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.

Slow fast food

At the end of the day on Friday, Ray called me up and said he was in the mood for greasy chicken for dinner, and that he wanted to stop at KFC on the way home. Since I don’t eat chicken, he wanted to know which of the various carb-tastic sides I wanted him to bring me. I personally was in the mood for some greasy fish, so he decided to swing by home and take me to the combination KFC/Long John Silver’s down the road from our house. (He’s so romantic, isn’t he?)

When we got to the restaurant (and I use that term loosely, of course), and we were surprised to see the place was packed, with at least eight people waiting for their food. Since there was nobody in the cashier line, however, we decided to order. After about five minutes, a skinny, vacant-eyed teenager sporting a name tag saying “Hello my name is Ibn” (real name or typo? Who knows?) showed up at the cash register, stared at me while I ordered an L1 combo and an eight-piece crispy bucket (all chicken, specified Ray), then slowly poked a few buttons on his screen and absent-mindedly handed the receipt to me, at which point we joined the throngs by the pick-up counter.

After a few minutes, I looked at the receipt to double-check our number and where we were in line, when I noticed that while Ibn the Cashier Wonder had entered Ray’s order in, my L1 combo was nowhere on the ticket. I made my way back to the now abandoned cash register (Ibn was now wandering aimlessly through the kitchen with a pair of tongs in his hand) to correct the mistake, when a woman over at the pick-up counter says loudly, “Excuse me, we’ve been waiting for our food for a half hour. Can you tell me what the hold-up is?”

A half hour? I looked again at the workers in that kitchen, where the mean age was probably 16.5. Ibn was still wandering around with his tongs like a lost child, there was a guy on the chicken detail who didn’t seem to be really paying attention to the orders coming in. There was another guy way at the back pushing a broom around, but he didn’t really seem to be accomplishing the whole cleaning part of the job. There was a girl running the fry station, but when the alarm kept going off, she simply shut it off without taking anything out of the fryer. The girl at the drive-through window looked like she was actually doing her job, as was the manager (who was probably all of 22 years old).

Ibn clearly saw me waiting at the cash register, and he studiously avoided me. I gave up and figured I didn’t want to confuse them any more than they were already confused, and resigned myself to just eating something else when we got home.

After a few minutes, Half Hour Complaining Woman and her son got their food, and the rest of the crowd around the pick-up counter started to get antsy. The kids in the kitchen started moving a little faster, but their movements were still incredibly inefficient, so nothing was still getting done.

While we waited, two guys came in, waited at the cash register for about ten minutes without anyone acknowledging them, and finally left. Another gentleman showed up and put his order in, but he had obviously been there before, because he brought a book to read while he waited.

Ray remarked that he’d never had any problems with this place, but now that it changed from just a KFC to a KFC/Long John Silver’s, they now had two menus to deal with, and that must just be too much for them to handle.

Finally, the manager gave up trying to follow the orders on the screen and just started asking people what they had ordered so that she could fill them. Ibn chose this point to get helpful and asked Ray what he had ordered. “Eight piece,” Ray shouted over the din. Ibn blinked and turned away. I tried to get Ray to go up to the counter and show the manager his ticket, but Ray wouldn’t budge.

Another eternity later, the manager yelled, “Did somebody order a 12 piece crispy?”
Ray raised his hand and said, “Well, eight piece, but yeah.” The manager, clearly frazzled at this point, slapped a top on the bucket and handed the whole thing to him. We got out of there in a hurry.

I took another look at our receipt and realized that we, too, had been there for a half hour. That’s not fast food; that’s slow food.

Ray felt really bad that I never got to have my greasy fish, so he took me to Taco Bell (okay, there’s no greasy fish there, but it’s still junk food, and that’s kind of what we were both craving). We still had to wait a little bit for our food (10 minutes instead of 30 minutes), but the kitchen did seem much more organized. Unfortunately, my food was pretty inedible…I mean, more so than regular fast food…but at least we got it in less time.

When we got home to eat our food, Ray took a look inside the bucket of chicken and realized there were only 7 pieces of chicken in his 8-piece order. We chalked it up to the level of education these kids had been getting. Willingboro Township (where the KFC is) has the worst public schools in the state of NJ…so bad, apparently, that the students can’t even count pieces of chicken, much less function well in a minimum wage job that a monkey could do. Thanks a lot, New Jersey.

Deck the Lawn with Tacky Blow-Ups

Dear neighbors and all the folks in America who have decided to get into the Christmas spirit with large inflatable figures on their lawns,

It’s one thing to celebrate the holiday season by stringing your house and trees with lights.  I think they are very cheery and lighten my evening whenever I see lit houses.  Those reindeer that are made of Christmas lights are lovely (and I was tickled when I passed a house where the two reindeer had been arranged in a rather lewd position, although I’m sure that was probably some prank pulled off by local kids).  I even like some manger scenes, when done tastefully.

But what makes you think I want to see four or five 15-foot inflatable Santas in a row on my way home?  The amount of time and energy you must spend blowing up those dolls can probably be better put to use finishing your Christmas shopping or volunteering at a soup kitchen.

And while you might think you’re done inflating those things at 5 or 6 in the evening, I can tell you with all certainty that by 9:30 they are halfway deflated, and that by morning they are completely flat.  So the idea that passers-by might be cheered by a large Mickey Mouse with a Santa hat smiling and waving at them doesn’t hold water, since by the time I drive by, poor Mickey looks like he’s been hitting the eggnog a little too much.

And is it really necessary to have Santa, an inflatable sleigh, and an Eagles quarterback?  I know I live in the land of the Eagles fans, who are, by definition, a little bit nuts, but can you dial it back just a little bit?  For the kids?  Who wants to drive by a 15-foot generic football player that looks like he’s about to throw up rather than throw the ball, while an anemic Santa has overturned his sleigh?

Take some time to look at your house from an outsider’s perspective.  Look at it, not when you come home from work, but right after you watch Survivor.  Then look at your electric bill and think about how much money you might save if you just got rid of the inflatable dolls.  You could give that money to those charities that have been soliciting you these past couple of weeks, and then you could feel much better about yourself this season, and I would feel much better about you as well.

This has been a public service announcement.

Can’t sleep…astronauts will eat me…

I should be in bed right now, catching up on all the sleep I’ve been missing over the last few days. I should be dreaming all the dreams I haven’t been dreaming, and I should have gone to bed two hours ago when I was moderately sleepy, instead of staying up and catching up on the crack TV I’ve been TiVo-ing for the last week or so.

But I’m not. I can’t sleep, so I figured I’d come onto the computer and blog, mostly because I know I haven’t been blogging for a while, which Neenyd reminded me on Saturday. Has it really been a month? Sheesh.

Cat update: Itchy’s still no better, although he’s off the ear medication. We now lovingly call him the “sideways” cat, since he constantly tilts his head to the right. He’s been managing with his disability so well that we let him outside, but he can’t get up and down the stairs by himself, so we (read: I) have to pick him up and carry him in and out of the house. He enjoys being outside, though, and I figure as long as the weather’s nice, it’s not so bad. I’m going to make another appointment with the vet, though, just in case there is something else they can do to make him “normal” again.

In the news: Sheikh Muszaphar Shukor is the first Malaysian to go into space. When I heard the story on BBC World News this morning, I actually thought he was also the first Muslim in space, but apparently I was wrong about that. He is, however, the first Muslim to be observing Ramadan in space, and he actually got the Islamic National Fatwa Council to write up a whole handbook on how to pray, fast, and otherwise observe Ramadan properly in space.

This is just another reason why I don’t like organized religion: they spend all this time and energy working out the correct way to pray instead of actually manifesting those prayers into something tangible, like helping the poor or working on peace in the Middle East or doing something about the atrocities in Darfur.

Argh. Okay, back to bed again…maybe I’ll try counting sheep.

Bleagh

I’m feeling kind of icky right now, so I guess I’m going to use this blog as a personal catharsis machine, just like the rest of the world does with their blogs.

So here’s the deal. I recently got an offer from a conductor I worked with last winter to sing at a music festival in Italy this summer. It’s last minute, and it doesn’t pay that well, but they pay for transportation and housing, plus we get a little stipend for food (enough to live modestly). It’s not solo work, but it’s challenging musically, which is what I’ve been really hoping for recently, since I seem to be stuck doing a lot of the same-old choral stuff (which is great…I’m not complaining, but I’m also not challenged enough, I think).

I’m absolutely signed up for the job, so there’s no dilemma as to whether or not to go. I mean, come on, someone is going to pay for me to go to Italy? And sing? This is a chance of a lifetime, and I’m totally psyched to go. I’ve already got my Learn-Italian-Really-Fast CD playing in my car so I can brush up on the two semesters of Italian that I took 14 years ago.

I know I shouldn’t feel bad, I should feel happy and excited, but I all feel right now is bleagh (that’s a technical term, by the way.  It is that icky, vomitous feeling you get when you say the word “bleagh.”). It’s weird.

Now for the psychoanalysis: why am I feeling bleagh? Well, for one thing, I haven’t had a whole lot of time to prepare for this trip. We leave at the end of June for three and a half weeks, and Ray can’t go with me because he’s got to earn the bread and pay the mortgage and make leather stuff so we can go on vacation together another year. That’s probably the hardest thing, since we’re still in our honeymoon phase, I think…our roommates just moved out and we’ve been redecorating and being all lovey-dovey, and I’ll definitely miss him terribly.

But the second reason I feel bleagh is that I just told my transcription boss I’m going to be gone for three and a half weeks, and she was pretty upset. I know she’s probably not upset enough to fire me (and even if she did, that might not be a bad thing in the long run), but the thing that makes me feel bad is that I made her feel bad. How lame is that?

I also took on a whole lot of volunteer stuff with AGMA, and I may not be able to live up to my responsibilities because of this trip, and I feel pretty bad about that too. Not as bad as missing the job, though, since the AGMA stuff is volunteer, but I still feel pretty bad.

My head knows that I should not feel guilty about getting paid to go to Italy and sing. This is, after all, what my real career is about. Ray is totally on board with it and very supportive. Even the folks at AGMA are supportive, because they understand that one must take these jobs to further one’s singing career. So why do I feel guilty about leaving my piddly little day job who can get a temp to replace me? I really don’t know. I think maybe I just need to push through the guilt and remind myself that I’M GOING TO ITALY!

Yeah, that helps.

Deck the Halls

I tried to post this on 11/26, but the post never happened. Better late than never…

Thanksgiving was much less stressful for me than I thought it would be. Since I’ve had almost no free time, I was beside myself as to what to prepare for my soon-to-be in-laws, since the last couple of times I got overly ambitious and they arrived 30-45 minutes early to watch me frantically put finishing touches on things in the kitchen. Ray’s mom, ever condescending (but well-meaning), keeps saying, “She’s just a baby. She’ll learn,” which grates on my very last nerve, considering the fact that they come EARLY before I’m ready for them. Last time she said that, my dad spoke up for me and said, “No, she actually did a really great job.” Thanks, Dad!

But I am learning. This year I told them to come at 5:30, planning on dinner to be ready by 5:00. They arrived at 5:15, and I was ready for them with appetizers. I was still putting finishing touches on the food, but everything was cooked and almost ready to put on the table. I was hoping she wouldn’t make any more condescending remarks, but at the end of dinner, she said, “You’re learning.” Well, I guess she’s right. I just wish it didn’t bother me so much when she said it.

Now that Thanksgiving is over, Caroling season is in full swing. I started caroling at a Big Department Store in the middle of Philadelphia (I’m taking a page from Adam875’s book and trying for at least SOME anonymity), and although the whole story of how I got the gig needs to be left for another post, it is actually quite a nice gig. They have a secure dressing room for us to take our breaks in, and we’re pretty much left to our own devices. We have been wandering through the store, found out that although almost nobody shops in Menswear, there is a really cool place for us to stand and sing so that a good portion of the first floor can see and hear us.

Almost everyone who hears us actually stops and listens for the whole song, and sometimes even hangs out for two or three songs before they go back to their shopping. The parents are really pleased to point out to their kids, “Look, Timmy, Christmas carolers.” And one of my fellow carolers commented that we were probably the only people on Black Friday that the shoppers weren’t angry at. Shoppers would push and shove their way through the crowds, but when they saw us coming, they would smile and move aside.

We did have a strange incident, however, of a couple of teenagers we passed as we were walking to the escalator. They saw us and said, “Hey look, immigrants!” Immigrants? Um, how do you get immigrants from four people wearing Victorian-era outfits? Maybe immigrants who stepped out of a time machine. Those kids must be products of the Philadelphia public school system; obviously well-educated.

Can’t run a train without power

Why is it that when we’re in a rush, all the forces of the universe seem to conspire against us in order to make our lives more difficult?

This morning, I had a rehearsal in New York at 10 AM. Now, if I still lived in New York, I would be rejoicing that I could wake up a little later, maybe meander over to Lincoln Center, stopping off at the bagel place for some breakfast. But since I live a good 100 miles away in South Jersey, I have to get up at the butt-crack of dawn in order to get to rehearsal on time.

I’ve done this commute so many times I have it down to a science: if the rehearsal is in the morning, I take the train, because an express train from Trenton can go much faster than a car sitting in traffic on the NJ Turnpike. However, if I have to leave the city late at night, I drive in, because the trains only run once an hour after 10 PM, so I actually get home faster in the car.

So far, this method has served me fairly well, except for the few days like today, when the trains aren’t running. As soon as I got to the train station platform, they announced that there was a power problem and “no trains were running at this time.” The announcer also said that they had no estimate for when the problem would be fixed. I waited around for about five minutes and decided to take my chances on the road.

I got back in the car and headed out onto the Turnpike. Wouldn’t you know it, a tractor-trailer overturned in one of the truck lanes, slowing down traffic for a good ten miles at least. On top of that, there was a 45 minute delay getting through the Lincoln Tunnel (par for the course on most morning commutes), and although I left a good hour earlier than I might have, I got to rehearsal with extremely high blood pressure and ten minutes to spare.

All in all, it’s a good thing I ended up driving, since the radio traffic reports first reported the power outage (Amtrak’s fault, by the way) as delaying the trains 30-40 minutes, then 60 minutes, then suspended altogether.

You know, when I first moved to NJ, I thought it was odd how native New Jerseyans seemed to be able to talk about traffic and driving routes the way most people talk about the weather. Now I think I may be turning into one of those people.

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.

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.

I’m going to need a bigger handbasket

This past weekend, I lectured my mother, shook down my church choir director, and flipped off a homeless guy in a wheelchair. What’s happening to me?

Granted, my mother needed lecturing, my church choir director hadn’t paid me for a gig in a month, and the homeless guy was in the street knocking on my car window in New York and freaked me out. But when you put these things together, it certainly doesn’t look good. I always knew I would be going to hell–I even have my own handbasket–but even for me, this was bad.

Boy, I sure hope I’m not turning into a Republican.