Role Play

For two years, this has been the view from my office chair:

My husband Andre shelled out ten bucks to a Washington Square Park street vendor in New York City, on a sweltering June day, to buy this 1950's tin goddess. Once home, I gleefully hung her directly over my desk. 

This became my motto.

Not because I'm a bitch, but because, drum roll please, I'm not.

Of course, at times I can be bitchy (usually when I'm hungry or tired). Or impatient (usually when I'm crafting a wreath out of dollar store ornaments at 4:30am). But I can also be thoughtful, generous and just plain silly. Truth is, my personality runs the gamut in the calm, controlled way of a well-adjusted, usually happy, always self-reflective person, living a full, beautiful life.

 The slickness of my wise, all-knowing, retro muse, with full-on red lips and nails to make her naturally more authoritative, is that she's not actually commenting about bitchiness at all. Nope. To fully understand this chick, sort of like her owner, you've got to look beyond the obvious first layer, to uncover a message that goes a whole lot deeper. 

To me, as she rests casually, elbow on knee, bangles a-dangling, my girl is issuing a warning about the danger of perceptions, or more accurately, misperceptions. Her message? A plea to carefully consider the movies of our lives, examine the roles given to each member of our supporting cast, then ask if theirs is a honest, accurate and up-to-date depiction. 

And rest assured. If you haven't auditioned for the part, you should never accept it.

The Seven Stages of DIY. Or Recovery for the Non-Crafter

My name is Dawn. 

I am NOT crafty.

I didn't say I wasn't creative. I am a fantastic bow maker, after all. But whipping up something from scratch a la Martha Stewart? So not my forte. That's why I've honed my skills as a bargain huntress. So I can buy the stuff that I covet. Ready-made.

But sometimes my wants, the retail clearance calendar and my current cash flow are a bit out of sych. And I start living in a fantasy world. One where funky holiday wreaths can be constructed cheaply and perfectly. Using only my hands.

Fortunately, this experience, as most things in life, has become yet another lesson just waiting to be learned. Mmm-hmm. My take-away? Much like grief, there are seven stages of DIY (Do It Yourself? Nope. That's Don't Irritate Yourself), ready and waiting for the non-crafter. And, oddly enough, I've survived them all. Again.

Stage One:  Inspiration

Behold exhibit A

And exhibit B

Amazing right? And whipped up last weekend, in the basement, by my husband. Next time this happens, I need to say aloud: Dude has an art degree. Not: Oh yeah. Let the crafting competition begin. Because someone will lose. Handsomely.

Stage Two:  Excitement

Crafty bloggers. You suck. I'm not hating on your amazing abilities. I'm calling you out for managing to make your projects look completely effortless. For everyone. That dollar store Christmas ball wire wreath you were pimping out for $6 and boasting that it would only take half an hour to complete? I excitedly bought in. Sucka. 

Stage Three:  Smugness

Oh, I got this. Sure, the final cost may have risen to $20, thanks to the lingerie bags, bubble envelopes and other assorted impulsive crap I 'needed' for a buck apiece. But, not only do I have all the materials on hand, courtesy of my no shame act of cracking into a stock box or two, but I also showcased my mad improvisational skills. Indeed. Watch as I magically transform 15 feet of garland into one illusive wire hanger. 

Stage Four:  Pride

Granted it may be 4:30am (don't ask) and I'm keeping the goldfish awake, but I've managed to not only go all MacGyver on the plastic garland, ripping it down to its base wire, but successfully completed the tedious ornament stringing process. All before the sun came up. I rocked. All the way back to bed.

Stage Five:  WTF

One step left. Secure the sucker. And that's when things start to go drastically wrong. An easy five minute job, ha-HA, turns into an hour of intense irritation. I am ready to smash all of this shiny red goodness with one World Wresting two footed stomp. Go on. Try me. 

Stage Six:  Recovery

Art Degree husband saves the day (and wreath) by casually whipping out a glue gun. Fa-la-la-la-la. I hate him. 

Stage Seven:  Acceptance

AKA: The Non-Crafters Prayer. Dear Crafting: I accept that I am a perfectionist, as well as creatively impatient. I accept that these characteristics do not bode well for crafting. Also: I accept that I do not enjoy crafting. At all. Ever. In fact, I'd rather pull out my toenails one by one. But most of all, I accept that there is a distinct danger of relapse...

Life Behind the Velvet Rope: Featuring Maxwell

November 29, 2012

Dear Maxwell,

I don't think I've written a real fan letter since John Schneider starred in the Dukes of Hazard, so you're in fine company.

Or something like that.

Last weekend, I had the good fortune of attending your Winter Warm-Up Concert at the Foxwoods/MGM Grand Theatre. It was a make-up for me too. Last summer, I scored, (sniff) fifth row (sniff, sniff) tickets to your cancelled shows in New Jersey. Man, was I ready to rock my jumpsuit. An epic weekend for sure.

But then there was that throat surgery.

And my jumpsuit stayed in the closet.

Fast forward to Saturday night. And excuse me if I get a little pissy. My irritation isn't directed towards you. Nope. I'm angry for you. And I guess it's been brewing for a while.

Truth is, I've been a fan since the very beginning. And outside of 'For Lovers Only' (I'm sorry. Any touch of country twang gives me instant hives), you can do no wrong. I am still amazed how every single one of your albums, from start to finish, are going strong in my personal rotation. That's a testament, not only to your perfectionism, but your refusal to cave to outside pressure to release a project until you deem it finished. Even as the world loses patience with your timeline.

With a whole bunch of live shows under my belt, nine and counting, I've also been privy to not only your consummate professionalism, but your extreme humility. I had the privilege of hanging out at the Times Square meet and greet after your last show in June, 2010. And that's where it all started to click for me. The metaphor of life behind the velvet rope that must ring a bit too true.

Straight up: Folks forget there's an actual person powering that voice. Or maybe it's the other way around.

Here's the thing, after a free cosmo, or three, and the urging of my angel husband, I worked my way over to say hello. I couldn't get this close and pass up this opportunity--or worse, take on the negative vibe of the sour ladies a table away, who were incredulous that you weren't working the room.

I got my reward alright. Two unsolicited hugs. That's right. Read it and weep. What's my secret? It wasn't a low cut blouse, red lips or heavy fawning. I think we connected because, newsflash, I treated you like a real person. Listen, that's just what I do, but it became clear to me, through your sweet shyness, this human to human vibe is far from the norm. Especially in this hyped up celebrity hungry world of: "What Have You Done For Me Lately?"

So listen man, because you've proven to me over and over that you are a genuine solid dude, I've got your back with this whole Winter Warm-Up mess. Go ahead and cover your ears because it's going to get ugly; I know you're a lover, not a fighter. But some of this East Coast Maxwell Nation has got it a bit twisted and they need to stand corrected.

Listen, NJ and CT. I so get it. I'm a Northeast girl. You know, AKA the center of the universe. But these two shows that came our way didn't come courtesy of hitting the Maxwell lottery. The low-down: Brooklyn brother, just came off throat surgery. He can rehab all he wants in the privacy of his own Manhattan digs. But eventually, if he wants to keep on performing live, he's going to have to bring those pipes out into the public.

For a test.

Yup. Sorry. You can go on believing that Maxwell really loves us best. (You do, don't you, Max?) But the truth is those two Warm-Up shows could have easily been called: Let's Take To The Stage and See What We've Got. Now would not be the time to tell me you were expecting some sort of full-fledged stadium production. I repeat. Two. Dates.

And, could we just pause for a second and consider the balls it took to come out on stage in the first place? Maxwell doesn't know how his voice is going to hold up over two hours, nevermind two days. And with a cold on top of everything, I'd say all things considered, he worked it out better than fine. He's a man, not a machine.

Yeah, I would have been cool with an more accurate start time, and spending more time in my room, enjoying another bottle of two buck chuck, instead of rushing to try to get to church on time. But how much of that is in Maxwell's personal control and how much lies with the venue and/or promoters? Someone hook me up with a drink next time and we're straight.

Maxwell, you've still got my admiration and respect. And that rendition of 'Symptom Unknown'? Off the chart. I only wish my husband had the sense to illegally video it.

So what the hell is up with the rest of you? Where's the love? The appreciation? Does anyone remember that EIGHT YEAR vacation a certain someone took not too long ago. And wasn't this Thanksgiving weekend after all. Can't we just be grateful the surgery seems to have corrected the problem and no one's dealing with a career ending injury? Stand up in our damn seats and dance in the aisles?

Maxwell, you're still here right? I so get it now. So go on. Poof. Disappear if you must. Book some sort of Caribbean cruise and hide behind your straw fedora and Ray Bans. Apparently absence really does makes the heart grow fonder. Oh, and if you make it to Puerto Rico, can you bring me back some rum?

Until next time, with much respect and appreciation,

Dawn from Providence

Giving Thanks: The 2012 Edition

What I'm grateful for this Thanksgiving, in no particular order...

1. Being a roadie on my warrior friend's Fuck Cancer Tour 2012. The power of Virgos will always prevail.

2. My fellow writing spirit, who across an ocean, has encouraged and inspired me more than any local peeps.

3. My fierce Twitter Lenny Lovin' ladies. You are beautiful.

4. My Twin.

5. The freelance lay-offs that brought me back to my book.

6. P90X-2. Round 3. Holla!

7. Colonoscopy one. Done. See ya in five years.

8. Seeing the difference you've made in someone's life--and as an added bonus, hearing their appreciation.

9. You. For reading this.

10. That guy. The one who has accepted me and encouraged me. Who has challenged me and inspired me. The one who I went out with the first time TWENTY YEARS ago tomorrow. Together, we are magic.

Journalism's Dirty Little Secret: Who's Paying for the Content?

Bravo Pete Wells and the New York Times for the outstandingly poor review of Guy Fieri's Times Square restaurant.

Seriously.

You can read the whole thing here. 

Or just opt for some highlights, um, lowlights that start like this:  "GUY FIERI, have you eaten at your new restaurant in Times Square?"

Followed by:  "Were you struck by how very far from awesome the Awesome Pretzel Chicken Tenders are? If you hadn’t come up with the recipe yourself, would you ever guess that the shiny tissue of breading that exudes grease onto the plate contains either pretzels or smoked almonds? Did you discern any buttermilk or brine in the white meat, or did you think it tasted like chewy air?"

And:  "How, for example, did Rhode Island’s supremely unhealthy and awesomely good fried calamari — dressed with garlic butter and pickled hot peppers — end up in your restaurant as a plate of pale, unsalted squid rings next to a dish of sweet mayonnaise with a distant rumor of spice?"

Nope. I don't have anything out for Guy, who actually married a Rhode Islander, and I highly doubt Mr. Wells does either. The reason I love this piece is not only for its brutal honesty, but the simple fact that it got printed. Period.

Seeing this in black and white means the newspaper found the message more important than potentially offending an advertiser, like say the entire Food Network. And that's a beautiful thing. Standard practice, right? Not so much. The nasty little secret within too much of the journalism world is: Cash trumps truth.

Those impartial reviews? Depending on the publication, not always impartial at all. Back in the day, I gave a poor review to a Providence restaurant for some things that a responsible owner should have had tabs on: a dusty interior and a freezer burnt dessert. Yum. I thought, and continue to think, that my job as a writer is to provide an objective view, including the good and the bad.

Not so much.

That was the beginning of the end of my review career at that publication. Why? Because there, as in too many establishments, it's not the editorial department that's in charge of content. It's the advertisers. And if they don't like what you've written about them, they'll retaliate by pulling their ad dollars, causing the publisher to take a walk into the newsroom and have a little chat with the editor about getting their writers in check.

And trust, this is something that I didn't learn about in journalism classes.

The truth is Guy Fieri and his New York restaurant will continue to do just fine, bad review or not. I've made the mistake of eating in the heart of Times Square, where success seems to be marked by churning out a high volume of non-offensive food as quickly as possible so the tourists can get back to their day. Seems like Guy's not only got that covered, but I'd hazard a guess he's known exactly what he's doing all along.

It's just that someone, who clearly appreciates the art of food, decided to call him on it. And for that Pete Wells and The New York Times, I give you a standing O.