Thank you for contacting me back in April on Classmates.com. As you can see, I still have yet to open and read your e-mail. If you think I haven’t gotten around to it because I’m super busy, you’re mistaken. I am blatantly ignoring it because I still resent your actions that day back at the town pool when we were eleven and your grandma gave you two bags of potato chips to take with you for snacks and (in front of me, I might add) told you that one bag was for you and the other for me because it was my guest pass you were using to get into the pool in the first place and the least you could do to thank me was hand over a measly bag of chips. But, no. You did not. You opened one bag, let me have a small handful, and then kept the other for yourself.
And if you think I’m making this up, I’m not. Just ask my mom. She remembers that day, too.
It’s not nice to bogart the chips, D.S. Let this be a lesson to you.
On Thursday evening, T and I went to the Verizon Presents Two Nights of Soul performance at Radio City Music Hall which featured Robin Thicke and Chaka Khan opening up for Jill Scott, the Grammy Award-winning singer and songwriter best known for her jazz, rhythm and blues, and neo-soul sounds.
Platinum-selling Grammy-winning R&B singer Chaka Khan (anyone remember “I Feel for You” and “Ain’t Nobody”?) was a disappointment to T and me. I’m fairly certain Ms. Khan, who’s apparently only 54 years old, forgot the words to most of her songs unless she up and decided to scat through everything that evening. Although she wasn’t the headliner, I ignorantly assumed she rehearsed for the concert before getting on stage. During her “bleep blopp bloop” -ing, I wondered how many of us could get away with showing up to work and just pretending to do our job. Not cool, Chaka. Not cool.
As for Robin Thicke, I don’t think I get it. T, along with the majority of the audience that night, is practically in love with the R&B sensation but I found him lackluster to the incomparable vocal stylings of the incredibly talented Scott. Plus, he dances kind of dorky. Maybe if I only heard him on the radio, it would be a different story, but to see him on stage in front of a bare bones backup band dressed in a tux and white sneakers, I thought he looked so awkward that I couldn’t concentrate on his music.
On Tuesday, I Windexed my shirt thinking it was Febreze.
This morning, I stepped into the shower with my glasses on.
Pray tell, is this the onset of senility or am I merely comic relief for Marc? If the latter, I need to come up with some new material.
I am not a math whiz, but…
During my cross-country road trip in March, I prepared and planned my meals so as not to rely on any fast or junk food for sustenance while driving.
Total pounds lost while in a car: 7
After contracting a stomach virus in April, I was left incapacitated, in bed, and with an inability to digest any solid foods for nearly two weeks.
Total pounds lost while lying down: 4
While on vacation in Italy in May, I took every precaution not to overdo it on pasta dishes alone and incorporated chicken, fish, and fruit at every meal while drinking glasses and glasses of water.
Total pounds lost while eating gelato as a reward for my good behavior: 0
Over the course of the past few days in June, I simultaneously mourned the loss of my co-worker (who left to pursue an alternate career) as I organized our department for our upcoming seasonal sales meeting while training our new temp.
Total pounds gained while working fourteen hour days, running up and down nine floors of my office building, procuring vast amounts of paper cuts, and overactivating my sebaceous glands: 11
Stress doesn’t stop me from consuming buckets of chocolate. Eleven pounds worth, apparently.
Thank you (both) for checking in on me. I’m still alive, but completely drained from being under the weather for so long and being completely overwhelmed at work right now having had to make up for lost time. I will blog again soon. I must before I go batty.
Miss you! Mean it!
Kudos to M for organizing a kick-butt evening at Karaoke One Seven on W. 17th Street where I sang so loud and so hard that I definitely busted a vocal chord, much to the delight, I am sure, of those who will be interacting with me tomorrow at work. For the majority of the patrons at KOS, one can pay $2 per song and belt out a tune at the bar in front of anyone and everyone. For our little group, however, we decided to book an entire room to ourselves (at the über-affordable price of $3 per person per hour) where we each fought over microphones and stage presence while singing everything from Abba to Luscious Jackson. I can honestly say it’s been quite some time since I’ve laughed and sweat that much and why I will always want to make out with my friends after a night like this. I love them so much, it scares me. Seriously. I may very well shrivel up and die if I were ever without them.
And in case you were wondering, I do not have a good singing voice. I know this for sure. On my recent road trip, I brought along with me a voice recorder to capture any moments of clarity, genius, and otherwise while I was driving and instead used it as my own personal music studio. After singing a dozen or so songs in the car one day, I finally had a chance to play back my recordings in my hotel that evening. Wow. They were unbelievably bad. They weren’t even melodic. I mean, I always thought I could carry a tune, even if I might not have had perfect pitch, but I have been sadly mistaken. And here’s another thing I know for sure when it comes to my singing: I don’t care. Listeners, beware! I will continue to sing my heart out even if it means I may very well be tape-bound and hauled off to an insane asylum (like that ain’t coming one day regardless).
Having gotten to the karaoke place before the party started, E and I opted to grab a quick bite to eat at Petite Abeille (“Small Bee”), also on W. 17th Street and one of four Manhattan locations. We each ordered a very large bowl of lentil soup and spent a good half-hour chatting about how we are both undiscovered talents who were born to sing, dance, and perform. We agreed we haven’t missed our callings and that there are some unfortunate people out there losing money by the second because they don’t know we exist…yet.
Oh, and I think I should mention that this entire evening (keep in mind, I don’t drink alcohol) cost me a total of $14. Who said New York City was an expensive place?