Friday 6 May 2011

THE DOG'S BOLLOCKS

Do you ever think about a memory from your past and actually cringe? I mean physically shrink inside yourself from embarrassment, and yet, thankfully with time you’ve been able to laugh about it…sort of. You are wondering what I’m talking about aren’t you? Okay, fine, I’ll tell you (one of) mine, if you tell me yours (email is sufficient).

I was scheduled to sing with my father at a wedding in London. Back then I was performing with him quite a lot; we had a duet we’d sing together and it was one of those songs that was always a crowd pleaser. It was sentimental, melodically beautiful, and people are always keen to watch a dad and daughter sing to one another. Either that or break into a fight on stage, these days I'm sure that would sell a lot of tickets.

So on this night, we were due to sing for this couple’s first dance. The venue was a ritzy hotel on Park Lane and the crowd apparently was the cream of the crop – let’s just say there were a lot of people in that room who spoke like they had marbles in their mouths, including Prince Charles. Yes, that Prince Charles. Don’t get me wrong, this is not usual fare for me, in fact, the only royalty I come into contact with is The King of course (that is my 9 month old son for those of you just joining us) and Queen Krazy Two Teeth – as I call her - who hangs out in front of our local McDonalds selling The Big Issue (a magazine where the proceeds go to the homeless). The last time I passed her, she was selling the ‘royal’ issue in honor of the wedding, and claimed that Prince William was a homosexual. Apparently it was her big exclusive that she was sharing with London.

Sorry, I digress, back to my humiliation. To make matters even more nerve wracking that evening (of course I was determined not to let this show), I had just started dating this guy, and I had invited him to come and watch me sing. I figured it’d be a great way to show off and make sure he new I was the dog’s bollocks – as they say over here. Little did I know.

So, the time came for me to make my entrance and join my father onstage. The bride and groom had taken the center of the floor and the music was seconds from starting. For those of you not up on these things, sometimes performers use backing tracks that accompany the band – no, my father does NOT lip sync, calm down; in this case, my father did not bring his full band, so the track had certain instrumentation on it, backup vocals from the mighty Barry Gibb, and served as a melodic guide for the song that the band would accompany.

Needless to say, after hearing the first few notes of the track a hundred times, I knew this song like the back of my hand. As the song began, and I took my first steps on stage in a hideously long and cumbersome dress, I immediately had that feeling. You know, that feeling of absolute dread when you realize that everything that is about to happen is going to truly suck and there is not much you can do about it. In short, it quickly dawned on me that the backing track was in the wrong key – more importantly, NOT my key. With every step I took towards my father, I sunk further into a state of panic, as I realized that in a second I had a choice, start the song an octave lower and sound like Barry White, or an octave higher and sound like a dying cat. I chose door number two for some reason, pasted a smile on my face and proceeded to warble the first few words in a high-pitched whisper.

The look on my dad’s face was pretty darn priceless. He knew full well what was going on, and his expression was a mixture of ‘you can do this,’ and ‘OH, please pull this off cause the couple really wants to remember their first dance in a fond light and my name is on the line here!’ So for the rest of the verse I became one of those ‘talk singers,’ you know the ones that don’t really sing, they just talk in a sing song manner hoping it passes for singing. By the time the chorus came, my utter mortification had carried out a mutiny on my vocal chords, and all my singing experience up to that point went right out the window. Thank god my dad sings like a champ and covered me up for the rest of the song; I have to say I’ve never been so thankful to be overshadowed in my life.

Needless to say when I got off stage I was looking for the newly hired sound tech (who was responsible for playing the wrong track) eager to give him a piece of my mind. A BIG piece. Of course, fully enraged in a large poufy skirt is not a good mix, and to put a cherry on top of my nightmare sundae, I made a graceful exit off stage by tripping and almost falling face first into a pile of cables. My boyfriend - who I almost forgot about - was standing in the wings with a slightly fearful look on his face, whilst of course was doing his best to look impressed by my singing prowess.

I spent the rest of the night swearing like a sailor and claiming to my boyfriend that really, I could sing, I swear (I can. Really. :-) . My dad of course said that next time I should’ve just stopped the song and told the sound guy to restart it with a wink and a smile. Yeah, sure, that would’ve gone over real well. Maybe the pro could pull a move like that, but not the rookie. The rookie chokes and has a good story to tell her kids one day.

No wonder my invite to sing at the royal wedding got lost in the mail. I should've known.

Wednesday 4 May 2011

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

Do you ever forget someone’s name over and over again until it gets somewhat embarrassing? Or in crude and simple terms, do you never remember people’s names when you meet them no matter how hard you try?

Usually I’d say it’s a sign of total disinterest, but sometimes, and ahem, in my defense of course, sometimes you simply have far too much on the brain. Lately the King and I have been meeting a large group of Mothers and their children. His social calendar dwarfs mine in a serious way. The problem is, usually when I meet these women, I’m either half asleep, trying to find something of the King’s I’ve stuffed somewhere (like that missing sock that never seems to stay on his foot!) or am trying to get the King to stop pulling their child’s hair or poke them in the eyes, or any other gesture of his that in baby language apparently means, 'hey, how ya doin?'

So when these women say their name, or their child’s, it’s highly probable that I’m either remembering one, or nothing at all. Usually I remember their child’s for some reason. This means of course that when I run into them I direct all questions to him or her and use their kid's name repeatedly to make me look like I’m totally on top of things. I then try to eavesdrop on their conversations with others in an attempt to learn their name. Sometimes if I feel daring, I throw out a very generic name and see if it sticks. For some reason half the women in the park are named Sarah or Emma, so this often proves effective.

Forgetting someone’s name always reminds me of the Seinfeld episode where he couldn’t remember the woman’s name he dated. It rhymed with a body part of course. Ah, good ol’ Dolores. Basically what ends up happening is that you find yourself beginning to use phrases that make you sound like an ambiguous idiot. The ‘Hey You’s’ and ‘Hey Lady!’ And as you're doing this, you know they know you have no clue what their name is, but damn it, you'll make it sound good and feign total ignorance....Lady!

If you get really desperate you can make a real operation out of it and bribe some stranger to go up to the person and ask them what their name is and report back to you, but this sometimes makes you look like a freaky stalker. Not good when you're hanging out at playgrounds. Other times I get lucky and will run into people when I’m out with my partner. I of course madly whisper to him as we approach the person, 'this is the woman I can’t remember her name!!' My partner is as smooth as ever and introduces himself before I get a chance to – Ah Eureka! Then of course, the sheer victory of learning their name sends me into a non subtle turrets driven mantra: "Great to see you Emma, love your shoes, Emma, isn’t this weather great, Emma!" My partner gives me that nod that means, you’re starting to sound like a wackjob, quit while you’re ahead honey.

I suppose the mature thing would be to simply ask the next time I can’t remember someone’s name. I did this other day to this lovely Japanese woman. The problem is, each time she told me her name, it was so complicated and impossible to pronounce, I couldn’t remember it if I wanted to. IT’s either Giimchi, or Kimchimau, I think. Seriously, I can barely remember when the King gets lunch let alone that mouthful. These days, I just keep repeating that I’m an insomniac with a 9 month old and to take pity on me.

Sunday 1 May 2011

THE KING IS MOVING

[No, that is not the King; but he sure is cute]

The King is moving. No, he’s not moving into his own duplex to have more room for his soft book collection; I’m hoping I have a bit of time to prepare myself for things of that nature – and if he’s found a duplex in London that is affordable, I’m coming with him!

On the contrary, the King is physically moving across the flat and it is altogether alarming. Don’t get me wrong, it’s amazing and adorable to watch him discover the world now that he doesn’t just simply sit in one place like a donut, but with this movement comes a whole host of things, the first being an incredible increase in my fatigue level. Something I did not think at all possible.

He’s not crawling in the traditional sense, not at the moment anyway. For now he pulls himself on his stomach by his arms like a marine on a serious mission and makes a series of little grunting and squealing noises as he does so. These sounds increase depending on what he has set his sights on and how fast he thinks he has to get over to it. If he knows it is something he is not allowed, he motors over to it like a caterpillar on speed (not that I have ever seen a caterpillar on speed), with a look of absolute fevered anticipation on his face.

The frightening part is like any human being that has learned he can actually move from point a to b, sitting still has become a big fat bore. It’s so yesterday apparently. Hence, when Mommy puts the King in one place like she used to, he ends up in a totally different place within seconds. I swear he practically morphs there like on Star Trek (morph, beam…time travel, whatever!). This takes some serious getting used to. Both my partner and I have had those moments where we forget he is now speed racer and we walk out of the room to talk to one another, only to find the King half way across the house about to bring one of our bicycles down on top of him.

So you find yourself negotiating at an alarming rate to accomplish the smallest of tasks. Suddenly it becomes a mathematical equation. A = I have to get dressed;

B = the King is incapable of sitting still for a second and is obsessed with all things dangerous. C = how soon will I get arrested if I simply don’t bother getting dressed and I go to the market in my undergarments cause it’s just a whole lot easier?

A + B = screwed. Essentially.

So, like any good parents we’ve discovered the art of distraction, and no, this doesn’t always involve the wisest of choices. If playing with the computer cable under my supervision means that I can brush my teeth, then so be it. If the King insists on slamming a cooking pot onto the tile floor in the kitchen over and over until my ears bleed, so that I can make dinner, well, I suppose it could be worse. In fact, I tell myself I am cultivating his musical capabilities.

The shocking thing is how many things around the house that I always thought were so innocuous can suddenly become deathtraps. Like my garbage bin; seriously never thought twice about it, what could a child do to a garbage bin? Well, when the bin is metal, three times his size, and the King is determined to bring that thing down like the leaning tower of Pisa, well, I’m sure it could do some serious damage if it landed on his head. You get the picture.

Suddenly our lovely flat has become a minefield. The oven, HOT, get back! The sharp edges on the tables – severe eye damage, lookout!! The long dangling chords on the blinds on every sodding window! Holy triple choking hazard! My life is flashing before my eyes as I write this. I actually think it may be simpler for the next two years for all of us to move into a flat made of rubber. I’m sure I could make it look homey, and at least that way when the King decides he wants to body surf off the bed head first, I won’t have to sweat the landing.

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