The Show Must Go On

 A promise is a promise.

As soon as Brynn (a young lady who played my son -- she was 10, it was fine -- in Tommy this past summer) was cast in her middle school play (a comedy called The Curse of the Bard), she asked if I would come see the show. She was so intent on my seeing it that I couldn't even think of saying no.

"I'll be there on Opening Night," I told her. "Front row center."

And so, on Wednesday evening, I headed out for a grand night of theatre at the middle school. I even managed to snag a seat in the front row, sitting with (as it happened), the director of Tommy, the music director of Tommy, and her daughter, who was in Tommy. 

As the music director was sitting down, she asked if I'd heard from Brynn's mother that day. I hadn't.

"I don't think Brynn's here," she said. A few moments later, the teacher in charge confirmed it. Brynn was home sick; her part would be played by another student.

To be fair, although I promised Brynn I'd show up, she never promised the same to me.

The show was about to begin, and given where I was sitting, there was no graceful way for me to sneak out. Besides, I wasn't about to be the jerk who walked out on a middle school play. Instead, though, I was the creep-o who sat in the front row for a middle school play in which I knew no one. (Well, almost no one. There were a few other Tommy alumni.)

On the up side, the show was actually very funny. There are certainly worse ways to spend a Wednesday evening. And hey, at least they weren't doing Annie.

Next Time, Just Trust Me

I went to bed early last night, so when I awoke to use the bathroom, my husband was still up.

"You're up late," I said.

"Yeah, I was looking at Canon stuff." This wasn't a surprise. He often stays up late to check out camera equipment, fantasize about buying it, and then decide against the purchase in case something better comes out soon.

I tell a lot of bad jokes when I'm tired and told one now. But he didn't hear me. I repeated the joke, which wasn't funny enough to have really said even once, and once again, he asked me what I'd said.

"Never mind," I said. "It's not funny enough to say three times."

I should mention, this happens all the time. He says I mumble, and I say he doesn't listen. I'm not sure which one of us is correct, but no one else ever asks me to repeat myself three times. In any case, at this point, exasperated, he asked me again to tell him what I'd said.

"I was wondering if you were going to be a Civil War re-enactor!" I yelled. "You said you were looking at cannon stuff!"

Pause.

"Now, was that really worth waiting for?" I asked. Correct answer: no.

He shrugged. "I laughed."

In Sickness...

Tonight, I went to visit a friend who broke her back in a freak accident a few months ago. She's been in a nursing facility almost since it happened, doing physical therapy every day and awaiting word on her prognosis, wondering when she will be allowed to go home.

I haven't known Rebecca long -- she was a fellow cast member in Tommy this summer -- but she's one of those rare people who just emanates goodness. One conversation with her, and you know she is a caring, nurturing person who cherishes every day as a gift. Even in her current condition, she has maintained a positive attitude, allowing herself only occasional slips into depression. As a natural complainer, I am humbled by this strong woman, who has every right to complain but rarely does.

Rebecca has befriended many of the folks at the nursing facility, and, as one of the younger patients, has become somewhat of a caretaker for some. She's heard all their stories, and I hope she won't mind me sharing one she told me.

There's a 91-year-old man at the facility whose wife (of a comparable age) resides in the assisted living apartments next door. His window faces her building, and her window faces theirs. So every night at a designated time, they grab their flashlights and flash "I love you" to each other's windows.

In the next breath, Rebecca told me about her own husband, who drives out to see her every night after work before heading home. None of these places are all that close to one another, so it's a considerable amount of driving. It must be a burden on him. But every night, he's there. While she and I were talking, her husband walked in, carrying some clothes and a sandwich for her.

I can't imagine what it's like to have to live apart from one's spouse; I find it difficult to spend even a few nights away from my husband. And while I hope we never have to learn what it's like, I take comfort in knowing if one of us was in that nursing facility, the other would be there every night to share a sandwich. Or at least to shine a light through the window.

Please, Won't You Be My Neighbor?

When I moved into a house last year, I was really excited about doing neighborly things. Chatting over the fence, going to neighborhood picnics, borrowing cups of sugar.

Apparently, I thought I had bought a house in the 1950s.

In reality, there's very little interaction between our neighbors and us. The kids all play outside together, but we don't have kids. So the only time we ever really notice them is when they're leaving candy wrappers in our mailbox or flicking cigarette butts into our backyard so their parents don't know they were smoking.

So when my doorbell rang the other day, I didn't bother answering. Most of the time when my doorbell rings, it's either a kid wanting to sell me something for a fundraiser or someone wanting to talk to me about Jesus. I didn't really feel like spending money or talking about Jesus on this particular day. And I don't have a good vantage point anywhere in the house for seeing who is at the door, Mr. Rogers-style. So I waited till the person left, then watched out the window.

It was my next-door neighbor, and she had a giant zucchini in her hand. It figures that the first time I don't answer the door, it's someone I actually don't mind seeing, with a present for me. I couldn't exactly go running after her though. What was I supposed to say? Sorry, I thought you were going to try to save my soul?

Well, today, I came home from work, and there was the giant zucchini, sitting on my kitchen counter. Apparently, when my husband had come home, the next-door neighbor (the husband this time) had come out and offered him the zucchini. Wisely, he didn't say, "oh yeah, your wife brought that over the other day, but my wife was afraid she was a Jehovah's witness, so she didn't answer the door."

Truthfully, I have no idea what I'm going to do with the thing. It's huge. I could make six loaves of zucchini bread, a quiche and some grilled zucchini and still have some left over. But I'm still pretty excited to have been the recipient of such a neighborly gesture.

Coffee Talk

As I mentioned in last night's entry, yesterday wasn't a great day. Between working, being in the play and everyday life stuff like grocery shopping, cleaning and laundry, I am running myself a little bit ragged these days. Yes, it's all what I signed up for, but after working from home and having ample time for everything over the past eight months, it's been a difficult transition back to the real world.

Today, though, I was determined to make better than yesterday. Despite not sleeping well last night, I got up, got ready, and left for work with a smile on my face -- or, at least, an expression other than a frown. I stopped at the Starbucks down the street from my house to pick up a little energy boost, feeling good that the day was starting out so well.

I received a greeting I did not expect. A woman, waiting for her drink and obviously in the midst of telling a funny story, turned to the door and yelled (with a smile) "BITCHEEESSSSSSS!" just as I was walking in. I smiled to myself, and maybe to her a little bit, as if to say: "I don't know what that was about, but it was a mildly amusing moment." She must have felt bad, though, because as I passed her, she said, "not you, ma'am." I laughed and responded, something about it being a nice way to start my day. Whatever I said, it didn't make much sense and probably sounded a bit mean. I didn't intend it that way, but come on, I hadn't even ordered my coffee yet, let alone consumed it.

The woman's friend, or coworker, or whatever he was, smiled at me and said, "you're a lovely person," to which I smiled, and before the pair left, the guy told me to have a nice day, and the lady said the same.

I have to admit, I'm curious what the woman's story was about. She was wearing what looked like a security guard uniform; perhaps she was telling of something that happened at work. But if the universe has a sense of humor, I like to think she was talking about her friend Steve, who works at the expensive gym, and some of the people he has to call.

It's Just a Matter of Good Manners and Good Nature

When I was little, I had a Paddington Bear record, and on that record, there was a song about the importance of good manners. 


"If you've got good manners and good nature, you really will get along. For with those good manners and good nature, everyone will shake your paw and say, 'glad to see ya and have a good day,'" went the song. I couldn't help but think of those lyrics while mulling over a phone call I got earlier this evening.

Note: I tried to find the song online to link to here, but alas, it was not to be. Which means that I actually remember the lyrics from a quarter century ago. Not bad, eh?


Anyway, backing up...I had a really stressful day. I have a lot going on this week, I've been really stressed out, and leaving for work today was sort of like coming to the top of the rollercoaster hill and seeing how scary the ride down will be.


By the time I got to play rehearsal this evening, I was ready to go off on someone for no good reason. But lucky for my castmates, that's when the phone rang.


It was Steve at the expensive gym, so often mentioned on this blog. He was wondering if I might be interested in joining. Rehearsal was starting, but I couldn't resist returning his call right away.


"Hey, Erika! How ya feelin'?" he answered.


It took everything in me to be nice. I mean, I was annoyed that he'd called me yet again, but he didn't deserve the full force of my frustration. So I firmly, yet politely, told him that I've already told him I am not interested in a membership and asked him to please take me out of the system at the gym.


And that's when Steve pulled out his Paddington good manners and good nature.


"Well, all I can say to that is, God bless you, and have a good night," he said.


I'm sure that when he hung up, he added, "you big fat fatty," but given the things I've written about him on this blog, I think he probably owes me an insult or two.

Felt So Funny To Be Free

I've never blogged much about work, because first, it wasn't interesting enough, and second, well, people who blog about things that happen to them at work often find themselves out of work in pretty short order.


So when I was laid off in September, I made only a quick mention of it here. I wasn't sure what I could say about losing my job that was unique (especially in this day and age), and I wasn't sure what the experience would mean to me. Plus, just like employment, unemployment really was not all that interesting.


But that's the thing about having more time. Suddenly, you have nothing to do BUT make your life interesting. For a few years, I had been working full time and freelancing during my lunch hours, evenings and weekends. I worked a lot, and I enjoyed it, but I also missed out on a lot. So when I got laid off, I found myself with all this time I didn't have before. I continued freelancing, so that kept me from feeling completely useless (and my bank account from being completely empty), but when I wasn't busy, I had all this time. And I wanted to use it wisely.


This week, I was offered a contract position at a company I've been doing some work for since my layoff. I start Monday. It's going to be nice to be back in the professional world (though I will miss shopping for work clothes on the sweatpants rack). So today, as I begin my last I-don't-care-if-it's-the-weekend-because-every-day-is-a-weekend weekend, I thought it would be a good idea to look at how I've used the last eight months. OK, so I haven't cured world hunger or anything, but when I look back on the time, I'm pretty pleased with how I've used it.


Here are some of the things I've accomplished.


I wrote a book -- Truth is, I had started the book (a chick-lit crime novel) while I was still fully employed. But with only a few hours a week to work on it, the writing was slow-going. With my days free, though, I had more time and energy to devote to it. I finished within a month of being laid off. No luck yet getting an agent, but I have high hopes.


I made a year's supply of applesauce and apple butter -- I love homemade applesauce, and I'd been wanting to make some for years, but it's a lot of work. But with a couple of completely free fall days and several dozen apples from a local orchard, suddenly, it didn't seem like such an undertaking.


I experimented in the kitchen -- I made the beef bourguignon that takes hours to make. I learned how to spell bourguignon. I even played with some old recipes to make them healthier. Did you know that you can use applesauce as a substitute for oil in baked goods? And when you do, you can cut the amount of sugar you put in too. My year's supply of applesauce quickly became a three months' supply of applesauce, but it was so worth it.


I discovered Hulu -- Not an accomplishment, you say? Well, yeah, probably not. But it was still pretty cool to watch the series Twin Peaks in its entirety and finally find out what all the fuss was about.


I bonded with Stella -- Many days, I wouldn't have anywhere to go, so Stella and I started taking daily walks together. We both enjoyed the fresh air and exercise. And in the days when I had no work to do, no money and felt positively beaten down by life, Stella was always up for a puppy snuggle.


I started acting again -- Many people who are interviewed about being laid off say that having the extra time allowed them to get back into something they had missed out on. For me, it was acting. I'd been thinking about auditioning for a show for a long time but hadn't wanted to give up on the freelance money I could make while working in the evenings. But after landing a lead in Tommy and rediscovering my love for the theatre, I now know that acting is something I will always make time for.


I defied gravity -- This is probably something I would have done whether employed or not, but the experience was, by far, the most rewarding of the last eight months, so it absolutely merits mention here. After years of thinking about it and not doing, I finally got involved as a volunteer with ACCESS, AirCraft Casualty Emotional Support Services, a non-profit organization that provides grief mentoring to people who have lost loved ones in air disasters. To attend the volunteer training, I had to fly all the way to San Francisco, alone. Given my fear of flying, getting on that plane was one of the hardest things I've ever done. But I did it. And the people at that training conference gave me so much hope, so much joy. Because now I know, no matter where I go -- on a plane or in life -- I know I will never fly alone again.


So there it is. My last eight months, in a teeny, tiny nutshell. I won't say it hasn't been difficult at times, but looking back, there was a lot more good than bad. But now, it's on to new places, people and adventures.


Don't expect me to tell you much about it though. I don't really blog about work.

The Tweet of a Beautiful Friendship

I'm not a big Twitter follower of famous people, except for the ones who actually put out information I need or who are funny and relevant. The ones who just tweet about their fabulous lives and expensive stuff I can't afford aren't worth my time, even at 140 characters. 


One of the people I follow is Michael Hitchcock, who falls into the funny category. And well he should -- he's one of the regulars in Christopher Guest movies, several of which are prominent in my top ten favorites of all time.


I never thought I'd have much in common with Michael Hitchcock as a person, but today, on Twitter, he proved me wrong when he tweeted this message: If there's an Apocalypse and I'm the sole survivor, I hope that there's still Lactaid left in some of the abandoned stores.

It was nice to see I'm not the only one who has had that thought. Perhaps he and I could be real life friends after all. As long as he was willing to share the Lactaid.

Pardon Our Dust

I'm not sure why the font here is all screwed up, and why there is now a mile between each paragraph. I'm trying to figure it out. I have not been successful thus far, so please bear with me while I screw around with the settings and make the problem worse.

Try to Remember, and if You Remember, Then Follow (Follow Follow Follow Follow Follow Follow Follow Follow Follow)

Two more friends of mine have started blogs recently, and both are intriguing.


First up, my friend Josh has started working to lose weight and run next year's Pittsburgh Marathon. He contends that "fat people don't run marathons," and while I know this isn't exactly true, I like the way he thinks. Some weight loss blogs might be boring, but Josh is a very funny guy and drops witticisms like they were excess pounds, so you'll enjoy the ride. You can find him at http://freshmutton.blogspot.com.


Second, my friend Crystal is going on a very different journey. A lifelong Christian, she is working on gaining a deeper understanding of God, and of herself. I think anyone who has struggled with questions about God and religion can relate to her story. Read it at http://365daysclosertogod.blogspot.com.


And as a bonus (if you want to call it that), I am now blogging in another location as well as this one. As part of marketing the musical I'm doing this summer, I have started a blog specifically to chronicle the rehearsals and performances, to give a behind the scenes look at the blood, sweat and tears that go into a production. Read all about it at http://tommyonthehill.blogspot.com.


Please read, enjoy and comment. Goodness knows there's not much to read around here lately.

From Here on in, I Shoot Without a Script

My good friend Stephen has recently done something I've always wanted to do -- he moved to New York.


Jealous as I am that he is having NYC adventures while I am living the suburban life in the Midwest, I was excited when he announced that he had started a blog about the big move. It's a fun read, especially for anyone who knows what it's like to be the fish out of water, looking to find your place in a new place.


So head on over to www.nycifyoucanmakeitthere.blogspot.com and check it out!

Hanging on the Telephone

Last night, I got a phone call from Steve at the expensive gym.

"Hey, Erika, I just wanted to know if you'd made a decision yet and if you're ready to come on in and sign up."

My first inclination was to be annoyed, but then I realized it would make a funny blog entry. It's been a long time since a man has pursued me this heavily, even for money.

Still, I knew I had to be firm.

"As I told you before, I can't afford your monthly fee." I was on my way out the door when the phone rang, so I probably sounded more annoyed than I actually was. Which probably worked in my favor, because rather than tell me it would only cost me $8 for the rest of the month if I signed up today, Steve simply told me to call him if I changed my mind.

I'm not likely to change my mind. But ten bucks says that Steve will call again, just to check.

The When

Tommy and I don't know each other very well, but we've never really gotten along.

Just to clarify, this Tommy isn't a person. I'm talking about the musical, based on The Who's 1969 album.

Yeah, didn't see that one coming, did you?

See, it all started when I graduated college and moved to Pittsburgh in May of 2000. I was the only one in my tight-knit group to graduate that semester, and when I moved away, my loneliness was made worse by the fact that all my friends were still together up at school.

It was a bad summer. I had a job and a few friends in Pittsburgh, but things didn't really come together for me there like I'd hoped they would. Meanwhile, most of my friends were spending their summer on a production of Tommy. Two hours away and lonely, I was very jealous that my friends were having such a good time working on a show. Whenever "Pinball Wizard" was played on the radio, I would scowl and change the station.

Funny how things can change in ten years. But we'll get to that in a minute.

It's been a long time since I've done any theatre, for various reasons. But as someone who used to do show after show after show and love it, I've felt the acting bug come back to bite me more than once. There is a theatre near me that puts on great shows, and every time they have auditions, I think about going but always think of some excuse to back out.

The other day, though, when I learned about auditions for this theatre's summer musical, for some reason, I knew I had to go. Despite the fact that I only had a few hours to prepare. Despite the fact that doing a musical is a huge time commitment. Despite the fact that I wasn't sure if I'd get stuck with a role I didn't want.

Despite the fact that the show is Tommy.

Alright, so the fact that the show is Tommy wouldn't really have deterred me. I mean, it's been ten years, and I've experienced worse things in life than a lonely summer. But I did think it was pretty funny that I was auditioning for a show I was once very bitter about missing out on.

Even funnier, I managed to score a lead role.

I'm actually really excited to get back into theatre. And after my first rehearsal yesterday, I think this will be a great show. It's been too long since I've done a great show.

I guess it's all in the timing.

Gonna Make You Sweat Till You Gag

Confession time: Blogging isn't the only thing I've been slacking on for the past year plus.

I haven't been to a gym in nearly as long. And while I'd like to believe my jaunts around the neighborhood with my dog are enough, I probably burn more calories going to Target. I tried to go running once, but I hate running. Absent of opportunities for fun physical activity, like hiking, I need a gym. And I can't find a suitable one where I live now.

When we lived in our condo, my husband and I belonged to a gym that was a five minute drive away. It had all of the amenities we wanted (good classes, a pool, the place didn't smell like feet), and it was affordable. When we moved into our house a year ago, I was excited to learn that the gym had not one, but two, locations close to us.

The excitement was short-lived. The locations were close, yes, but not really convenient. Thanks to traffic, either one was at least a 20-minute drive each way. That was enough for me never to use the pool or take a class, and enough for my husband never to step foot in either location. Once our yearly commitment was up, we cancelled our membership.

Lately, though, I've been wanting to get back into a workout routine. I feel better when I exercise -- if not physically, at least morally. (I don't want to be the last straw in the obesity epidemic, after all.) I tried to do some of the free workouts on Comcast, but I couldn't find too many that I liked. And the gyms that are close enough to my house are either bare bones or way too expensive.

Then, last week, my friend JG sent me an e-mail saying that her gym -- the way too expensive one -- was having a sign-up special. No registration fee, no "convenience fee," or whatever they call the thing they slap on you for extra money. And it's a month-to-month commitment. Hoping maybe they'd cut their monthly fees a little too (bad economy and all), I dropped in the other day.

That's when I met Steve.

Steve isn't his real name, by the way; I just call him that because he looked a little like Steve Buscemy. And to be perfectly frank, that's kind of an insult to the actor. He was this little, weaselly looking guy in his 20s, wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt, unbuttoned far enough that the white wife beater was clearly visible underneath. He had intentionally greasy hair and uneven facial whiskers...and he reeked.

I don't know if this particular gym has a corporate partnership with Axe body spray or what, but by Steve's look and demeanor, I was pretty sure he had doused himself in something awful in the hopes of capturing the attention of some of the ladies.

Note: I actually have no idea what Axe body spray smells like. But I'm pretty sure a product that advertises with the phrase "double pits to chesty" can't smell good.

Anyway, Steve told me about the pricing, scribbling it illegibly on a piece of paper for me to take home. He explained that if I signed up that day, I would be charged a pro-rated price of $36 for the rest of the month, then the full amount ($60) starting on the first of next month. There was a discount if my husband signed up too, but for me, it really wasn't enough to justify the steep monthly fee. It's a super nice gym, with a spa and juicebar and everything. But as an underemployed freelance writer, I just can't afford it right now.

I knew Steve wouldn't let me say "no thanks" and leave, so I tried to use my husband as a scapegoat.

"Alright, well, let me talk to my husband and see if he's interested, and I'll let you know," I said.

"You can sign up today without him," Steve said, his desperation reeking as much as his cologne. "You can still get the couple rate if he signs up within two weeks. And it's only $36 for you for the rest of this month, so really, that's your best deal."

I wasn't sure how that was my "best deal" unless I had taken workout gear with me that very day (I hadn't), but I wasn't about to argue semantics with him.

"Sixty a month is really more than I can really pay right now," I told Steve, picking up my purse. "Thanks anyway."

"Alright, then, I'll call you Thursday and see what you've decided."

Again, it wasn't worth my time to argue. My husband had pork chops on the grill; I wanted to get home.

So today, Steve gave me a call, asking what I had decided, helpfully letting me know that my pro-rated charge for the remainder of this month would now only be $32 if I signed up today. I told him again that it was just too expensive.

"Thirty-two dollars is too expensive?" Steve asked, and I was pretty sure I could detect a slight sneer, even over the phone.

"That's only for the next two weeks," I told him, as if this was new information to him. "It goes up to $60 on the first. That's not money I have to spend right now."

He told me to call him if I changed my mind. I rolled my eyes and hung up.

Tomorrow, I just might go sign up at the crappy gym down the road. Even if it smells like feet, it would be an improvement over the stench of Steve.

Baby Don't Mow...Pretty Baby Please Don't Mow

Spring has sprung; my flower bed is proof of it. And unfortunately, so is my lawn.

Until last year, I had never had the opportunity to mow. The yard at the house where I grew up is hilly, so my dad always took care of it with his riding mower. Believe it or not though, last year, I was pretty excited to cut the grass at my new house for the first time. There was something satisfying about the idea of cutting nice little lines in the yard. The novelty wore off quickly, but I still kind of enjoyed the chance to get outside.

Last week, I noticed that all the rain and sunshine we've been having has the grass getting longer. I commented to my husband that we would have to start mowing again soon, and yesterday, the grass in the back yard was almost high enough to tickle my little dog's belly.

When I told my husband that it was definitely time to fire up the mower, he resisted. It wasn't that he didn't want to do the work; I'm generally the one who does the mowing. He just didn't want to be that guy, the first one on the block to cut the grass, he said. This must be a part of mowing culture that no one ever told me about; I didn't know people paid attention to that.

When I mentioned this to my mom, she had an idea for us both to get our way.

"Maybe you two should get one of those manual lawnmowers," she said. "It'll be hard work, but you can go out after it's dark. He can mow, and you can hold the flashlight. Then no one will know."

Somehow, this wasn't the kind of compromise I envisioned when I got married.

In any case, the Gas Gods decided for us. We didn't have any fuel on hand for the lawnmower, and what was in there already wasn't quite enough to do the whole yard. So I just did the part where the grass had gotten really long and then stopped.

I don't think anyone saw.

And You Can Tell Everybody That This Is Your Song

I blame the new car.

On Saturday, my husband traded in his eight-year-old Toyota Corolla (with almost 200,000 miles on it, by the way) for a shiny brand new Honda Civic. Yesterday, we took our first more-than-a-few-minutes-away trip in the new car, using the time to tinker with the buttons and program the radio stations.

While we were scanning for stations he listens to, the radio landed on the local light listening station, which was, at that moment, playing Enrique Iglesias' "Hero." For half a second, I waited for him to turn to a new station. And then, horrified, I realized he was not only going to leave the song on but sing along.

Now, let me just say that this song has long been on my "do not like" list. First of all, the whispered "let me be your hero" sends shivers up my spine, and not the kind you get when your work crush brushes past you on the way to the water fountain. More like the kind you get when the guy who picks his nose and wipes it on his desk brushes past you on the way to the water fountain. And besides that, the whole song is just a little too sickening sweet for me.

It was such a weird moment. My husband and I have been together five years, and while that's not exactly forever, I figure it's long enough that I know most of his quirks. Still, every once in awhile, I learn some random factoid that just stuns me. I didn't even think he listened to that station. And I certainly didn't think he'd know the words to an Enrique Iglesias song.

"Well, what song would you rather hear?" my husband asked when I told him this. "That 'Bailamos' one?"

"Sure," I said. "I mean, it's not something I would purchase from the iTunes store, but unlike 'Hero,' I wouldn't list it as one of the songs I will leap over things to turn off."

Well, the gods must have been listening, because not two hours later as I stood at my grocery store's deli counter, I heard "Bailamos."

Side note: My grocery store has the most amazing music selection. Every time I go in there, it is guaranteed I will hear at least one song that reminds me of middle school dances. In fact, during this same shopping trip, I wheeled to the checkout to New Kids on the Block's "I'll Be Loving You Forever."

Strange as it was to hear two Enrique Iglesias songs in one day, I had a chuckle and forgot about the whole thing until a few minutes ago. My husband called to let me know he was on his way home from work and brought up the incident.

"You remember when you were in high school and a boy who was in love with you called you and held the phone to the speaker to play you some romantic song that was, like, your song?" he asked.

Actually, no. I never really dated anyone long enough in high school to have "a song." So if a boy ever played a song for me over the phone, it was more than likely not a romantic gesture but instead something that would make me laugh.

"Well, anyway," he went on, "I almost did that today because I turned on that light station and they were playing 'Hero' again."

"Oh my god, you don't think that's our song, do you?" I asked, panicked. "Please don't make that our song."

He insisted that he wouldn't, but just in case, I might try to have "Bailamos" playing next time we're in the car together.

She Likes Me! She Really Likes Me!

I feel like Meryl Streep has just handed me an Oscar. Or Cesar Millan has just given me a puppy. Or Rod Blagojevich has just appointed me to a Senate seat, no charge.

Because today, my dear friends, Grammar Girl has bestowed up on me a thesaurus.

If you don't know Grammar Girl, you should. Her real name is Mignon Fogarty, and she's written books like The Grammar Devotional. She also offers "quick and dirty tips" on her website and Twitter, and does podcasts about grammar questions. She's knowledgeable and interesting, and she makes grammar make sense. I consult her site quite often when I'm writing and really admire the way she's brought good grammar to the masses.

She's pretty much my hero.

So here's how the thesaurus thing happened. Last night, Grammar Girl announced that she would give away one book every hour today, in honor of National Grammar Day. All you had to do to enter is tweet about National Grammar Day. So I did.

I'm not sure which entry won me the book, because I posted two. The first one said: "I am glad our language is English, not Math, because I would not then be a fan of National Grammar Day." It's true. It actually occurred to me today that I am lucky the one subject I know a lot about is the one thing everybody uses every day -- language. If we spoke in mathematical calculations, or math was something people had to do in public every day, I would be constantly ridiculed for my lack of skills. (It is no coincidence that Count Von Count has always been my least favorite Sesame Street character.)

The other tweet occurred to me about a minute after I posted the first, so I went ahead and posted it, too. It said: "Tonight, Grammar Girl will rise out of the most sincere pumpkin patch and take books to good children." For some reason, posting my little tweets and hoping Grammar Girl picked me made me feel like Linus Van Pelt, awaiting the Great Pumpkin on Halloween night.

A few minutes later, I received a message from Grammar Girl that I had won.

I know it's just a small thing, and kind of silly. But in a world where disappointments are constant, and victories are rare, it feels pretty cool to win one.