restaurant a name because they weren’t very nice to me and I quit. If you must know THAT story–well–here it is.

I was the hostess/cashier and one day I had to leave my “post” to use the restroom. I’m a girl–we pee a lot and my mom said we should never hold it or we’ll get a UTI, right?  The maitre de (asshole) told me I COULD NOT GO UNTIL MY APPROVED BREAK TIME. Being the quick witted girl that I was learning to become, I told him that was FINE WITH ME as long as he cut a hole in the stool I was sitting on and put a bucket under it, because I was going to  urinate (yes, I said urinate, not pee) one way or another.  And then I got up,  flounced out, and never came back. True, true, all true, hand over heart, pinky swear TRUE. This incident happened AFTER the Gene Wilder adventure in humiliation.

Back to Gene Wilder. He was there. Eating. Not with Gilda Radner, but with a group of men. I can’t remember the year, but it was prolly around 1975-ish. Picture this. I see him. I’m thinking to myself, he’ll see me, want my number, my agent’s number, he’s gonna cast me in a film, I’m gonna be discovered, I’m gonna be famous, I’m gonna have a starring role, I’m gonna be FAMOUS with capital letters!!!! So…I fluff out my hair–you’ve seen it and you know that it needs no fluffing. (I can picture you shaking your head in agreement.)  I then UNBUTTON PRETTY MUCH MY ENTIRE BLOUSE so that my non-existent cleavage is fully displayed. I’m so excited that I’m hyperventilating, right? Can you see it? I smear on more lipstick and and lip gloss-a little pouty lip action–and saunter across the the dining room to his table. I channel my inner Marilyn Monroe….jutting our my best assets, and with a throaty voice, bend over to show it all, and I say,

“Uh, helllooo Mr. Wilder. I just love—”

That was IT. That was as far as I got, because he turned to me with his stupid blue eyes and ratty curly blond hair and replied in a curt and abruptly dismissive tone,

“Could you please go away and stop bothering us?”

and to make it even worse–if that was even possible–he followed that with

“And I’m not giving any autographs, either.”

Of course I turned the brightest shade of fuchsia, flop sweat formed under my armpits and dripped slowly down my body, and I tripped over myself as I swiftly slinked away, dying a little bit with every step. If only I could have had the courage THEN that I have NOW,  I would have told him he didn’t have to be so mean to a sweet and innocent nineteen-year-old with stars in her eyes. A little empathy–a little compassion-goes a long way. Perhaps events like this helped to form and engender the unleashing of my inner beeyotch. (And yes, he complained to the management about me.)

Back to the original storyline…

Baking
So far, TheFurFiles and I have had two Skype-dates. Apple pie baking was our first fun activity together. This was her first pie experience and she came through it without a scratch. Her pie looked amazing! (I’m a pretty good coach, if I do say so myself.)

Shopping
This time, she needed a couple of gowns for two special events and I thought I’d tag along to give my valuable input–but really, who am I fooling–I love to shop! Even though we’re 2833 miles apart. (I had to look that up cos I had NO idea where Ottowa was.) Picture this: I’m at home in SoCal, sitting on my pink and grey/green sofa adorned with animal print pillows–and I’m Skyping.

This is my beloved Bandit (deceased) who allowed us to share her sofa-sometimes.

This is my beloved Bandit (deceased) who allowed us to share her sofa-sometimes.

Ms. Furry is in a department store (geez, do they even have those things in the wilds of Canada?) with her husband wielding her iPhone and Skyping me. I have my basic point and shoot camera videotaping the “trying on” of gowns and cocktail dresses. It is her HUBS that can’t keep the phone horizontal. THAT isn’t my fault, but I left it in my clip thinking it made a sort of artistic point-but upon further reflection, I’m not sure what that could BE.

THE VIDEO
A disclaimer is important to post here. This is not quite the worst video you’ll ever see. The worst one EVER is the vid of my son’s commencement ceremony. Without a doubt, it would win every “worst ever” contest. This is a close runner-up. Go ahead and laugh, it’s OK!  Like the title of this post admits, I know I’m no threat to Scorsese! (One day I’ll figure out how to post my son’s vid and embarrass him and yes, that’s a threat.)

http://www.facebook.com/video/embed?video_id=159952094154849

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Daily Prompt: Circle of Five

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Daily Prompt: Circle of Five by michelle w. on December 12, 2012
A writer once said, “You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.”

If this is true, which five people would you like to spend your time with. 

My son, because life would not be worth living if he wasn’t in it.

yale prof studying

My husband because he is my BFF and he’s even my best girlfriend.

johnny depp

Not my hubs, but kind of maritime related and it’s Johnny Depp so that’s a good enough reason for me!

Hillary Clinton, ‘cos she’s totally brill and rad and tough and would be cool to hang with.

hilary clinton

My mom,’cos there’s lots I’d like to chat with her about that I didn’t get a chance to while she was living.

nurse at helm

Obvs not my mom, but she was a nurse.

Anne Frank, a tragic heroine that shouldn’t have died after trying so desperately to live.

anne frank

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Just a cup of coffee-The Love Story of Princess Rosebud and her Captain

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NEWS FLASH: I’m going rogue. I wasn’t allowed to post on #GenFab ‘cos I only have a business FB page and not a personal one,  but I really wanted to share my love story, especially now that the captain’s gone during the holidays and I’m missing him, so I’m going mavericky and I’m going rogue.

Today:  Sometimes he’s here, sometimes he’s not. That’s the life of a tugboat captain’s wife. Right now he’s not. What started out as a quick two-week assignment morphed into a two-month abandonment, a dereliction of duty and a period of enforced abstinence–which is a cosmically weird coincidence to how it all started.

weddingpicture

Yup, the secret’s out. I’m married to Johnny Depp

The Wedding: February 21, 1994

Our song, our first dance as husband and wife. “Unforgettable” by Nat King Cole
http://youtu.be/wkVuQGgx7d8

The Beginning…This is the love story of me, Princess Rosebud, and the tugboat captain.

We met when I was a year into my deal with myself to stay celibate until I met someone, uh, worthy…

Easter Sunday, April 4, 2010…At 3:40 this afternoon, I was in the threshold of our garage door that leads into the living room where I had dragged in a ladder to help with my latest project–painting the living room walls a divine shade of seafoam green–to stay busy when the captain’s out to sea. I mean, I can’t shop ALL the time. A girl has to take a break now and again, right? I set the ladder down and went back to close the garage door. At that precise moment, the glass vases on the shelves surrounding our fireplace began to vibrate and wobble. Here in SoCal, I’ve endured a handful of quakes, but never such intense shaking.

Through the open garage door I saw the bicycles that hang from the ceiling sway back and forth. As I attempted to process THAT information, the crystal lustres on my grandmother’s antique porcelain candelabras clashed and clinked. Terracotta tile flooring in the foyer seemed to roll back and forth as if I was on a sailboat in San Diego Bay, and I had a difficult time standing.

Feeling dizzy and unbalanced, I grasped the doorway for support.  My poor kitty gave me a dirty look like I had interrupted her nap on purpose. So much for the concept that animals can sense an earthquake–not this spoiled little brat.

I ran up our oak-planked steps into the family room and through the patio doors onto the deck and shouted out to the neighbors.

“Look at your pool!”

“I know, this is crazy! Are you OK? Any damage?”

“I don’t think so. A couple seashells fell off the shelf in the family room, but I was so freaked, I didn’t want to stay inside, so I ran out back. I don’t know if we should stay in the house or what we should do!”

“Us either! Let’s see what’s on the news.”

This quake was so violent that it caused the water in their pool to slosh over the sides like a mini-tsunami. We each went back in our respective homes and turned on CNN. We discovered that there had been a 7.2 earthquake in Mexico. The first reports that came in revealed a lot of damage near the epicenter in Mexicali, but no major problems in San Diego; only broken glass and falling cans at grocery stores, which seemed pretty miraculous considering the earthquake’s size.

Still spooked by the shaking and some pretty strong aftershocks, I surveyed the house, removing anything unsecured and potentially dangerous.

This is as good a time as any to confess something.

I’m a shell-aholic.

seashell mirrorI’ve got shelves and shelves of seashells in every room–including the bathroom. Everyone collects seashells, right? One here, one there, as a memory of a great beach or a fun vacation, right? Well…I’m a seashell hoarder. I want ALL seashells–there are never enough seashells to collect or buy. I make things out of some of them–picture frames, mirrors, boxes–they line the walls in our two bathrooms and even our front door, but mostly they just hang out–in bowls, on shelves, anywhere and everywhere. There is no empty space in our house, and if there is, it’s quickly filled with a shell–or a rock.

After a couple decades, we have come to an understanding, the captain and I. He thinks I’m crazy and obsessed with shells and rocks and driftwood, and I don’t destroy his surfboards if he doesn’t give me a hard time about it.

I anxiously emailed the captain who’s half a world away in the middle of an ocean. I figured that if anything would cause him to cut his four month assignment short, this might be it. The way that emailing works in deep ocean situations is through a pretty inefficient satellite; sometimes it takes hours to complete the process. If there’s a real emergency, I have a phone number to call, but this didn’t really fit the definition. I wasn’t hurt and the house wasn’t damaged or anything. When he finally read the email and wrote back, he told me to “standby” at the house phone because he would try to make a call from the boat’s sat phone. When he called, I used all my powers of persuasion to convince him to come home, but to no avail. He simply wasn’t going to call the United States Coast Guard to fly a rescue mission a thousand miles from land to bring  him home because the kitty and I were scared.

Well, I know where I stand in his list of priorities. Hmmm, I wonder if this is when I hatched my plot to get that Chanel. Hmmm, I wonder.

After that stressful event, and many aftershocks later, some pampering was definitely well deserved. That evening, I drew a bath in the upstairs bathroom we call the spa because it’s decorated in earthy tones with seashells and beach glass surrounding the mirrors and along the walls.

(I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t care.)

I lit a fragrant and calming lavender candle, eased my body into the almost too-hot-to-stand-it water, and trickled in ginger and lemongrass aromatherapy oils. Sipping from a glass of merlot, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and my thoughts wandered.

Experiencing an earthquake; the dizziness, the weightless feeling in a tub of warm water; it all reminded me of falling in love. It all felt the same… and it all started with a fifty cent cup of coffee.

Newly divorced in 1990, I speed dated a few guys, including one totally boring and slightly scary man who immediately wanted me to meet his parents after the first (and last) date, along with a couple of total idiots whose combined IQs prolly didn’t equal my Border Collie‘s. Those unsavory experiences became flashing red lights–STOP! NO! THINK!–impossible to ignore–that I seriously needed to take some time off the dating circuit.

It was the perfect time for a list.

I’m an inveterate list maker; I prioritize my errands and even list groceries in the order of where they’re located in the store– like my own custom board game–where I start at the entrance and finish at the cash register.

I wrote this particular list with the hope that if I documented the qualities desired in a significant other, the universe would deliver the right one when all the planets were aligned. Or so I dreamed.

At midnight on August 7th, 1990, with a bottle of wine to seal the deal, I made a promise to myself–I would not date (or do anything else) for a very long time, and the next one would be “the one”.

The List
1. Must call when he says he will. This is non-negotiable.
2. Must show up on time for dates.
3. Must love pets. Also non-negotiable.
4. No cigarettes. No smoking, and of course, no drugs.
5. Likes to exercise, work out, eat healthy, etc.
6. Must have gainful employment.
7. Must be nice and polite and honest and trustworthy.
8. Fidelity is of paramount importance.
9. When the time is right and he meets my son, my son has to like him. Also non-negotiable.

Fast forward to a year later, the following September 1991.

Tomorrow:
Part Two…Just a cup of coffee, the love story of Princess Rosebud and the tugboat captain

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UK SPK™- Part Two

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Since my son met and married a girl from London, his language has become peppered with UK SPK™, which I define as words and phrases he’s appropriated from his wife, her family, and friends. Because I like to be as trendy and hip as he is, if only to annoy him, I have incorporated quite a few into my daily life.

When everyone was here for Thanksgiving, my DIL (daughter-in-law) and her sister left behind quite a few gems to share.

I really love this one. You need to use rinse if you listen to a song over and over again. “I love Christina Perri‘s song, ‘Jar of Hearts‘ and I’ve been rinsing it.” Or…to use something a lot; “I’ve given my credit card a rinse this holiday season.” …or to play Candyland with your kids until it wears out, or to read the same bedtime book over and over.

Spunk is a very interesting word. For us who speak American English, it means courage or spirit or full of energy, as in  ”She’s full of spunk” or “She’s a spunky girl. However,  for Brits–spunk takes on a WHOLE different meaning!  it’s a slang term for semen. Imagine the shock on DIL’s face when a man at a business meeting told her she had a lot of spunk and she thought he was sexually harassing her!

Cheers–not as a prelude to lifting a glass or a toast, but as a way to say thank you. It’s spoken in monotone with no inflection. Let’s say someone passed you a bowl of mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving. You would say “cheers”. It’s low-key.

To DIL and her sister, swish means cool–to us, swish is a disparaging term for a gay man and denotes an effeminate personality.

Reem = sexy, great, fantastic. Be reem, see reem, look reem. “Johnny Depp is so reem!”

Error or to drop an error, which means to make a mistake. “I dropped an error and left something in the car”.  The family is sitting around the dinner table and somebody makes a mistake in etiquette and one would say, “Error” and then everyone laughs.

To cotch is to relax, chill, take a rest. Describing something as a cotch means it was relaxed and chilled out. A really great cotch is cotchtastic.

Amazeballs is the same on both sides of the pond. Amazing, obvs.

The last and best one comes with its own hand gesture.

cringe

This is an example. This is how you do it!

The word is cringe–but it’s not pronounced the same way –/krinj/–as if we meant to bend one’s head and body in a servile manner.

This is how to pronounce it the  UK SPK™  way.

/kr-AWW-nJ/ drawing out the w and j sound. This is the perfect word to use when someone says something really unfunny and then everything goes silent, or when someone goes on and on about something which is really boring, or when someone makes an unwanted comment.

“OMG, gurrrl, I can’t believe that Phoebe got wasted and fell down the stairs naked in front of her brother-in-law. That was cringe. Totally cringe.”

What makes cringe totes amazeballs is that, to be accurate, it needs to be accompanied by a hand gesture that is very similar to the Wendy Williams‘s “how you doin”, but with one hand.

So to review, when you find yourself in a perfect situation to use cringe, you’d lift your right hand, (or the hand that’s not holding a vodka marty), and make that WW or “claw” gesture. Got it? Practice makes perfect!

(Check out UK SPK™ Part One)

When DIL/sister were here, we all rinsed “Jar of Hearts”.

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