Separated at birth....???

Ok, so Moray, Andi and I went to catch a screening of "Blue Velvet" at the Film Forum tonight. I haven't seen it in years. It was much funnier than I remember. But that might have been influenced by the fact that halfway through the movie, something occurred to me....

Isabella Rosellini in Blue Velvet looks exactly like Dave Foley in drag. I present Exhibit A.:



v.s.



See????? Separated at birth!!! Not convinced??? fine, I present Exhibit B.:

Side angle. Add a bigger wig, a little more makeup... rotate the canvas... and voila! Twins.



v.s.




I rest my case. If Blue Velvet isn't surreal enough, you can image how this effected my Lynchian moviegoing experience.

-Maria

The Anniversary of the Day My Life Took a Terrible Turn for the Worse/Better

Today -- March 20, 2006 -- is the 19th anniversary of the day that I moved to Hornell, NY, where I was forced to live for six years (almost as long as I lived in Florida!). How can I be so sure of the date? Because it is permanently and painfully etched in my brain, like a branding.

I didn't mind moving, and even now I don't want to give the impression that Hornell is all bad. But I was only eight years old and I was fully aware that there was something up with this new town that I was supposed to call home.

For starters, I couldn't get anybody to call me by my name. On my first day at Hornell Intermediate School, the guidance counselor took me into my new classroom and said, "Everyone, this is Liz." "I'm Beth Ann," I said. "Liz, you can have a seat over here," said my new teacher.

I corrected people as often as I could, and even brought in my yearbooks from my old schools to prove that my name was, in fact, Beth Ann. It didn't matter. They were very interested in the idea that other towns had yearbooks in elementary school, but they were not at all interested in calling me by my name.

I tried to compromise and suggested they call me Elisabeth. "That's not how you spell 'Elizabeth', Liz," said my teacher.

That's when my eight year-old self gave up. The people of this town were going to call me Liz no matter what I said. They had to call me Liz. They were comfortable with Liz. They'd never heard of a "Beth Ann" or an Elisabeth with an "s", and isn't it easier to just go with what you already know?

I think it's really good that that happened, actually, because it taught me right away everything I needed to know to live in that town. And it's not a bad place. Of course, it's not a great place, either. It's just a place, and I happened to be there for a while. Luckily, Maria was there, too. And Aaron came along not too much later.

And it's not a bad thing to be called Liz. I'm quite used to it now.

Anyway, I usually acknowledge this date by unintentionally clenching my jaw for several hours and then quite intentionally downing a vodka tonic. But that seems inappropriate this year, now that I'm living with Maria (who calls me Beth Ann) and Aaron (who calls me Liz). For all the frustrating, ignorant, nonsensical stuff that March 20, 1987, ushered in, there's been a lot of good stuff, too. And Maria and Aaron are at the top of the good stuff list.

Cheers.


P.S. Have you noticed that my posts have been insanely sappy lately? I sincerely apologize. I don't know what's come over me.

Sundry

It's a little gray and rainy today. I don't usually mind the rain -- in fact, I quite like it -- but I've been spoiled by the bright, sunshiney, delightfully warm weather we've had the last couple of days. PERFECT weather yesterday, so last night I grabbed some Jason Mraz (my favorite running companion)and ventured out for a little jog around our neighborhood, thinking the whole time about ... gardening. Gardening? Really? I've never been into gardening, but I now have a spring weather-inspired itch to plant something and watch it grow. Maria and I spent some time thumbing through her gardening book this morning, looking at pictures of irises and cosmos and trying to figure out where and how we can plant an herb garden without inviting the neighbor cat to pee in it. We don't really know much about making things grow, so advice is welcome (hint).

In other news from our house (in Jersey), Aaron spent last weekend doing dinner theatre upstate. He returned with photos of himself in all kinds of fabulous and flamboyant (and very, very coordinated) costumes. Gorgeous.

Moray took a guitar lesson, thus inspiring me to blow the dust off my guitar and discover that, after a year of not practicing at all, I still can't play an F chord. Moray's brother Cameron visited from Scotland a couple of weeks ago, and I think they were really glad to see each other. We have some great photos of the two of them, which we'll have to post soon. In addition to practicing the guitar and entertaining his brother, Moray has been navigating his way through the immigration process. He and Maria had an INS interview recently, during which they were asked to demonstrate the validity of their marriage via such universally acknowledged symbols of love and commitment as joint bank accounts and shared property. I wish the INS could spend a day in our house, overhearing regular conversations that go like this: "Bunny? Where are the kitties?" "You're a kitty." "Awww!" **smooch**

In addition to sponsoring her husband's immigration, Maria has been working on all kinds of musical projects. I don't know enough about them to offer a description, but I know they've been keeping her busy. And she's going to do me a favor and play piano tomorrow night at a small St. Patrick's Day dinner I'm doing for work.

Speaking of St. Patrick's Day, I'm a little sad that I missed the parade in Rochester this year. No parade, no bagpipes, no wacky firefighters, no crazy party adventures with my friend Jen, no dinner at Shamrock Jack's. If any of y'all reading this are in Roch, lush it up a little for me this year.

tri-groovy post

Boy, oh boy, do I love it when people leave comments on our blog. And I love it even more when the comments are groovy updates from groovy friends like Rich Hovorka. I tell ya, if my thirteen year-old self had had any idea that, just fourteen years later (a whole lifetime!), the blog that she shared with her friends Aaron and Maria -- and Maria's HUSBAND!! Holy crap!!! -- would be read and commented on by Rich Hovorka -- THE on-a-pedastal Rich HoVORka -- well, she probably would have collapsed in a frenzy of giggling delight. Either that, or she would've said, "Duh, I don't believe that at all. Maria will never get married. And what the stinkin' heck is a 'blog'?"

I think (housemates, correct me if I'm wrong) that Rich has the distinction of being the only person who has both commented on our blog and slept on our couch. Rich, if you're so inclined, please feel free to leave a little testimonial encouraging our other friends to comment and/or sleep on our couch.

Anyway, none of that has anything to do with what I was actually going to post. I was actually going to share some stories involving the groovy but somewhat neurotic temp that has been at my office this week. But I got sidetracked reading Rich's comment and now I've forgotten exactly what I was going to say and, quite frankly, I'm a little tired. So I guess I'll just share my favorite (so far) quote from my new favorite temp, whose hobbies include painting miniatures and tending to his four white cats: "People need to stop worrying about being fashionable on the outside and start worrying about being fashionable on the INside."