Hot Jello Biscuit!

The title for today’s post came from a really absurd conversation at a dinner party I went to last night.  I won’t even go into how we came up with the phrase, only that it sounds like a fantastic expletive for happy occasions (e.g., “Hey, I won the lottery!  Hot Jello biscuit!”).  I’m hoping it’ll catch on.

And just to keep this post in the absurd category (today’s post is brought to you by Dadaism), I was at Wawa this afternoon getting some coffee, where I saw a man at a sort of a booth trying to sell some sort of raffle promotion for the store.  The booth had a hand-written sign taped to it, saying, “Ask me about free gas.”

I had to hold my tongue.  So many jokes, so little time.

What’s in a Name?

Even before I got married, people had issues with my name. I’ve had folks misspell, mispronounce, and just plain misunderstand my name, and over the years, I’ve been pretty tolerant about the whole thing. After all, I figure, “Maren” is not exactly a common name, and neither is “Montalbano.” So I give folks a break and patiently wait for them to figure it out. But now that I’ve gotten married and changed my name, it’s gotten even worse, and I’m starting to get a little mad.

Before I get into this diatribe, I do want you to know that I thought long and hard about changing my name. After all, Maren Montalbano is a brand, and I’ve spent many years making sure people remember that name and associate it with me and my face. But, on the other hand, I wanted to make sure the world knew that I was someone’s wife now. I’m a Mrs., not a Ms. or a Miss, and after having addressed multiple invitations for the wedding, I realize that it’s always easier when you can write “Mr. & Mrs. So-and-So” rather than “Mr. So-and-So & Ms. Such-and-Such.”

So I hit on a compromise that MANY women take. I would keep my maiden name, but move it over to my middle name, so that I would now, legally, become Maren Montalbano Brehm. My professional name, my “stage name,” if you want to call it that, is still Maren Montalbano, and always will be. That way, if I get a check written out to Maren Montalbano, the bank won’t have too hard a time guessing that it’s really me, since both my middle and last names will be on the account. Sounds simple enough, right? Plus, it’s what the majority of women do when they change their names.

The trouble started when I went to Italy last year, and the travel agency who was arranging the tour messed up my name on the plane tickets, putting “Montalbano-Brehm, Maren” down as my name on the ticket, when my passport, which was correct, said “Brehm, Maren Montalbano.” You’d think that would be an easy enough error to correct, but I was held up at every single airport I went through on that trip because my ticket didn’t match my passport. When I tried to correct it through the airline, they said they would make a note on the passenger list, but I STILL got held up at the airport. The fine people at TSA (and the French equivalent) clearly thought that I was trying to pull a fast one on them by adding a hyphen to my name.

Once home, it actually took several tries to change my bank accounts and credit cards. One credit card couldn’t be bothered to change my name even after I sent them a copy of my marriage certificate, a letter signed by me, and a copy of my driver’s license to prove it was me, so I have since canceled the card.

The township where I live has such bad record-keeping that they not only have my name wrong, but our address wrong as well! We found out last year that the township had been sending property tax bills for years to Ray’s previous address. When we received a zoning permit for replacement of an AC unit that we didn’t ask for, I wrote the township a very detailed letter, returning the zoning permit, along with a copy of the deed to the house, our marriage certificate, my driver’s license, and asked very politely for them to change their records. This year a similar thing happened again, so I went down to the municipal offices and made sure their databases were changed (clearly they don’t share data between departments).

Earlier this year, when it came time for us to give our receipts and reports to our tax accountant, I included a copy of our marriage certificate (which states very clearly what my new name is!) so that he could file our taxes with the correct name. Our taxes came back, and every single page said “Montalbano, Maren W.” We pointed out the problem to the accountant, who said, “Just get some white-out and change the name on the papers yourself.” So I did.

Now we’re getting our tax refunds, and if that isn’t a botched up mess, too! NY State sent me a check for “MAREN MONTALBANOBREHM,” which is a new variation — pretty creative, if you ask me. NJ State sent a check made out to “Montalbano Brehm” with no reference to “Maren” at all. Now, I’m not concerned that I won’t be able to deposit these checks, but how difficult is it for people to figure this out? Haven’t women been doing this for centuries?

On the other side of the spectrum, I am singing in a concert at my church this weekend, and all the posters and flyers have been printed with my name listed as “Maren Brehm.” I know I had been a little flexible with the posting of my name in the church bulletins, since I figured this group of people, since they knew I had just been married, would expect my name to change. And my choir director even asked me how to list my name, and I had told him, “Either ‘Maren Montalbano’ or ‘Maren Montalbano Brehm.’” I think he took this to mean I didn’t mind being listed as “Maren Brehm,” and, it turns out, I do. Professionally, at least.

I do realize I’ve made it a little bit difficult by insisting on keeping my maiden name as my professional name. So, mea culpa , mea culpa , and maybe I deserve a little bit of the grief I’m getting. But there are only three names to deal with, people. Don’t hyphenate it, ask me before you put my name on an advertisement, and you’ll be fine. It’s not like I’ve got a name like Tarquin Fintimlinbinwhinbimlim Bus Stop F’tang F’tang Ole Biscuit-Barrel. Then, I think, I would be in a lot more trouble.

I want a new drug

So in my sojourns through transcription world, I get to hear about a lot of different new drugs, most of which I can’t comment on because of confidentiality reasons. But today I heard about the best drug of all: Havidol. Haven’t you ever wanted to Havidol? It’s the “first and only treatment for dysphoric social attention consumption deficit anxiety disorder,” according to the website.  I think there are a lot of folks in America who need this drug.

Many people who are devotees of the Flying Spaghetti Monster take Havidol regularly, and they find that they become closer to his noodly appendage.

(You know, the really sad thing is, there are people who have gone to their doctors actually requesting the drug, and then they write to the conceptual artist telling them it’s her fault that they are so stupid they can’t tell the difference between real and fake)

Ewoks and Barbershop: two great things that go great together

Out of the mouths of babes

My best friend just sent me this story about her three-year-old daughter, Camille, and I couldn’t resist sharing it with all of you.

This happened last night at 7:35 PM.
The phone rang and Camille answered it on the speaker phone

Camille: Hello
Caller: Hello, ma’am, do you have a minute to talk about health care reform?
Camille: No
Caller: Why not?
Camille: I’m busy
Caller: It will just take a minute
Camille: I’m too busy
Caller: Why won’t you just give me a minute?
Camille: Because I don’t want to
Caller: But why?
Camille: Lady, I’m only 3!
Caller: Ummm, okay, ma’am, I’ll try you again later.

Need I say more?

Gypsies tried to fix my car

The other day, I was relaxing at home, having gotten home from a lively rehearsal, and I was catching up on the latest episode of Project Runway (which I TiVoed because I’m too gorram busy to actually watch any of the shows I like at their scheduled time), when I heard a knock on the door.

I live in the middle of suburbia, so if someone unexpectedly knocks on my door, most likely they’re either doing a dog census for the township or they’re Jehovah’s Witnesses. Or both. Girding myself for the ensuing battle with one of God’s discreet (or is that discrete?) slaves, I opened the door to find, to my surprise, a rather shady-looking man who looked like he just stepped off the set of The Sopranos. Not exactly the JW sort at all.

This guy was a short, bald, Italian with stubble on his chin and a pock-marked face. He wore a leather jacket and sported a small rhinestone cross in one ear. He was looking up at the roof on my garage, as if he wasn’t exactly expecting me to answer the door at all. “Can I help you?” I asked.

“Hi. I was just wondering, do you know whose little blue car that is over there?” he asked, pointing to my car.

“It’s mine. Why, do I need to move it for something?”

“No, no, it’s just I noticed that you have a little dent in your fender and on the hood, ma’am.”

Yes, I have a little ding on the front of my car. It’s no big deal…actually, it’s Ray’s fault. He backed into my car with a utility van when he was trying to move one of his pinball games into the house. He promised to fix it, but when we found out it would cost $400, we both agreed it was a waste of money to fix something like that. It’s purely a vanity fix.

But it still bothers me when people mention it, kind of like saying to someone, “Do you know you have a zit on your face?” as if that person hasn’t spent an hour in front of the mirror agonizing over it. Let it alone, people. Tell me I have spinach between my teeth, but don’t tell me I have an obvious dent on my fender or a zit on my face.

Gritting my teeth, I said, “Yes, I know I have a little ding there.” He went on to tell me that he does auto bodywork, and he’d be happy to fix that right up for me. Using blatant used car salesman-like techniques, he managed to get me out of the house and onto the street to show me what he can do. He introduced himself (his name is Bobby) and explained that he knew all about European metalworking, and that he would do this job for much less than had been estimated for me before. In fact, he correctly guessed that we had been quoted $400, which was what got me out there in the first place. He on the other hand, offered to do it for $145.

While he was talking, I was making it perfectly clear through body language that I wasn’t really interested in giving him money. I also looked around to make sure I wasn’t alone with the slightly creepy “European metalworker.” Across the street, there seemed to be a family reunion with at least four adults and a few children outside. Good. However, parked behind my car was a black Lincoln Towncar. How cliché. But hey, at least I knew they couldn’t whack me in front of all these witnesses.

I must have been staring at the car a little too long, because the driver of the car stuck his hand out the window and waved at me. I turned back to Bobby and told him for the second or third time that I wasn’t interested. He dropped his price to $125.

I said, “Look, all this is making me really uncomfortable. Why are you coming at me with this offer in this strange manner? I didn’t ask for any help, and I didn’t come looking for you. How did you even find me anyway? Were you just trolling the neighborhood looking for dented cars? What is going on?” I looked at the Towncar again. “Are you in any trouble?” I asked.

“No, no, nothing like that,” he said, brushing away my questions. “My brother and I were in the neighborhood doing a job, and we just happened to see your car.” I swallowed. A job? What kind of job? Am I going to open the paper tomorrow morning and see my neighborhood on the front page?

He went on to say, “Our mother just passed away a couple weeks ago, and we really need the money. I’ll do it for $90.”

This guy obviously had very poor negotiating tactics. At this point, I just got fed up. As nicely as I could, I said, “I’m very sorry about your mother, and I appreciate that you’re trying to get some work, but this is all highly irregular, and I’m really uncomfortable with this entire situation. I hope you realize that the way you’re going about selling your talents makes it sound like a con.” He immediately started to shake his head and tried to tell me all about his guarantee and that’s why he’s willing to do a free sample for me, but I went on to say, “Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t, but I just am not willing to enter into a business transaction of this nature.”

Seeing that he was about to start again with more sales tactics, I decided to use the Ray card. “Besides,” I said, “call me old-fashioned, but I don’t like to make any financial decisions without my fiancé here, and he won’t be home for at least two or three hours.” That seemed to shut him down. I thanked him and went back into the house.

And then I bolted the door.

The next day I told my dad about the incident, and his reaction was, “Oh yeah. Those are gypsies, of course.” Of course? How am I supposed to know that? Until now, I thought gypsies traveled in wooden wagons, sold handmade trinkets, and gave souls to vampires. Apparently those days are over, and they now travel in Lincoln Towncars, sell auto body services, and…well maybe they still give souls to vampires. I’m not sure on that one.

But apparently, if you’re firm enough with them, they do go away and don’t bother you anymore.

Look Ma, Three Arms!

So I was driving to work today, listening to the BBC World News (as I always do), trying not to get depressed about the horrible things going on in the Middle East (BBC loves to abide by the “if it bleeds, it leads” rule), when all of a sudden, they start talking about some baby in China that had three arms. THREE ARMS? I almost had to pull over.

The reporter was interviewing the doctor, asking him questions like, “So why did you detach the third arm?” I was sort of expecting some sort of explanation of the physiological damage that could occur with a third arm, but he said the extra arm was almost perfectly functional. It’s just that the parents had requested it be removed so the kid wouldn’t be teased when he got older.

I guess that’s a good point. And there is the concern that you’d have to sew in an extra sleeve in all his shirts…what a pain. But think of the plus side: he could have turned out to be a one-of-a-kind virtuoso pianist! I guess they thought what’s the point, unless he has FOUR arms, right?

Can’t complete a…

One of the reasons I haven’t been blogging much is that my mind has been too scattered for me to actually sit down and write out a full story. So in lieu of anything that actually makes sense, I’ll jot down a few amusing, but random, things that have happened over the last week or so.

I watched the season finales of Survivor, Amazing Race, Lost, Top Chef, and I’m saving the Alias finale on VCR for my viewing pleasure tonight. Now that all the good shows are done, what am I going to watch? That stupid dancing show?

A friend of mine cracked a wisdom tooth (ouch!), and had to have it pulled. What was he eating at the time? Smartfood. I’m not making this up.

I woke up this morning from a dream where I was explaining to a bunch of people in detail how cells undergo mitosis. Why can’t I dream about normal crap, like pickles or cigars? Oy.

Truth in advertising?

I was in Wal-Mart the other day (only because I had an unspent gift card from Christmas and no razor refills), and I wandered through the hair product aisle, looking for a possible new product to try, when I reached for a product that had “organic,” “natural,” and other such adjectives on the front, so I turned it over and saw the first two ingredients were isobutane and propane. So much for a natural hair product from Wal-Mart.

Some people call me Maurice

What a surreal day I had yesterday!

After coming home and falling into bed at 11:30 or so Saturday night (I was up in NY helping my brother with his Tisch audition material), I was awakened at 4 AM by Scratchy , who was meowing at the door wanting to be let out. Usually when he does this, I don’t even remember his meows because I instinctively get up as soon as my subconscious registers it, but this time I kept dreaming about being in choir practice and having one person in the choir who just couldn’t quite hit the note and was scooping up to it. After about three takes of the dream, I finally realized that this person sounded way too much like a cat meowing and, oh, yeah, I guess Scratchy wants to be let out.

A more portentous dream I could not have had.

The morning started out as a usual Sunday morning: the alarm went off, I hit snooze a couple times, and then finally rolled myself out of bed and into the shower so I could to church. I was still a little groggy from lack of sleep, so instead of wearing black tights that would have matched the black blouse I was wearing with my burgundy skirt, I pulled on a pair of dark brown tights. It wasn’t until I was walking from my car to church that I looked down at my shoes and realized my mistake. Too late now, I figured. Of course, there was also a big run in one of the legs that clued me into the fact that I didn’t have the mental capacity today to dress myself properly.

Church itself was pretty normal. We have a new assistant rector with abysmal writing skills, and I’ve recently taken to counting the number of times he repeats a word or a phrase within the sermon…today the word "life" came in first with a whopping 35 repetitions, with the word "priority" a far second with only 21. I think it wouldn’t be so noticeable if he didn’t use the exact same words in a different order to fill three sentences in succession. He’s fond of phrases like, "We all prioritize things that matter in our life; in other words, things that matter in life get prioritized." Uh, did anyone point out to you that you’re not using other words at all, but the SAME EXACT WORDS? I might forgive him his redundancy if he created a chiasmus with them (like The Sphinx in Mystery Men : "Learn to hide your strikes from your opponent and you’ll more easily strike his hide"), but he’s not nearly that clever.

After church, we had to sing in an evensong at another church in Asbury Park. It was several church choirs combined to sing at this one church — they’re hoping to make it an annual event, which by itself it not a bad idea, but they’d better put someone else in charge next time. The whole affair, from the rehearsals up to the concert itself, was infuriatingly disorganized. Asbury Park is on the Jersey Shore (some people recognize it as Bruce Springsteen’s home town), but it’s a good hour’s drive away from our church in Moorestown. By the time we were done with the second service at church, I barely had enough time to scarf down a sandwich before all the section leaders piled into one car and headed out to the shore.

Asbury Park should be renamed as Ass-bury Park. That town is a real dump. The church is smack dab in the middle of a pretty bad neighborhood, and we all agreed if we never had to return it would be too soon. When we got there, the airhead in charge was unable to answer a lot of questions and had clearly not communicated what needed to be done in the rehearsal with the other church choir directors or with the clergy from her own church.

We were also dealing with the added bonus of children’s choirs. Our children’s choir managed to behave themselves, thanks to one of the moms who sat opposite them in the choir stalls and glared at them the whole time. But the other kids didn’t have that type of oversight. One kid sat in the back and didn’t even pretend to sing; another one didn’t have any music because some of the other kids had stolen it. There were no parents anywhere; I assume they must have thought with 40+ adults around, there was plenty of supervision. Boy, were they wrong.

The concert itself went surprisingly well, with the exception of the tone-deaf priest who really wanted to cantor. He had been practicing all month, you see, and was really nervous about it. Too bad his chant didn’t have any resemblance to the notes on the page at all, and our harmonized responses would have crashed and burned if it weren’t for the quick-thinking organist, who played our chord before each response.

When the concert was over, I couldn’t get out of there quicker. On my way home, I called Ray, who asked if I could stop and get some pizza for dinner. Pizza sounded good. And beer. Lots of beer. But when I got to the pizza place, they had an order ready for me under the name "Maurice." You have to be seriously not listening to an order if you hear "Maurice" from "Maren." Ray even spelled it for the dude. So I guess now you can call me the space cowboy or the gangster of love if you want…

What a perfect end to my wacky, crazy day.