Awkward Moments With Mom

I love my mom. She doesn't put up with anybody's crap, she tries to do her best by me and my sister, and she never makes me do the dishes after a meal when I visit, even though I offer. However, when I lived at home, she had the uncanny ability to watch the most awkward television shows and movies with me, and it drove me crazy.

The first instance occurred when she decided to watch an episode of Dawson's Creek with me. During my freshman year of high school, I was big into Dawson's Creek. On Wednesday nights, I couldn't wait to come home from church youth group, curl up on the couch, and get lost in the lives of Joey, Dawson, Pacey, and the whorish girl for an hour. Growing up, there was only one television set in our house, and it was located in the living room, so whenever you decided to tune into your favorite show, you had to accept the fact that somebody else might join you. However, I thought Dawson's Creek was exempt from this unwritten rule, because normally my parents would hang out in their room (not having sex, you pervs), my sister would be in hers (trying to dance like Jennifer Lopez), and I would have DC all to myself. But one night, my mom, curious as to what the hype was all about, decided to watch an episode with me. I was pissed. I had been waiting all week for my DC time, and I didn't want my mom to tarnish it with her parental judgement.

As my luck would have it, the one time she decided to watch it with me, the episode was about sex. Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex. That's pretty much all they talked about for the entire hour. Being fifteen years old and watching a TV show about sex with your mom is mortifying. I didn't look at her one time. I just prayed that maybe a miracle would happen, like when they would start talking about sex, she would think they were talking about jai alai. It could happen. God could do anything. That's what we were told in church youth group. Unfortunately, God did not perform a miracle and Mom was well-aware that the DC kids were talking about sex. After the episode was over, she announced that it wasn't an appropriate TV show for me to watch, and Dawson's Creek was banned in our household, leaving me no choice but to ride my bike over to my friend Dawn's house and watch it there.

After the Dawson's Creek incident, not only would my mom continue to watch awkward programming with me, she started to comment on the uncomfortable parts as well. One night during an episode of ER, a scene came on where Noah Wylie's character was having sex with his girlfriend. You couldn't really see anything, just shadows, but you could hear it, and I was hoping that the scene would end before Mom had a chance to say something. No dice. She chimed in, "Wow, they didn't leave much to the imagination as to what they're doing, huh?" I wanted to crawl under a rock and die. This time, however, she did not ban me from watching ER, a decision in which the underlying logic eludes me to this day. She was oh-so-offended by the DC kids talking about sex, but other than the uncomfortable moment we shared, she didn't seem bothered by that scene in ER. I think it was because ER was one of her favorite shows, and to ban it meant she wouldn't be able to watch it either.

After I graduated from high school, I got a job at the poor man's Blockbuster, also known as Movie Gallery. One of the perks of employment was free rentals, so one night I brought home The Good Girl, a movie I had been wanting to see for some time. My mom wanted to see it too, so it didn't surprise me that when I went to watch it, she took her customary place on the love seat to join me. Around the middle of the movie, a sex scene between Jennifer Aniston and Jake Gyllenhaal came on, and even though I was eighteen, a college freshman, had a part-time job, and was a voting citizen, I still had to fight the urge to bury my face in my hands and telepathically will my mom to go away. Mom, however, stayed put and decided to do her part to make the situation even more suicide-inducing than it already was by chiming in with her never-failing commentary: "Wow, they're really going at it, huh?" Judging by the heat I felt in my face, I knew it was as red as a tomato, and I sat through the rest of the movie wrapped in a blanket of unease and anxiety, worried at what else she would say.

I love my mom, and when I have children of my own someday, I hope to be half as good to them as she is to me and Laura. But when the day comes where I am watching a movie or some TV with my kids and a dubious scene comes on, I'm just going to stare straight ahead, not say a word, not make eye contact, and pretend it's jai alai.

Ava's New Toy

I'd always assumed Ava was one of those dogs that never played with toys. I never saw her play with any of her toys when she lived with my sister, and she hasn't played with any of her toys since she moved in with me. I figured she was the type to play with humans or other dogs, but when it came to toys, she just wasn't interested. And then I found out that, yes, she does play with toys, but not necessarily the type you'd expect.

It dawned on me earlier tonight, when I came out of the shower to find Ava chewing on the shoelaces of one of my shoes. I thought back to the other times I'd find something in her mouth that wasn't supposed to be there: old tissue out of the trash can, a sock, a clump of hair (gross, I know). I realized that out of all those things, socks seemed to be her favorite, so I rooted around in a dresser drawer, pulled out an old sock that I never wear, and gave it to her. Bingo. She accepted the sock with the same amount of zeal other dogs accept a Kong toy filled with frozen peanut butter. She ran around the apartment with it in her mouth. She shook it from side to side, play-growling. She would drop it, run a few feet away, look at it, and then run back full-force and attack it. Never mind the other toys in her entertainment arsenal: Socky is now her new (and only) favorite toy. Talk about low maintenance. Who would have thought that the one thing to keep her entertained was something I had in my drawer all along?

Ava and Socky. Note the discarded toy off to the side.

Random Musings

Exactly what the title says, boos.

1. I read somewhere that authors of music blogs can get press passes to concerts. I don't think it's for big acts like Dave Matthews Band or John Mayer, but still--there are plenty of awesome smaller bands that put on a good show. I briefly flirted with the idea of starting my own music blog to test out this theory, but, sadly, I'm not really "in" with the indie music crowd, as most of what I listen to is of the same caliber as Dave Matthews Band and John Mayer. Therefore, my blog would suck. I also doubt they give out press passes to any Joe Schmo with a free Blogger account and a love of music--you probably have to be affiliated with a name, like Rolling Stone or Spin or something.

2. Speaking of music, I always thought being a musician would be cool. Namely because musicians get to travel and say, "I'm playing a gig" seriously. I think I would be an awesome musician--I love to travel, and think doing so all the time would be so much fun, like a great adventure, and I would always talk about gigs--playing them, going to them, what have you. I just like the word "gig," to be honest, and am sad that I can't use it in conversations seriously or more often. Sometimes I try to think of my day job as my daytime gig, but that just sounds stupid and then I feel foolish. But if I were a musician, I really would be doing gigs all the time.

Unfortunately, being a musician requires having some sort of musical talent, of which I have none. I used to sing in the youth choir at my church when I was in high school, but my voice was average; I played the saxophone from 7th grade through the fall semester of sophomore year of high school, but I was average at that, too. Actually, if I had kept it up and hadn't switched to a number 3 reed (which makes playing low notes next to impossible--for me, anyway), and hadn't been apathetic when it came to practicing, I might have been okay. I can't say for sure. Playing music is such a weird concept, as it's both creative and technical, and I don't think my brain can handle both at the same time. Back when I played regularly, (and even now, when I pick it up from time to time), I just played notes on the page, which I think is different than actually playing music. Music has feeling, it has soul, it's a living thing, but notes on a page are just that--notes on a page.

I remember when I first started playing the saxophone. I was riding home with my dad from band practice, and declared that my new life goal was to be a jazz musician. My dad responded something to the effect of, "Don't give up on writing." Even he knew then that music probably wasn't a realistic option for me. :-)

3. Despite not having any musical talent (or the desire to make music for music's sake), I have stumbled upon a loophole where I could reap the benefits of being a musician without actually having to have a lot of talent. Mumford & Sons has a song called "Winter Winds" that features a horn section. The horn part doesn't look to be all that hard, so my sax and I could easily blend in. Bonus: since the horns are loud, my poor playing would be completely drowned out! The song would still sound good and I would get to travel with the band and talk about gigs! It's a win-win! Now all I have to do is go over to the UK, meet the band (perhaps at one of their gigs) and convince them to let me be part of the horn section. Easy peasy.

4. Gig. Gig, gig, gig, gig.

That is all.

A Blast From the Past

I've been writing since the fourth grade. Most of it is crap, with the rare exception. During high school, I dabbled in poetry, which resulted in an extremely embarrassing collection of terrible poems. I didn't really know what I was doing, and didn't bother with methods like iambic pentameter, rhyming couplets or haiku. As egotistical as it sounds, I honestly thought I was just naturally gifted, and proudly passed around my creations for my friends to read and admire.

During the latter part of high school, I was also a crazy huge Dave Matthews Band fan, thanks to my friend M, and the both of us harbored this crush on Dave that some might label (with good reason) just a tad bit obsessive. It was just a matter of time, then, that my love of writing bad poetry and my obsessive love of Dave Matthews would collide to form the emo pile of mush I call this poem (by the way, I typed this straight from my journal--no editing):

Catholic Prince (for Dave :-) ): A poem of prose and passion

Come to me, my Catholic Prince,

In the shadows of the night with the moon full and bright.

Creep silently up to my window and sing me a tune;

Sweep me off my feet with your sweet, lilting voice.

Come to my room, my Catholic Prince,

Take me into your arms and whisper softly into my ear

The things this girl has long wanted to hear.

Press me close to your chest, where your heartbeat I'll feel,

Trace your fingers along my cheek and down my neck,

Press your lips against mine and run your fingers through my hair.

Time has stopped; all I see is you, all I feel is you, all I want is you.

Let's make memories, writings on the wall,

Just for tonight, don't think, don't talk.

And when the morning comes, silently you'll go;

But when falls the dark, come you once more,

To take me back to that world where time stands still,

And all there is, is you.

--Sarah Van Blaricum

August 2, 2001

There are number of things wrong with this poem, not the least of which is the fact that I thought Dave was Catholic for some reason (turns out he was raised Quaker or something--my bad!) and that we were obviously on a first name basis with each other (in my head, which is sad). It also reads like something a crazy obsessed Twilight fan would write, provided there was a vampire who was Catholic and who could sing. I would also like to point out that, despite what you may think after reading this, I did have friends in high school, was a happy person and did not clothe myself in all black and do grave rubbings on Halloween or Edgar Allan Poe's birthday. And as embarrassing as this poem is, I'm publishing it on here because I think it's funny as hell, written during the days when I was charmingly pretentious (I like to think so anyway).

Don't fucking judge me. :-)

Breakthroughs!

If you read this blog on a semi-regular basis, or know me personally, you would know that I recently inherited a mini schnauzer. You would also know that the first couple of weeks of my having her were quite the adjustment periods--for the both of us. The first week I was an absolute basket case, getting overwhelmed, frustrated and stressed out incredibly easily. I also didn't go to the gym that entire first week either, which is something I do on a regular basis, because I was terrified to leave the apartment, since she had this habit of barking whenever I left. The second week was a bit better, I wasn't as much of a basket case, although still a bit stressed, and I went to the gym twice--however, I was a straight-up hermit Saturday and Sunday because a) I had no plans and b) I was still stressed over leaving the apartment. Well, kids, I'm proud to say that this week--week three--has been a lot better.

First of all, I stopped stressing out over her barking. I was just over it. Secondly, I had to face the fact that if I wanted her to get over her anxiety at me leaving, I would have to actually leave the apartment. So I went back to my regular gym schedule, and took each time I left as a training opportunity. With the help of my friend A (who also had the same problem with her lab), I had a system that I was using to work with her to overcome her separation anxiety, and today we had a major breakthrough: when I left to go to work and heard her start to bark, I simply rapped on my bedroom window a few times (I keep her crated in my bedroom when I'm not home) and gave the command for her to be quiet. And she got quiet. And she stayed quiet. And I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. The magic replicated itself when I left to go to the gym after work: she barked, I rapped on the window, she got quiet, and I did a celebratory fist pump.

This was the first week I was able to truly enjoy my dog. Not gonna lie, those first two weeks I contemplated giving her back to my sister, but I'm really glad I stuck it out, because the progress I'm seeing makes all the hard work and tears worth it. I also had a really good group of friends who were dog owners and encouraged me to stick it out and offered tips, their support and stories of their own. So to A, AA, Taylor, and Carrie--thanks for the support and for putting up with my crazy.

Not gonna lie, I'm feeling like a rock star. :-)

Open Letter to Mumford & Sons

Hey guys,

I'll just cut out all the, "OMG I LOVE YOUR MUSIC IT CHANGED MY LIFE! XOXOXOXOXOX LOLOLOL!!!" bullshit and get right to it: please come to Florida. More specifically, please come to Tampa, Florida, because, quite frankly, your current U.S. tour dates are frigging breaking my heart. There can be only two reasons why you all are shying away from gracing this fair city with your awesome music: it's hot as Satan's balls and you're afraid of getting a sunburn. So let me address these concerns now.

1. It's hot as Satan's balls. I know. I deal with the weather every day. It's hot. It's muggy. You feel like you need a shower just walking from the store to your car. And I understand how this can be a deterrent from coming to the Sunshine State. But if you look at the heat as being sexy instead of being suffocating, it makes tolerating it, like, .01% better. AND you guys sweat anyway when you're on stage, so you've gotta be used to a little heat. And our stores, apartments, restaurants, places of businesses--you name it--are automatically equipped with air conditioning, so cooling off won't be a problem AND hello! It's effing Florida. We're surrounded on three sides by water. The beach is not that far away.

2. You're afraid of getting a sunburn. Look, you guys are based out of London, so it's safe to say you don't get a lot of sun. I'm sure there aren't a ton of Londoners who are all glowing and tan and smell of coconuts, and the thought of visiting a more tropical environment could be a little scary. I mean, your skin has probably never been fully acquainted with Mr. Sun and his Merry Men of UVA and UVB rays. I'm sure you're thinking you'll go up in flames the moment you step off the plane and into the Floridian environment! But I've got good news! See, you guys and me, we're kindred spirits, as I'm pasty white too! I've lived in Florida my whole life (not counting the first year where I lived in California, where I was born, but I don't really acknowledge that) and if I can survive the atmosphere, you can too. I am also well-equipped with SPF 100--100!--sunblock so I have your back. The sun and his rays won't even penetrate your delicate complexions when I'm through with you.

So now, you guys really have no excuse not to come to the Bay Area. I'll even go another step and suggest possible venues you guys could play at:

-Jannus Landing (This one is really fun; it's got an outdoor stage where you can drink beer and carry on. I saw Flogging Molly here a few years ago and it was a great show.)

-State Theatre (Indoor venue. Saw Blue Oyster Cult back in 2004. It was fun!)

-Ritz Ybor (Not gonna lie, this place looks hella sketchy on the outside but is really nice on the inside. The concert area has plenty of room for people to mill about and enjoy the music.)

So whaddya say? Please, please, pretty please with a cherry on top, COME DOWN HERE! Just look at the photo up top. That could be you and all the fun you could be having in Florida!

Sincerely,

SVB

The Screamer

In an earlier entry, I mentioned that I had a next door neighbor whom I nicknamed The Screamer. The nickname came about when one day, as I was watching television, I heard him yelling bloody murder at someone in his apartment. To give you an idea of just how loud he is, let me describe the set-up at my complex: I live in a one bedroom, one bathroom apartment. It's just the right size for me and Ava: not too big, not too small, just right. A wall AC/heat unit is enough to cool and heat the entire thing. With me so far?

So one day a few months ago I was watching television with the AC unit going (which makes a bit of noise, but not too much). Over both the noise of the wall unit and my television, I heard sporadic cursing, more specifically, sporadic use of the word fuck: "FUCK!...FUCKING!...FUCK!..." It was faint, as he was in his apartment, but it was there. Because I'm naturally a nosy person (although I prefer to be labeled as "naturally curious"), I muted my TV and turned off my AC, tip-toed to the door that was closest to where the screaming seemed to be coming from, and listened. I still couldn't make out all of the tirade except for a few of those F-bombs, and I wondered who was on the receiving end of his rage--I concluded that he must have been screaming at someone on the phone, since I never heard anyone fight back.

This surprised me, because I had actually met The Screamer about a month prior, and he seemed hella cool. He's British, and he and his family had moved in earlier this year due to job relocation (whether it was for his job or his wife's job, I don't know). He said they'd be in Tampa for the next four years and really liked Davis Island and would probably stay in the neighborhood the entire time. He was actually the first one of my neighbors I'd met personally (everybody pretty much keeps to themselves in my complex) and I liked him immediately--he was friendly and easy-going. Hearing him scream like that was pretty alarming--like a Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde switch--but I figured we all have a blow up every once in awhile and, other than telling a few friends because it was a little bizarre, didn't think much else of it.

Until the next time it happened, about a month and a half later. And then the time after that, which was a few weekends ago, which leads me to believe he has some anger issues. I mean, I get that we all blow up once in awhile--but three screamfests spaced months apart? That's not the occasional blow up; that calls for a trip to a counselor.

Sometimes, just for my own amusement, I like to make up back stories for people. I like to think The Screamer is really a stock broker and the reason for his tirades is because he lost a lot of money for a few of his major clients due to the incompetence of a person on his team--probably the new guy. My friend AA thinks that maybe he's part of the mob, and that he's threatening to put a hit on those that fail him. If he is part of the mob, then he's pretty sloppy, in my opinion--Don Corleone would never succumb to outright screaming. That's just not as classy or effective a solution as sneaking a couple of horse heads into a bed in the middle of the night.

One of these days, I really hope he takes his screaming outside, or at least to a room in his apartment that's not far away from mine. One of my guilty pleasures is watching other people's drama, and I don't think he'd disappoint. I just hope he doesn't give himself a heart attack first.

EDIT: I have since learned that The Screamer is actually Irish, so...my bad. I'm terrible in identifying accents, unless they're stereotypical.