...Miss Head, if You're Nasty

Good Times

2009-10-25T12:55:00.000-07:00

I went on a long walk today. I'm living in a new town, now. A college town. And I'm surrounded by 18-22 year olds all day, who wear ridiculous slippers and tight black pants that might or might not be considered leggings and who seem only to eat Doritos and Pop Tarts. I couldn't even eat like that when I was there age. Rather, I ate like that. And it wasn't good.

During the walk, I saw a lot of things that reminded me of my college years. Guys in Jeep Wranglers, who reminded me of Ace, the best looking Indian man I've ever known, or even seen. He had a hard topped grey Wranger...or maybe it was black...and eyes like liquid midnight.

I saw rocks painted with various slogans and mottos, which made me think of a spring night when I and my friends managed to paint a logo on a train trestle bridge, in the rain no less, running out of the road whenever a car drove by.

I saw a guy walking home at about 9 a.m., clearly wearing last night's party clothes. He didn't smile back when I grinned at him. That made me think of the first week or two of school, when the fraternities would set up donut stands in front of their houses every morning to sell breakfast to the freshmen girls who would be walking back to their dorms after a hard game of Century Club and whatever sexual experience she was talked into afterward.

I went to Target, which reminded me of long afternoons, shopping with friends, smelling every single scent of deoderant in the store, looking at all of the greeting cards and ending up buying laundry detergent or something similarly lame.

And I sat on the other side of the door from a table full of girls, talking about people they knew, stories they'd heard, things they'd done together. Listening to them was like watching my friends and I at our table at dinner in Wright Quad, sitting there rehashing the day, talking about what party we'd be going to that evening, figuring out who was going to get beer, laughing about someone's boyfriend. Just being together.

I hope they enjoy it while it lasts.

Fight, Fight, Fight!

2009-05-26T19:21:00.000-07:00

Who is the saddest girl in the world?

The girl who is up at 10:22 pm, trolling the internet to find out why Jon Gosselin of Jon and Kate + 8 was wearing an IU t-shirt on that horrible mess of a show last night.

If It's Yellow

2009-05-04T15:40:00.000-07:00

There are some things I just don't understand. I don't understand why people cook with margarine and not butter. I don't understand people who are not motivated by food. I don't understand spending money to vote for television show winners.

And I don't understand people who don't flush the toilet.

I mean, what is that about? Seriously. I mean, you've clearly learned, at some point, how to use the facility. You know how it works. You know where everything goes. You know there is water involved. You clearly must be aware there is a handle on the back of the tank. So how is it that you don't actually touch the handle?

Now, I'm not talking about scary bathrooms. I'm not talking about holes in the floor or places that clearly haven't been cleaned since the Ford Administration. Or toilets that are completely unable and unwilling to flush. Or when you're at the summer place and no one wants to call out the septic guy until absolutely necessary. I'm talking about people's homes! Or bathrooms in the workplace! Where people come to clean daily! And...you know, people go!

I understand there's a learning curve. I understand that a five-year-old might be so excited by the episode of Dora that the flushing thing? It just plain skipped their mind. However, I've been coming across this more and more. At work, like, where adults are in the bathroom every five minutes. What. The. Hell?

Have we come to the point where we need bathroom monitors? Perhaps bathroom facilities in Eastern Europe aren't just staffing old ladies in their bathrooms to give pensioners something to do with their days. They are really there to make sure we flush. Maybe we in the States can learn a lesson here, particularly in our advanced state of economic decomposition. Perhaps the day isn't too far out when we have to place ads for monitors.

"Wanted: Flusher."

The Ghost of St. Patrick's Days Past

2009-03-17T10:05:00.000-07:00

Some good St. Patrick's Days past:

The year I ended up at Flanagan's at closing time.

Last year, when I sat at a bar all Sunday with Jeff and Kim and just watched the freaks wander by.

The year I was in Naples for Spring Break and was under 21 and didn't have a fake, so it wasn't that exciting.

The year I got stuck at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier with my friends, Christie and Patti. Then we got trapped by the St. Patrick's Day Parade.

The year I found out the guy I'd hooked up with was now hooking up with my roommate.

At Friday's one time, when they let us add our own food coloring.

The day I got dumped.

I actually only remembered that just now.

If I Didn't...

2009-02-26T04:49:00.000-08:00

If I didn't...

--work as your lab partner in Chemistry
--go on a family vacation with you
--get stuck in a carpool with you
--share a hotel room with you and four others on Spring Break
--drive with you and your sister to Florida
--live on your dorm floor
--drink all your beer on successive weekends
--make you jello for your birthday
--go through a haunted house with you
--bitch about work with you over beer
--try to horn in on your torts study group
--make out with you during a drunken brawl and then pretend it never happened
--spend an entire Saturday with you in another state then never see you again
--go to your wedding because I'm friends with your mom
--act as your bridesmaid
--borrow your car to go buy beer
--paint your living room
--ask you to help me move
--work in student government with you
--have you as my human sexuality TA
--go to your house for Thanksgiving
--ride on the bus with you for junior high
--steal your Legos
--shower in your outdoor shower in an effort to reduce the hangover
--go to breakfast with you after a great party
--share an apartment with you
--know your "french" name from high school
--hang out with you at a Halloween party
--go to the Knight's Inn with you and another 20 people after prom
--drink your wine and eat your snacks
--watch "Lost" with you
--play golf with you
--go to camp with you

If I didn't do any of those things? I'm ignoring your friend request on Facebook.

A Pinch and a Nod

2009-02-13T09:08:00.000-08:00

Valentine's Day has always been kind of a rip-off, I think. I was always the girl sending the secret admirer flower to homerooms, never getting them. I hand-made the Valentines for our class card exchange but never received any. Handmade, that is. I got them...the Scooby-Doo ones, the Strawberry Shortcake ones. But not made with paste and doileys, like the ones I slaved over for hours. Of course, this might have just been a project thought up by my mother to keep me out of her hair for a week of afternoons in February. If so, she sure was smart.

In college, I only got cards from my parents. I never got flowers. From anyone. Or grad school...I don't think. I may have gotten roses once or twice...but I cannot swear that they were for Valentine's Day. They may have been for Oops-I-slipped-and-my-penis-fell-into-someone-else Day. That holiday might not make it onto the calendar but it occurs with somewhat surprising frequency. Hard to schedule, that one is.

I can't complain about them all. I've had some sweet, thoughtful Valentine's Days over the years. But I think, on the whole, the day is overrated. I'd rather get flowers on a random Tuesday when I'm feeling low than on the federally mandated Day One Must Show Their Love. And I do. So that's nice.

This year, I'll be taking a chinchilla to a Veteran's Home to cheer up old men and women who served their country. I may get my ass pinched. And I'm okay with that.

A Story

2009-02-08T03:32:00.000-08:00

She listened to him move around in the bathroom, wondering if he'd be okay.

The dead man had been his friend for many years. They'd spent Christmas Eves together. Super Bowl parties together. They'd worked on cars and spent idle hours on screened in back porches, discussing the relative merits of the Indians bullpen. Growing up hadn't meant growing apart for the two men.

And now, one was dead.

He came out of the bathroom, looking tired. He'd spent long hours at the hospital with the dead man's wife and their family, taking care of things she didn't have the strength or inclination to handle. The extended illness had sapped the life from his friend, even though he'd still been able to laugh at himself, even up to the last. The dead man had been known in the hospital for the bad jokes he'd been famous for even back in elementary school. But the jokes couldn't erase the black circles under the eyes, or the slumping shoulders of the man. His own wife, putting her earrings in, hoped they'd be able to make it through the day quickly so she could get him back her, back home, and get him to bed and sleep.

"Which should I wear?" he asked, showing her two ties. One was floral. His teenage daughter had given it to him for Father's Day. The other, a bit more sedate, he'd received for Christmas from his mother. It was striped and looked a bit like something a British schoolboy would have to wear a number of years before graduating. Stripes of deep purple and kelly green, with smaller but more numerous ones of orange. It wasn't a funeral tie. But it wasn't gardenias, either.

"Stripes," she said, definitively, as she put on her shoes.

* * *

They arrived at the funeral home, shook the hands of all of the family members, said hello to people they hadn't seen since high school. They circulated throughout the room, postponing the inevitable trip up to the open casket.

She worried he wouldn't be able to make it through the ceremony. She worried he'd break down. She knew she could take it if that happened but she didn't think he could.

He looked at her. Then to the front of the room. He walked to the casket and knelt.

She watched him. He seemed quiet, somber, in telling his friend goodbye.

Then his shoulders started to shake.

"Oh God," she thought to herself.

She walked up behind him slowly and gently put her hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?" He shook under her hand. If anything, he shook harder.

"Honey," she said, kneeling down next to him. "Honey, it's okay."

She knelt. And she looked at the dead man.

"Do you see?" her husband said, and she turned to look at him. She could hear the catch in his voice before she turned. And she realized he wasn't crying.

"Do you see?" He pointed at the dead man.

He kept laughing, silently, snorting out of his nose in the way 12-year-old boys laugh in church, knowing they aren't supposed to. Tears leaked out of his eyes. Not the hot tears of sorrow. But little tears of mirth.

She looked back into the casket. She saw repeating stripes of deep purple and kelly green, with more numerous stipes of orange. And she, too, began to laugh.

They left in the middle of the service, after sitting in the back of the hall. People marveled that the friend who'd spent so much time at the hospital without so much as a tear shed was so prostrate with grief that he had to hold a handkerchief over his face the whole time, while his wife buried her face in his shoulder. They were so loud in their grief, according to the folks sitting next to them, they were actually snorting.

She thought the dead man, the eternal prankster, would approve.

A fictionalized version of a story I heard in school.

Employment

2009-01-26T07:22:00.000-08:00

When you kick a dog, over and over, during the course of years? Don't be surprised when it doesn't jump up and lather you with puppy kisses when you decide, on rare occasions, to treat it with some kind of respect.

Ettiquette

2009-01-25T05:32:00.000-08:00

So my friends sucked me onto Facebook.

It was only supposed to be for my college friends. We are planning to get together this summer in Chicago. This is because the last time we were in Bloomington, two of the crowd managed to get arrested. We now have to move to new turf.

So we started a Facebook group to talk about getting together at some point. But then people started finding me.

People from high school. People from work. People I worked with overseas.

These were people I liked, for the most part. I have no problem with them seeing what I am up to on any given day.

But then I started getting weird ones. From the kid in elementary school who picked his nose on the bus. From the parent of a client. From the suspected murderer next door.

Okay, that's not true. I mean, he is a suspected murderer, but he hasn't tried to "friend" me. Yet.

I have a running discussion with a friend: when is it okay to "ignore" a friend request. When your ex sister-in-law friends you? When your ex friends you? When someone from high school you spent one unfortunate evening with friends you? When your boss friends you?

And if you do "friend" them, then when is it okay to remove them? I mean, do you want your ex husband to know you are dating someone new? And do you want him to know who it is? If you are living in England, probably not so much, since husbands there tend to kill women who change their relationship status on their accounts.

Who knew the internet age would usher in so many questions of ettiquette. Where is Emily Post's internet edition when you need it?

History

2009-01-24T03:36:00.000-08:00

I watched the inauguration at a local watering hole. We went to a sports bar, my friend and I, knowing that they would have many televisions and they couldn't have Sportscenter on all of them. Not that there is anything wrong with SC. Nothing like SC on a cold winter morning to make you realize that March Madness isn't that far away. That just wasn't my purpose that day.

We sat pretty close to the televisions. It is a buffet type place and we got up once while Feinstein was going on and on and on. The room in the place started to fill up. I couldn't tell if these were people who just happened to come on that day, looking for huge portions of pizza and pasta or if they knew there would be televisions tuned to CNN showing the crowds in Washington.

Most people didn't talk. Some did. The girl behind me? Would. Not. Shut. Up. She was in her 20s and clearly an imbicile in the most Three Stooges fashion. She kept up a running commentary on just about everything going on in her life, none of it applicable to the moment at hand.

There was another table of two older men. They sat and chatted like nothing was going on, like we were all sitting around watching soap operas and they had better things to do. From their grey suits and wingtips, I could tell who they voted for.

Then the good stuff got going and I forgot about going up for a second plateful of carbs. The words were hard to hear, since the sound system in the place is geared more toward catching the roar of the crowd, rather than the nuances of great oratory. But I could see the crowd. And I could read lips, when the cameras stayed focused on our new president. And I know the scope, both of the National Mall and of history.

I got teary, I won't deny it. Then I saw George H.W. Bush and his sartorial choices and I got over being weepy.

At the end, we waited for our check, with most of the people in the place leaving. When the room emptied out a bit, I noticed an African-American couple sitting up by the wall. They'd clearly been there for the event and were just finishing their own lunch.

And they had a half bottle of champagne on their table.

A great many things made me smile that day. But that moment was the best.

The Cold

2009-01-19T05:41:00.001-08:00

I'm not usually bothered overmuch by weather. I've lived in cold places. I've lived in hot places. You look out the window, you decide what you're going to wear. You make sure your hair is dry before you leave the house or you risk showing up somewhere with frozen hair. You wear layers so you can add and subtract during the day, depending on air conditioning levels at the office and whether the secretary nearest the thermostat is having hot flashes.

It has been pretty cold here over the past few weeks. If you live here, I don't have to say it. If you don't, it is cold. Highs in the teens. Lows? Lower than that. Not that it matters all that much, as long as you have gloves and a scarf, since no one spends more than a minute outside, between their car and their door, unless they have to scrape ice off their windshield.

This morning I walked outside and was struck dumb for a second at the depth of the cold. When I took a breath, it slipped inside my lungs like liquid coolant. I literally couldn't move for a second, it was so cold.

When I got in my car, the temperature measured 12 degrees. By the time I got to work, it was 4 degrees.

In the grand scheme of things, it isn't the coldest I've been. That record is held by a day I spent driving home from DC to Michigan in December while on the Pennsylvania Turnpike when I ran out of wiper fluid and had to buy more at a rest stop. I stood in the cold, no gloves, pouring wiper fluid into my car, spilling it on my hands, while snow fell on me in hard, wet clumps.

Nor was it as bad as those really crisp, white, sparkling mornings in Vermont when you could step outside onto the porch and breath in through your nose, only to have the hairs in your nostrils harden up and freeze.

But I was warm in my bed this morning. Warm and happy and not thinking about much of anything until I went outside and the cold air hit me and I came to the realization that, yes, it is Monday and there is no escape from it.

Unexpected

2009-01-06T13:16:00.000-08:00

I had one of those days the other day. One of those days where you plan to meet someone for a drink or two, then maybe go to the store, cook a healthy dinner, read a book and go to bed. Maybe do some laundry. And vacuum. Do your nails or something. A health day.

But then...it becomes one of those days. A drink or two turns into going to another bar. And another bar. And then just one more. And why don't you come over for dinner? And you buy a bottle of wine. And a cheesecake.

And there's a guy at one of the bars who is cleaning his teeth with his finger, then touching your olives. And then there's the guy with no neck. And the girl who looks kind of like Wil Wheaton. And the group of freaks, including the girl with a wig who is wearing a shirt as a dress. And the family who looks like they just arrived from BFE.

And you have pickles for breakfast. With onion rings to follow.

Those days? Those are days you cannot plan. They come along rarely.

Savor them when they occur.

Rockin' In

2009-01-01T04:42:00.001-08:00

Every NewYear's Eve, for the past seven years or so, I have hung out with my friend, Linda. There was the year we threw things off her 20-something floor balcony and drunk people kept showing up at her place. There was the year it snowed, I cried, someone else left, my boyfriend drank and Linda hid in her room. There was the year my neighbor may have killed someone and we watched movies in the dark. There was the year we were on the phone. The year I got stuck in the driveway and we had, like, ten pounds of shrimp. And the year I slept in my car.

This year was fairly tame. The sparkling winery down the road from her house was closed for New Year's Eve so we didn't get quite as sloshed quite as quickly as we have before. There were just three of us this year, so we didn't need quite as much beer as we have in the past. We had more than enough food and drink and conversation, so the hours passed quickly. Lasagne can do that...make time pass. We looked out onto the lake quite a bit, wondering at the fact that it might get warm again, sometime. We spent a long time answering questions about our lives: What question might we ask God if we had the chance? Where would you most like to live if not the in U.S.? Which is more important, science or art?

Then the television coverage began and the evening quickly degenerated from thoughtful and insightful conversation to name calling and general snarkery. All on my part, of course.

Because, honestly, Taylor Swift is a pretty, pretty girl. And I appreciate the fact that she had to appear on a television show with her possibly gay ex-boyfriend, brother #1 from whoever the hell the band is with all the brothers that isn't Hanson or a television show about WWII. But put on some goddamn clothing! And if you were warmer, you might sing better. Because you sounded bad. And you made me be nice to Katy Perry, which is something I absolutely hate to do, Taylor! I hate it. Because I don't like her or her music or her "maybe I fooled around with a girl but probably not because my preacher-father would kill me and this is all a publicity stunt anyway" attitude. And her clothes suck. But she can sing, Taylor. She sang much better than you! And that made me sad.

What else made me sad? My God, could Carson Daly hate life any more? He stood there like a freakin' block of wood, announcing crap performer after crap perfomer and showed absolutely no expression on his face. Like he's about to be marched onto the trains to the camps. Seriously. And, although everyone else wearing turtlenecks and scarves gets that kind of fat-faced look? Carson still looks like a cadaver.

And Kelly Pickler needs to learn to use consonants. I mean, I grew up in the South and all, but come on. And who wears jewelry over their gloves? And she kept using "right" as some kind of verbal crutch. Like she wanted to be Canadian and say "eh" all the time but couldn't remember what she was supposed to say.

The banter portion of the evening between the afore-mentioned Ryan Seacrest and Mr. Clark of the Rocking Eve can also be eliminated tout-sweet, as they used to say. I appreciate that Dick is still alive and kicking and some people see him as a beacon of hope and accomplishment. But I cannot watch him without being mean and I don't want to be mean to Dick Clark. And were his tuxedo lapels...padded? What was up with that?

And no more pre-taped crap from LA, where they look smart enough to be indoors but we all know they don't have the sense God gave a turkey. And turkeys frequently drown when caught in rainstorms. So there you go.

Also? Shut up, Fergie. Your dress is cute but your diction is poor.

So now I'm looking out over frozen lake on New Year's Day in 2009, wondering if it will ever be warm again and wondering when the powers that be will figure out that live television is awesome and ridiculous and they should either outlaw it or show it all the time. And on this snowy, cold, barren New Year's morning, I'm resolving to be more like the fabulous Mr. Seacrest: if you keep talking and jumping around, maybe no one will notice how dumb you really sound! Smoke and mirrors, baby!

Paging Dr. House...

2008-12-28T08:55:00.000-08:00

My cable is out right now.

I don't think you understand. My cable is out. On the weekend. During a "House" marathon. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

I've read a book. I've gone grocery shopping. I'm on the computer.

But how am I supposed to get instant information from the E! News ticker about Jennifer Hudson's tragedy or the fact that Jen Aniston's movie made more money than her loser ex's did this holiday weekend? How am I supposed to piece together Cameron's backstory or figure out why Wilson and House are friends in the first place? "Gremlins" was on, man! Corey Feldman, back when he was cute! What the hell am I supposed to do now?!

When I was in grad school, I lived in a town with no cable, for all intents and purposes. We had fifteen channels, most of which were duplicate network channels. I think the only real cable channels we had were ESPN and Headline News. And, in college, I didn't have a television for two years. I still have big blanks in my pop culture memory from 1990 through 1992. I watch "I Love the 90s" and find new information all the time.

But school was a long time ago. And I had other things going on then. Parties down the hall, libraries within walking distance. Now it is just me and the cat, waiting for someone to fix the connection. Waiting for Dr. House to make another diagnosis.

If you can't count on a weekend filled with procedural marathons after the holidays, what the hell can you count on?

Christmas Rappin'

2008-12-24T07:02:00.000-08:00

I'm not a party-thrower. I hate cleaning for parties. I hate cleaning up after parties. I like the general idea of putting together a party but I always see the down side in entertaining in my home. Not enough chairs. Not enough places to sit. Kitchen too small. Nowhere to park.

I threw a good party one, though. A Christmas party.

It was after my first semester in graduate school. The school is located in, literally, the middle of nowhere in New England, which, despite its location near Boston and New York, is kind of in the middle of nowhere itself. We had a pizza place and a mom-and-pop store where you could take dogs inside. We had three bars, one of which was strictly reserved for town folk. We had a town square with a civil war statue and a monument to a woman killed by Indians sometime before 1750 or so.

Going to school there had its good points. #1: There was nothing to do but study. #2: It generated instant camraderie. #3: I never had to buy gas. #4: No Taco Bell. I lost a ton of weight that first year.

We'd studied hard that first semester. I studied harder than I ever had before. I mean, I actually was forced to learn how to study, since I'd managed to get through pretty much my entire life without having to do much more than reading over notes the night before a test to really figure something out. It had been a long series of months.

So we decided to throw a party. About eight of us. I provided the venue: a large, open apartment that I shared with two people about whom I knew nothing and likely cared less. The others? Provided booze.

And did we have booze. We had a garbage can full of red punch that we stirred with someone's arm. We had a keg or two. We had marachino cherries that we had soaked in Everclear for approximately 2 weeks. We had, I think, jello shots.

Everyone came. People I'd never seen before showed up. We had a grown man in a red union suit, a Santa hat and cowboy boots. We had a dog dressed up in pajamas. We had people making out in stairways. The television fell over. Someone punched a hole in the ceiling.

In short, it was awesome.

I ended up mopping the floor about five times after everyone left, with some horrible environmentally friendly solution that worked for crap. We found cherry stems in the most random of places for months. My roommates didn't speak to me for weeks after we got back. Our carpet was permanently stained with red punch.

People missed flights home because of that party. They fell asleep in the lounge at Logan Airport, waiting for their flight to get called, and got stuck in town for Christmas eve. I drove home to Jersey after having slept approximately one hour, my back aching from mopping so viciously.

I haven't thrown a raging party since then. I don't know if I could top it.

And when I eat a marachino cherry? Or see someone with their cheeks painted with a circle of red? I think of that party and the guy in the union suit. The dog in the pjs. The hole in the ceiling.

Good times.

The City on the Lake. No, Not the One With the River That Burns

2008-12-21T04:03:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting in the lobby of a Hampton Inn in Chicago right now, waiting for it to get a little later and become an hour when decent people might be awake. That is not the hour right now. It doesn't help that I'm operating on East Coast time, while Chicago is more civilized and gets to sleep in an hour more. So I'm sitting here, watching television with a bunch of Chicago police, who are taking a break from the weather.

I didn't come to Chicago for the first time until I was in college. It may have even been after college. I can't really recall the very first time I was downtown. I'm sure it was with people I went to school with, since everyone from the Chicagoland area spreads out into the surrounding Big Ten area to seed the schools. I knew people from just about every Chicago suburb. And downtown was their Mecca.

I remember coming down for 4th of July fireworks for several years, finding a place on the grass and camping out early in order to hold the spot for the big show. I remember long, very long, walks back to wherever we managed to find a place to park the car that day. And I remember stopping in hotel lobbies to find nice women's bathrooms that still had toilet paper.

I can remember going Christmas shopping at Marshall Field's, back when it was still Field's. It probably wasn't the way it was in the old days, a place where you could find things you couldn't find anywhere else. Every big town had those big old family department stores. Jacobsen's, Higbee's...that place down in southern Ohio, the name of which I cannot remember. And the place in DC that keeps popping up on my credit card report that was taken over by Macy's years ago. But Field's in downtown Chicago was a beautiful monument to consumerism and old-style service. It didn't get any better than shopping there at Christmas. I'm sad that it is gone.

And then there were New Year's Eves. The one when I took the train into town, we got kicked out of the bar at 11:55 p.m., someone had to pay off a cab driver to keep him from calling the cops, someone ended up in the hospital, someone did something illegal and I'm not telling any more. Suffice to say that I got home a day later than was planned. That? Was a rough one. And a story for another day.

Chicago makes me think of my parents, too. The time they took me to the Whitehall after I'd broken up with a boyfriend. We went to the Drake for drinks and I met my old friend, Shun, there. We went out to wonderful dinners and laughed and had the one of our last actual family vacations.

Chicago makes me think of being young and just finished with school and having the whole world rolled out at your feet. Chicago is the whole world laid at your feet. It is the best of everything--a really big city with all that entails but peopled with folks who are, well, nice. Everyone here is happy right now. Be that a result of the season, the election of a favorite son, or just the way they always are, there it is.

Being here makes me remember how I used to want to be here all the time.

Yeah, No.

2008-12-19T18:48:00.000-08:00

No. Not speaking to you.

Not speaking to the building managers for my office, who failed to have our parking lot plowed at all, thereby causing my car to overheat and making me leave it, stranded in the lot, while I...

Drove downtown with my boss. Who then proceeded to have me...dig out his wife's car, point out major traffic accidents for him to avoid, get his car out of a snow pile and basically miss doing all of the chores/tasks/wrapping/cleaing that could have taken place this afternoon.

Not speaking to you, managers of my condominium association. The ones who apparently instructed our plow guys to plow our street last. So I managed to almost get stuck after the aforementioned boss fiasco. Then I had to park a quarter mile away. Then I had to dig my driveway out. Again. And then I had to wait until 9 pm. To get my car in my garage. Thanks.

Not you, either, Blago, who embarrasses everyone in the midwest and all the Democrats therein.

Or you, Rick Warren, who is reaping the rewards of the press spotlight.

Basically, I'm all kinds of pissed of and not happy to be speaking to much of anyone right now. Particularly as I was supposed to be out with friends right now, eating vegetables and, perhaps, protein. Instead, I'm at home, alone, eating crackers and getting more and more pissed off at poor television scheduling, inconsiderate scheduling and, basically, the human race.

More Deep Thoughts

2008-12-19T01:43:00.000-08:00

Being an adult apparently means not sleeping.

Waking up in the middle of the night, worrying about any or all of the following:

Have I purchased everything I need for Christmas?

Do I have time to buy everything I need for Christmas?

How much money is in my bank account?

Did I pay the cable bill?

Did I get a cable bill this month?

Should I upgrade to the next level of minutes for my cell?

When am I going to get a day off where I don't have anything to do?

When am I going to get a half hour to clean my bathroom?

Maybe I should get up and clean my bathroom now.

What should I wear to work?

What do I have to do at work?

Did I forget to call that guy?

Did I forget to call that other guy?

Do I have clean underwear?

Is it okay to go without underwear when it is below freezing outside?

Is that safe?

What could happen?

Would that be covered by my insurance plan?

Do I have money left in my FLEX account?

Did I send in my receipts for a reimbursement?

Did I send in my receipts for my expense account?

Think they'll notice if I expense sushi?

Is the snow ever going to end?

Isn't anyone else up?

Why isn't anyone responding to texts at 4:13 a.m.?

Don't they like me anymore?

Don't I have any friends?

Am I going to die alone?

What is the meaning of life?

What is that? That, at the bottom of the bed?

Cat? Is that you?

BANG!

2008-12-18T02:54:00.000-08:00

So I'm not quite as consumed by work as I was a week ago but the aftereffects of stress are lingering. I'm doing my best to get over it but I feel like I'm operating with post traumatic stress disorder. Not to make light of PTSD or anything. But bursting into tears over a lost earring is not the reaction of a sane woman. Particularly an earring that was purchased at Kohl's by a man who left the price tag on the gift box.

I'm thinking the cure will be a few days off. But I'm getting to the point where days off cause me more stress than going to work. Like, "what will be waiting for me when I get back? What bomb will be on my desk, waiting to explode?"

Can't we all agree to take a week off and not send each other anything to work on during that time? Of course not. Because "I'm one up on you" is the mantra of the competitive nature of the human race.

Radio Silence

2008-12-13T08:46:00.001-08:00

Sorry I haven't been posting. I'm running on empty right now with no River Phoenix to lean on and it looks like I won't be coming up for air until at least the week of Christmas.

Happy Holidays to everyone.

Thankful

2008-11-26T09:17:00.000-08:00

I don't eat turkey at Thanksgiving anymore. It kind of grosses me out, quite honestly. I can still remember eating it one year and getting a piece of uncooked skin. Gross. This year, I am making lasagne. Last year, I made spaghetti. The year before, my mother tried to cook a turket breast and didn't cook it long enough, so we basically just ate stuffing and mashed potatoes and pie.

One year, she made Cornish hens. Why she thought this might be a good idea, I don't know. One usually does not serve a Cornish hen to a seven-year-old. But, whatever. I probably just ate mashed potatoes that year, since I hated stuffing at that point.

Is there a regional thing with stuffing and dressing? I was discussing Thanksgiving with someone this morning and they referred to "dressing." I always call it "stuffing." I knew what he was talking about but it still struck me, because I so rarely hear to it referred to as dressing. Is it a southern thing? An east coast thing? Or a midwest rural thing?

I've eaten out a couple of times for Thanksgiving. Once in New York, with my mother. We only nearly killed each other about five times during that trip, most notably when I dragged her up to the Cloisters by taking the longest subway ride ever, then walking uphill for a half mile or so. She wasn't pleased. But I wanted to see the unicorns.

We went out a couple times when my dad was still alive, too. He liked the brunch routine at the local fancy hotel. Pots of potatoes, mounds of stuffing, slabs of turkey. Paired with omlettes cooked to order, breakfast sausage, oysters on the half shell, sushi and a long table filled with dessert. I know that buffet spoke to him, reflecting, as it did, the Puritan spirit of deprivation and self-restraint.

Mostly, when I was in high school, we'd go pick up my grandmother and go to my great-aunt's house for Thanksgiving. My second cousin would bring his humongous dog and his east-coast wife and his sister would show up with whichever artsy-fartsy dude she was dating at the time. Everyone would argue about politics and I'd be the only kid at the table, thankful, mostly, that I didn't have to share my family with any other children or, worse, have to sit at a kid's table.

My great-aunt is gone now, as is her husband and my grandmother and my dad. I don't get to see many people from my family anymore. My great-aunt's house had belonged to her parents, my great-grandparents, and I hope whoever has Thanksgiving there nowadays enjoys it as much as I did.

This year there will only be a few of us, eating lasagne in a condo in the cold north woods. But I'm thankful for what I've had. And for what is yet to come.

The Big Three

2008-11-21T05:25:00.000-08:00

I've lived in the Rust Belt for a large percentage of my life. My father worked, during his summers in school, at a steel mill in eastern Ohio. Friends from college went to work for Ford. I've driven foreign cars in fear through the streets of Detroit. I've spent nights in hotels with the logos of car manufacturers stuck on the side, 60 stories up. I went to grad school with people whose parents got them full-body warranties on their Jeeps. Full body. That included tire changes, even.

I marked trips from one town to another by the auto manufacturing plants I passed. I've driven through Flint, passing hulks of buildings that could be full of people making trucks or could be as empty as a Coke can. I know enough to look for the display outside of the plant, so you can see what vehicles are manufactured at that location. I know better than to drive my Mini onto the lot at UAW. I park down the street.

I have no doubt that the auto companies have squandered a lifetime's worth of knowledge and money, pissing it away to line pockets and fabricate golden parachutes. I know that the unions, similarly, have hamstrung management into providing full medical and retirement benefits in an age when most people have no coverage whatsoever and, if they have any, still have to pay out the nose once in a while. I understand that if the union gives up an inch, they think management will take a mile and they'll lose everything they ever fought for in the first place.

But a union can't exist if there isn't anywhere to work and, more and more, that's the way it is looking. The companies, labeled as fat cats and environmentally unsound and technologically inept, aren't going to make it much longer. And, frankly, they are reaping what they've sown. They've spent a lot of years paying lobbyists to keep Congress from setting air quality standards that would affect them. And they were about twenty years behind the times at making their cars affordable and problem-free. Now that they're finally starting to see the light, it is too late for them.

I know that people are angry about the auto industry, that the companies have made ridicuous amounts of money and have apparently pissed it all away, with nothing to show for it. But at least they are companies that make something, that manufacture something, that develop and produce a product. Not like AIG or WaMu or other financial institutions, that simply move money from one account to another, or sell insurance, or collect interest.

GM and Ford and Chrysler have something to show for their work. They contributed to the structure and growth of this country. Without them, we wouldn't have the infrastructure we have today. We wouldn't have a lot of things. And we wouldn't have been able to do a lot of things. Like put out fires with fire trucks. Or get kids to schools on school busses. Or, you know, win WWII. With tanks and planes and Jeeps, all manufactured in plants in the U.S.

If these companies go bust, if they close up shop. Not only will they put thousands of workers out of work, they'll close shop for the folks that make the lights in the dashboards. That manufacture the carpet on the floorboards. That make tires. That make headlights. That do car repair. That sell cars.

We've shipped so much elsewhere. People in Indian call centers are handling my American Express account. We buy clothes from China and India and everywhere else. Toys aren't manufactured here, even as children are getting poisoned by paint in those same toys. And the people who tell you to buy American? Those are the same people who aren't going to give Detroit a loan.

I feel like, in a few years, I'm going to be living in a jobless wasteland.

So much for buying American.

Remember When Sean D. Wore a Tutu?

2008-11-19T09:26:00.001-08:00

My mother watched "The Edge of Night." I don't remember too much about it, frankly, other than she used to iron while watching it. I'd play on the floor with my Lite-Brite and listen with one ear to whatever was going on. Not much, apparently, since it got cancelled at some point.

She was also big into "All My Children" or, as we called it in college, "All My Kids." I remember the very old days, when Tad was very, very young and Palmer could still ambulate. And there was Erica. Erica Kane. Who had a sister named Silver who had an affair with Erica's husband, if I remember correctly. I named a stuffed flamingo I got for a birthday gift in her honor. Man, if you're willing to cross Erica like that, you deserve your name in lights, not just tacked onto a stuffed flamingo.

I watched that one, on and off, for years. All through Cord and Tina. And Tina and Todd. With the old Tina and the new Tina. Good stuff. Wasn't the dad from "The Nanny" in that, too? Or was that "Guiding Light"? I can't remember.

I did the whole "GH" thing, too, as a kid. I remember going home from the pool in the middle of summer just to watch Luke and Laura get married. Because marriage between a rapist and his victim is...viable? Whatever. And then that whole deal with the Ice Princess and whatnot. And poor, poor Robin and her AIDS diagnosis. I see she's on some nighttime show on the Soap Channel. Is she still sick? Or is she the Magic Johnson of Port Charles?

But the big one? The granddaddy of them all? "Days of Our Lives". Without a doubt, the longstanding favorite during college. So much so that we would schedule classes around it. And when that didn't work? We'd tape it and sit around and watch after dinner and before cracking that history of Mary Chestnut we had to finish.

When I was in college, Sean D fell in a well and went deaf. Hope was gone and Bo first hooked up with Carly, who was helping Sean D to regain his hearing. Then he began hooking up with Billie after Carly got locked in a coffin by someone. Billie's hot, hot brother, Austin, was going to marry Carrie, the wonderful, sainted sister of that bitch, Sammie. And they were both daughters. Of the best, most ridiculous, most awesome couple ever.

John and Marlena. Of course, Marlena thought John was Roman, her husband. But Roman was dead and John took his place. But Roman wasn't really dead and came back. And so Marlena had two Romans to choose from. Who looked, talked and acted absolutely nothing alike so I was never quite certain exactly how it was that Marlena could have believed John was Roman but, whatever. Turns out, John was a priest, too, which made all the sex-having with Marlena a bit problematic.

I think Marlena ended up throwing Roman over for John, even though her story line with Roman was supposed to be the storyline to end all storylines back in the day. Roman looked a lot older than Marlena by the time he came back in the 90's, you know, and soaps aren't so kind on wrinkles.

John also performed an exorcism on Marlena. Which was all kinds of awesome.

Anyway, it appears that they're both getting the ax. The show can't justify their salaries or some such malarky, so they're leaving. Or being asked to leave. Or showed up and found his priest collar and her silk dressing gown on the cold cement streets outside the studio.

This is pretty sad for a show that, for all appearances, really did try to keep people on for long times. That's what makes soap operas so...well, I can't say good. But relatable. They aren't lying when they say you can walk away for two years, come back and be in the story lines within a week. That's because the characters are constant, the family connections are constant, the scenary is constant and very little changes. Even with all the action swirling around the youngsters on the programs, there were still shots of the old Brady clan every once in a while, particularly around the holiday shows. The fact that they're getting rid of John and Marlena is pretty sad, in its way.

I thought soap opera actors just slowly faded away, like old soldiers. Instead, their jobs are getting outsourced. But there will never be a couple like John and Marlena.

Except for Marlena and Roman. No, not that Roman. The other one.

Sunday Afternoon

2008-11-17T05:42:00.000-08:00

I went to see "Tropic Thunder" yesterday at the cheap theatre. Because I will pay to watch Robert Downey, Jr., read the phone book in sections alphabetically. But I would rather pay $3.50 than $10 to do so.

On my way there, I drove down one of the main drags in town. The street with the mall. And the other mall. And every franchised restaurant known to man. Or the hollowed out, empty buildings that housed old franchise restaurants that are now closed and gone forever.

It started to snow as I was driving. The temperature was just about 35 degrees. The snow wasn't sticking, yet, but the streets were wet. It wasn't nice out.

I saw a man as I drove past one of the major intersections, bounded by gas stations, a strip mall and a Mexican restaurant. He stood at the edge of the parking lot of the strip mall, which houses a sushi place, a tobacco emporium and a big and tall store, as well as a number of empty storefronts. It is an area which can be busy as all hell and simultaneously completely empty.

He held a sign on a big piece of poster board. The kind I used to use for Social Studies projects. Like when I did the project on Indiana when we each had to pick a state to research. Or the report on hemophilia.

"Family Man. Will work for food and diapers."

I've seen a couple other people with signs like this in the past few months. But no one has been standing on the side of the road in the cold, with snow melting on his baseball hat on a Sunday afternoon. I haven't seen someone out there on a day when he must know that everyone driving past him is going to the mall, to the grocery store, to Best Buy, to get something for someone for Christmas.

I thought of how humiliated he must be. I thought of how ashamed he must be. And I thought of how much courage it must take for someone to go outside with a sign like that, to subject themselves to the pitying stares of others, in order to try to scrape up some money or food to provide for his family.

I cried all the way to the theater. And I didn't laugh much at the movie.

Thanks, Internet

2008-11-13T11:44:00.000-08:00

So I'm just surfing the 'net, hitting my usual spots for afternoon time killing. Then I hit Jezebel and learn that, if you shove a clove of garlic up your vagina, it will stop an oncoming yeast infection.

But don't cut up the cloves. Because that shit burns.

God, I love the internet.

Wastin' Away Again

2008-11-12T14:14:00.000-08:00

You know, when your fall-back job...the job you swear you'll go get if you ever get fired from your "career job"...like bartending in Key West...seems like it will be eliminated because of economic downturns? That is a very sad day.

My Real America

2008-11-12T09:20:00.000-08:00

There was quite a bit of talk in the recent election about "real America." How some places in this county were the "real America" while other parts, presumably, were not. Of course, if I wanted to be a real bitch, I could point out that, in fact, Canada is part of "real America", as is Mexico, since we're all part of North America and, in fact, our country is actually known as the United States. But that might be considered splitting hairs.

I know to what the speakers referred when talking about "real America." Real America is small towns surrounded by acres of farmland. Huge high school football fields flooded with lights in the middle of pitch-black prarie. Real America is mom-and-pop grocery stores and going to the post office to pick up your mail instead of having it delivered to your doorstep like they do in the city. Real America is where people stop and help you change your tire when you're stranded on the side of the road. Or where they will give you directions when you're lost.

When politicians talk to crowds about "real America," what they're really trying to do is create fear. Fear of the "other." They know that country mice from small towns across the flyover don't know what goes on in the coastal cities. In many cases, they don't care. Their children may move there, along with the slightly swishy music teacher from the high school, but they themselves don't need to. Or want to.

And when they do visit, go someplace like New York? It might as well be another country. It might as well be Paris, without the weird tower and the Mona Lisa. The people are all in a hurry and don't talk to you and no one will give you directions and just what is the hurry, anyway!? The food's expensive and the people are rude and it is too noisy and smelly. And that woman at the restaurant where you had lunch made fun of my midwestern tourist tennis shoes loud enough for you to hear.

And people from the cities feel the same when going into the flyover. The great cultural wasteland. Where people still wear fanny packs and shop at Wal-Mart and will ask the most personal questions. And they keep saying hello, which freaks you out to no end. There's no Bravo on cable, only the Big Ten network. Everything closes at 9, except the country bar at the county line, and no one serves booze on Sunday. How do people live like this?!

When politicians try to tell us that they're happy to be amoung "real Americans, what they're really trying to do is to turn us against each other. They want to divide and conquer. They want us to forget that we're all in this together. They want us to hate and fear each other, even though we use the same forms to pay taxes, carry the same passports, watch the same television shows, read the same books, fly the same airlines, have the same rights to vote and check out library books and all drive on the same side of the road.

We're all a part of this. "From sea to shining sea" is how the song goes, and it isn't wrong. New York City and Los Angeles is just as much a part of all of us as Paducah, Kentucky. We're all invested in this great American experience, for better and for worse. Nothing is more illustrative of this now than the mortgage crisis, which begat the credit crisis, which begat the failure of the Big Three, which could begat the loss of three million jobs in this country. Three million? Can you imagine?

And when I read a story in a book about how, after 9/11, when people in a certain neighborhood in New York found out that rescue workers really kinda needed toothpaste because they weren't getting to go home very much? That people in that neighborhood bought out toothpaste from every corner shop and bodega around? Until the only toothpaste left was Sensodyne? And then someone bought that out? That they were buying that toothpaste for workers from all over the country?

Even though I live in the flyover, those rescuers and the people who bought them toothpaste are just as much real Americans as I can ever hope to be.

Good morning

2008-11-05T04:30:00.000-08:00

So I'm driving into work today, taking the usual route. I look for the man and his dog but I haven't seen them in a few weeks, since it started to get colder and the time changed and all. I'm thinking about reading about the election and what I might write about on here this morning, if I get around to writing anything at all. I'm thinking about a summer night a couple of years ago when I talked politics with strangers and how it is funny when you turn out to be right.

And I'm driving down the last long straightaway into the office, through a residential area filled with college apartments and small houses, right on a five lane road close to a major intersection. Traffic is just starting to get heavy, just before the school buses start trundling through town, picking up children and delivering them to be indoctrinated for the day.

There's this woman, standing at the end of her driveway. And she's got a black cape on.

"Well, that's odd," I think to myself. "Halloween is over and that isn't a bus stop that she's standing at so I wonder..."

And as I'm thinking these things, I'm driving toward her. I was the first car at the last light so there are no cars in front of me. Just a long stretch of empty street. And, as I drive toward her, she starts to take off the cape.

"...so I wonder...oh. She's...hmmmm...totally buck-ass naked."

She calmly flashed my car and the cars behind me. Then she folded the cape back over herself and calmly walked up to the house behind her. There was no screeching and clutching of the cape, with a panicked run back to the house, which is what I would have done if I were in here shoes. I watched in the rearview mirror as I continued on my way, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

I stopped at the stop light and looked at the guy next to me. He didn't look at me, kept his eyes on the road ahead. I can only imagine that he didn't see her. Or that he gets flashed by women more frequently than I do.

So now I'm left wondering. My friend with the local police force is off today, so I can't call him. I'm not even sure what house she went back to, frankly. And reporting someone for that is kind of a bullshit move.

Besides, I can only assume she lost a bet.

To Spite My Face

2008-11-04T13:37:00.000-08:00

I've heard all this wailing and gnashing of teeth from gas station owners about how they aren't making any money anymore because the oil companies make them raise the price of gas and the states make them charge taxes and so no one comes into the stores anymore to buy pink coconut snowballs and corn nuts and fountain soda with the little ice cubes shaped like scored pellets that split into little discs when you bite them...just so.

Whoo. Sorry, lost myself there for a sec.

Anyway, that's a fallacy. I mean, yeah, the oil companies are bastards. See, for example, Exxon/Mobile's record profits this last quarter. Please, I'm crying them a river over the prices they have to charge because there aren't enough refineries and the hurricanes and blah de blah blah blah.

And I understand that the governors are abusing you and using you to boost the sagging economies of state governments, particularly in the rust belt. I know the entire transportation budget is made up of gas taxes and the little foreign man running my BP station is tired of charging me the extra howevermany cents per gallon because we have a Democrat running our state government.

HOWEVER. The real reason no one goes into the shitty little gas station stores anymore? Is because you have to pay at the pump or prepay for your gas. Because assholes have driven away from the pumps without paying. Those are the same assholes who don't have auto insurance. But, anyway, when you pay at the pump, what the hell is the point of going inside to buy a soda or a pack of gum or any number of impulse purchases that someone would usually buy if they could go in the store with their credit card AFTER having pumped their ten gallons of gas.

And, with prepay, you take your $10 bill or your $20 bill and you say, "Give me this much gas at pump whatever" and they do and you don't go back in to buy anything. Because you've already been in there and spent all your money. You're not going back in.

This point was driven home this morning when I found gas at $2.17 a gallon. I drove in, all excited, like it was Christmas morning. I wanted a Diet Coke so I hit the "pay inside" button. Which was still functioning. With no signs indicating that it could not be used. And after having done so, I get a tinny voice from the loud speaker telling me I have to prepay with a card or pay inside before pumping. So I start to prepay with my card, resigning myself to punishing them by refusing to go inside to buy a drink.

By this time, the nozzle is in my car and I've been standing there long enough to start washing my windows. And the voice then says, "You have to take the nozzle out and restart."

At this point, I want to throw the squeegie through the window of the joint.

I put the nozzle back in the pump and wait for the screen to clear, telling me to insert the card. I stare at the screen. I stare and stare. And stare.

And then I got in my car and drove away. And bought my Diet Coke somewhere else. And my gas.

Conception

2008-11-03T05:55:00.001-08:00

I was invited to a baby shower this past weekend. Unfortunately, going to a baby shower includes bringing a gift for, you know, a baby. Luckily, I knew they were going to have alcohol at this particular party, so the shopping would, eventually, be rewarded.

I went to the snobby baby store. Not the huge box store that is associated with the giraffe store. And I think every medium-sized town probably has the snobby baby store. The store where they sell ridiculously overpriced baby clothes, baby shoes, toddler wardrobes, Gucci diapers and gold and diamond encrusted rattlers. Okay, I exaggerate. However, how much can a store conceivably charge for a onesie? Even one made of organic cotton and post-consumer recycled waste?

So I go. And I'm cranky. Either because of the pain in my shoulder from stress or the lack of sleep due to the pain in the shoulder or the carbohydrate overload of breakfast only an hour or two beforehand. So I'm not a happy camper going in. I figure I'll find something small, pay and get out in ten minutes or so.

It is Saturday. The place is dead. There are two women at the register and one person buying something. I start to look around, overwhelmed by the vast walls of fleece and Egyptian cotton and whatever other fancy fabrics are used to make things that dreams are made of. I'm quickly tired and crosseyed by the colors and so I simply stand still, waiting for someone to come help me.

Instead, I get to listen to fifteen minutes of gossip. Gossip about out-of-wedlock pregnancy, shotgun weddings, how episiotomies were created to help Asian women undergo natural childbirth (I think--frankly, I was dazed by that point), pediatricians, etc, etc, ad nauseum. The customer, apparently, knew one of the women working and felt the need to catch up on at least the last year's worth of gossip, since she didn't know the employee had 1) gotten engaged; 2) gotten pregnant; 3) gotten married; 4) had the baby; and 5) got a job at this hellhole. In that order.

Finally, she left, after promising to catch up next week over a latte. I can hardly wait.

By this point, I wanted to kill someone.

"Are you looking for something?" One of the women finally asked.

"Um, yeah." How could you possibly tell? "I've got a baby shower. It is a second child. I don't know the sex. I hate you." Okay. I didn't say the last sentence.

"Well, we have these socks..." she pointed to a large display.

"Fine." I grabbed something sex-neutral. "Wrap it."

I paid and left. Finally.

I'm sure that, after I left, the two of them had a long conversation about me. And how I clearly am having problems conceiving. What else could possibly create a mood that bad?

Snicker

2008-10-31T05:05:00.000-07:00

When I was a child, my parents told me I didn't like Snickers. At Halloween, after going to all the houses, diligently saying hello to all the neighbors, even the creepy ones, I would take my stash of candy home. I was ready to gloat over piles of crinkley-wrapped sugar like a pirate gloating over treasure.

"You don't like those," my father would say, grabbing a snack-sized Snickers. He had it in his mouth a moment later.

"Okay." I was happy with piles of Smarties and Tootsie Rolls. And the occasional Reeses Peanut Butter Cup, which I never would have given up in a million years.

Then I got older.

At some point, I realized I really did like Snickers. And, more importantly, I realized I'd been snowed by my father.

Even still, every Halloween, he'd still grab a couple of Snickers. "You don't like these," he'd remind me.

I just gave him the stink eye.

To Delete or Not to Delete

2008-10-30T14:45:00.000-07:00

Crap day. I forgot a birthday and feel way guilty. Realized that, in rehashing old crap from years ago, I might make someone feel bad right now, today, when my only impulse was to provide an entertaining story for the three people I know who used to read this.

I'm not going to delete things anymore and pretend I didn't say things. That's a crappy and cowardly way to live life.

Going for the Gold

2008-10-30T14:26:00.000-07:00

I'm dressing as Sarah Palin for Halloween.

I've had some good costumes in my day, but I'm hoping to win an award with this one. I know most of the big sites are mocking the selection as hopelessly overdone, but I have some touches that I think make this costume special:

I have buttons. GOP buttons. A pink elephant with "Sarah!" underneath. Another with her name, a set of lips and a high heeled shoe. And one with her and McCain with "Brothers in Heaven Forever." Okay, maybe it doesn't say that.

I've got snow boots. I was going to wear a puffy coat but thought it would be too hot.

I've got a suit. It isn't from Neiman Marcus. Nor is it from a consignment shop in Anchorage. Nor does it include a red leather jacket. But it'll do.

I have a brown beehive wig.

I have glasses.

I may have a weapon.

I may also have pelts. I thought about a fur coat but thought it would be too hot.

I have a plethora of pithy statements. "You betcha!" "Kin I call you Joe?" "You know what the difference..." You get the picture.

But the party I'm going to has a theme. Astronauts and Aliens. So I have some antennae I'll be wearing.

Or else I'll wander around all night, mocking the idea of astronauts as a liberal media fallacy constructed to leech money from people's paychecks. SOCIALISM!!!

It might not beat the roller derby costume, but it will come close.

A Magical Mystery Tour

2008-10-27T09:50:00.000-07:00

I was just chatting with a five-year old about birthday parties and where to have them. His verdict was inevitable: Chuck E. Cheese. Unfortunately, they no longer serve beer there since an unfortunate incident between an intoxicated man and the animatronic band so yours truly will not be trekking there anytime soon. Or, honestly, any time.

Then I got to thinking about the places I used to have parties, or go to parties. There was the year my parents took me and my friends to see "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom" and then went home to eat cake. Red velvet cake. Which I loved. But my friends thought it was an attempt to bring the gore home from the movies. I wish I could plan ahead that well.

I remember going to Showbiz Pizza in Georgia growing up. They had an animatronic band, too. Instead of a mouse, I think they had a gorilla leading the band. Why pizza places were so into animatronics, I don't know. All they really needed to be popular was a Frogger! machine in the back and a soda machine that you could use yourself in order to make "suicide drinks"--a sample of every soda on the gun.

Further back, I remember a place called Pipe Organ Pizza. This was less animatronic and more...vaudeville. They had a lot of the old penny machines that told fortunes. And there was a monkey on a unicycle pedaling back and forth above the dining room on a tightrope.

There was Pennywhistle Park. I have no idea what it was or what we did there. I think there was a carosel. Other than that, I have no idea what that joint was about, other than remembering the name of it, sitting here, today. From a quick Google search, it was a big indoor carnival that has since shut down.

And Farrell's, an old style, black-and-white tiled floor ice cream parlor with bins of candy in the lobby. Lots of old-timey lettering on glass and big fancy glass dishes filled with ice cream.

Most odd? The Magic Time Machine. A restaurant with themed servers and themed booths. For a long time I thought this place was a figment of my imagination. I'm sure my parents only took me there once. But I was entranced by the idea of each booth having a different theme. I particularly remember the "valentine" themed booth, covered with lace and hearts and nonsense. It was ridiculous, but as a five year old girl, it was incredible and fantastic. We were served by the likes of Pippi Longstocking and Sandi from Grease. I LOVED it.

Most of those places are gone now, although there are still two Magic Time Machine restaurants still open. It is too bad that today's youth only has a plastic mouse to hang with during their birthday. I hope they can look back with wonder on the places of their youth. But I doubt that living rooms filled with video games will be as memorable as the roller rinks and themed restaurants of our youth.

Sign 'O the Times

2008-10-22T13:27:00.000-07:00

My grandmother says racist things.

I say this without irony. Without shame. Without much thought at all. However, I hope that, in my grandmother's case, saying racist things does not make one racist.

I don't mean to be an apologist. I don't want to let her off the hook. On the contrary, I would be more likely to tell my grandmother that she is being offensive than I would a guy sitting behind me at a football game talking about black quarterbacks or the couple at the booth next to me at the neighborhood restaurant laughing about Hispanic bus boys.

But maybe that's what I am.

My grandmother has always used racist language to describe people. I remember hearing my first racist joke at my grandparents' house. In fact, I think I may have told a racist joke to my grandfather when I was young, in an effort to curry favor with the grouchy old coot. I remember the joke, even. It was about the rapid transit authority in Atlanta. And, no, I'm not repeating it here.

My grandparents used the "n" word to describe people. Not only people, but inanimate objects. When I was young, it didn't even register...the type of language that they used. It was just part of the background, the wallpaper. It matched the Big Ten glasswear and the cane furniture and the lava lamp in the basement of their house. However, once I went to high school in Atlanta and learned about the impact of such a word, I began to cringe every time I heard them use it. It was the equivilent of dropping an f-bomb. Worse, even.

My grandfather died and my grandmother moved to a small town to live near my uncle. He's not known for watching his tongue, either. In fact, to be fair, no one in my family is what would be described as a shrinking violet. And we don't always think before we speak. However...

Grandma proceeded to get blackballed from the local drycleaner after making a derogatory remark about the hispanic folks working there. She now has to send her clothes with my uncle to the next town over.

I'm sorry, there are some things that age does not allow you to do. You can yell at kids to get off your lawn. You may even be able to steal a kid's football and refuse to give it back. But you cannot call someone a racial ephithet and get away with it. Young or old.

When I was just visiting last week, my elderly, frail grandmother used the "n" word to describe tennis shoes. This makes no sense to me. She was telling a story about cheap shoes tied together by their laces, held in bins. I imagine she thought she was describing the shoes as low-class. Or cheap. I don't know, honestly. When the word came out of her mouth, I covered my eyes and shook my head. I almost got up and left. But she's 82 and the only grandparent I have left. What does one do?

I would like to think that, in her heart, my grandmother doesn't actually believe that all black people are bad, just like all white people aren't good. I'm reasonably certain she doesn't believe that a secret roundtable of Jews rules the financial market. I hope she doesn't think that the Mexican kid at the laundry didn't maliciously steal a button from her coat and make a new stain on her silk shirt. I hope, instead, that accusing someone of doing something like that was simply the meanest thing she could think of to say to someone, in order to get their attention and have them look at her. Really look at her like she matters. Because, in the end, I think that is what makes her tick....the need for attention.

Honestly, the apples don't fall far from the tree in this family.

But what really bothers me is that my fourteen and twelve year old cousins were there when she talked about the shoes and they didn't bat an eye. Because they aren't doing things like going to school with black kids in suburban Atlanta. Nor are they speding time in any kind of urban environment whatsoever outside of what they see on television. I fervently hope they don't get the idea that people talk that way in the big wide world.

I hope for better for them.

Curb Your Enthusiasm

2008-10-16T14:26:00.000-07:00

So I'm at this event this weekend. It is kind of a reunion. Of sorts. The lamer sort. With student government people. From college. So, yeah, lame. All from a very large, incredibly midwestern and really white university.

After the main (and incredibly boring) events, a bunch of us go out to dinner. Me and my roommate, who ran campaigns. Three student body presidents. One of their wives. Another two Vice Presidents.

And, begin student goverment geeks, almost everyone went into some kind of legal work.

So I'm sitting next to this guy. African-American. He was student body president in the late, late 90's maybe. Maybe even 2000s.

I ask, "So, what do you do?"

"I work in IT," he tells me, and goes on to describe his job, which sounds interesting and challenging and fun.

"Oh, so you aren't a lawyer like everyone else here, " I laugh. Then, "You realize you're in the minority."

I look around the table and realize we've got three white men, three white women, one latina and him.

He looks at me. "You're not kidding," he says.

Friends

2008-10-07T05:06:00.001-07:00

On my way into work, I take the same route pretty much every day. A couple of turns, then a long drive into the office on a winding straightaway with a few lights sprinkled here and there, twisting through residential areas sprinkled with houses and apartment complexes housing good Christian students for the nearby private school. Not a lot of beer cans littering the parking lots around there, like the apartment complexes where I went to school.

There's a man who walks his dog the same route every day. And I see him every day. I have no idea what the man looks like, except that he is likely somewhere in his 40's or 50's. I think he's tall. But he has the best dog.

It is a golden retriever. And he's beautiful. I call it a he, but I don't really know if it is a he or a she. He's a big dog, one of the really tall retrievers. His head doesn't look very broad, but I see him from the distance of three car lanes, so it is hard to be sure. He's getting white around the muzzle and I know he's had a long, good, healthy life. His fur is long and lovely and he wags his tail constantly, letting the world know he's just enjoying his time here, on this walk.

His owner never uses a leash. This made me nervous, when I used to first see them, when I began using this route to work. Now, it just makes me smile. The dog is never more than a leash length away. I think the owner has the dog fooled into thinking there's a leash on him, that he can't get any further than that. The dog never makes a sudden move, never chases squirrels, never darts around. He's constant, steady and calm.

Today, I was running a little late. When I saw them, they were at the crosswalk, waiting for the light. The owner was back where the sidewalks actually crossed, a few steps behind the curb. The dog? Was standing on the curb, waiting expectantly. Either for the light to change or for his owner to tell him it was time to go. In his mouth? A plastic bag, undoubtedly filled with doggy poo that his master cleaned up and, in order to give the retriever something to do that felt like a job, let the dog carry.

That dog makes me smile. When I stop seeing him on his morning walks, I hope his owner knows that he won't be the only one to have lost his friend.

I Saw Summer Go

2008-10-01T05:12:00.000-07:00

It was Saturday. It was beautiful. The sun was shining. The wind was still. The water was like glass. The leaves were just starting to yellow, just at the edges. There were a few splashes of red, now and then, as I drove along the highway toward the beach. Not many. Just enough to know that the nights were becoming cooler, the days shorter.

We sat outside all day. Bathing suits and beer. Watching the water and listening to the waves. A succession of football games played inside. Big Ten games. Some exciting. Some not. Then music. More drinks. Snacks. A light breeze.

In the evening, we boiled shrimp outside. The clouds rolled up a bit from the horizon, heading towards us slowly.

The breeze, that was so slight only moments before, strengthened and became a wind. Spatters of raindrops hit the ground. The blanket of clouds scuttled toward us.

The temperature dropped. The wind began whipping at the trees. The fire underneath the pot of shrimp blew out.

We went back outside after dinner. But we needed jackets and blankets and shoes and socks. The next morning was grey and the clouds haven't lifted since.

Summer was here for a while. Then, whoosh, shiver...there it goes.

Don't Make that Indian Cry

2008-09-16T10:16:00.000-07:00

Do you watch Mad Men? If not, you should. If only for the clothing. I wish I could wear a bra that made my boobs look like bullets, although not as severe as Madonna. But I digress.

Last week's episode included a picnic scene with Don, Betty and their kids. They took the new Caddy out to the park and had a bucolic scene with children running around the grass, water running by in the background. Before getting into the car, Don makes Betty look at the kids' hands, to make sure they don't wreck the upholstery. I empathize with Dan, I must tell you. If you don't know about my stain removal festish, you're better off.

So the kids run off to the car after getting Betty's approval and she is left to gather up whatever Coleman camp gear they brought to carry lemonade and sandwiches, etc. There are paper plates all over the plaid wool blanket they laid upon for the afternoon, napkins, wrappers for foodstuff. Good ol' Betty. She shakes off the blanket, dumps the garbage on the grass, packs up and heads off the luxury of the Caddy.

The point, of course, is to make us gape at the changes in society. It equates to the earlier scene in which Betty scolds her daughter for playing with the plastic dry cleaning bags. Not because they're dangerous. But because she wants to save the bags to use later. And, of course, we're supposed to think about the things we do now that, in thirty or forty years, we'll realize were absolutely ridiculous, thoughtless and dangerous. That we're currently subjecting ourselves and our children to needless risk and polluting our environment unknowingly and uncaringly.

And I got all that. I really did.

But, honestly, the first thing I thought of when I saw Betty leave the rubbish on the grass in the park and drive away? I thought, "well, there's a girl that never saw the commercial with the crying Indian."

Shoot the Boot

2008-09-12T13:39:00.000-07:00

I've recently declared my love for 90210 here. Old school 90210. "I HATE YOU!" "I choose me!" Kelly taking diet pills in the Peach Pit Bathroom. Donna losing her virginity at graduation. Hell, Donna Martin graduating at all. Brandon and his many women. Brenda, Kelly and Donna singing about Brandon and his many women.

In college? We were obsessed with 90210. Only two shows were don't miss: Days of Our Lives and 90210. Melrose was later.

We were so obsessed that one year, for Christmas, my friend Smithy bought my other friend Vanessa the holy grail as a gift. The Brenda doll.

I wouldn't say Brenda was our favorite. Back then, she and Kelly were kind of equally bitchy. Kelly was all pouty face and leading Steve on and talking about being date raped and being mean to Andrea. Brenda was loving on Dylan and bitching at Brandon and hating her parents because she was loving on Dylan. They were both...fairly awful. But Brenda, for some reason, got scorn heaped upon her more than Kelly. Then Kelly began her walk up the ladder of deification once she fell for Dylan and manfully gave him up for Brenda's sake when she came home from France. Despite the fact she totally cheated on him with...Rrrriiiick. You should read that with a rolled rrrr at the beginning.

So we got the Brenda doll. She would watch the shows with us. She got moved from the dorms to their apartment. Eventually, she got a bit battered from getting tossed around at parties.

Then, one day, someone got the bright idea to drink out of someone's shoe at a party. This, somehow, transformed itself into an idea: shooting the boot.

Brenda doll came with white boots. Like Nancy Sinatra boots. She never wore anything like that on the show. The closest she came was when she was slumming and wearing Doc Martins in college. Whatever. She came with boots.

You always knew that a party at their place was nearing culmination when someone would start to yell, "Shoot the boot." It would gain voices, raise in volume, become a rythm. "Shoot the boot! Shoot the boot!"

And we would. Put a little vodka in the white boot, a little beer, a little Purple Passion. And take a swig.

Nothing like the plasticised taste of vodka from a Brenda Walsh boot to really get a party rolling.

I wonder what happened to the Brenda doll. Did she end up in the trash when we graduated? Did she go into a box, never to be unpacked, wedged between Chemistry texts?

Brenda, I miss you.

Joyful?

2008-09-11T09:33:00.000-07:00

I just spent the last fifteen minutes reading though comments over at Jezebel and laughing my ass off. Apparently, the Guardian just did an article on the new edition of The Joy of Sex. The Jezebel commenters were relating their memories of having snuck into their parents rooms, stolen this book away and being instantly creeped out by the guy on the cover, as well as illustrations of various hippy dudes smelling women's underarm hair.

I don't think I've ever read The Joy of Sex. After having read the comments, I am more than a bit happy about this. I have, however, seen the cover. It is not pretty. As one commentor noted, he bears more than a passing resemblence to one of
my favorite historical figures, Mr. Charles

Manson. I mean, honestly, could this cover be any less sexy? I doubt it. I suppose the thought could have been, "if we make the cover too porny, no one will actually read it for its purpose. They'll just hide it in the garage under the toolbox, to be opened on those long winter afternoons when the wife takes the teenaged daughter to the mall and he's left, all alone, with an hour or two to kill." Who needs Playboy when you can get The Joy of Sex with a hot blonde on the cover. Besides, if he's too good-looking, no wife will actually buy it to share with her husband.

And look at this woman. There is no way on God's green acre that she is giving this guy the time of day. Even in the 70's. I'm sorry. This illustration is like an early-day casting of "Yes, Dear." Gimme a break. Charles you may be due a Squeaky Fromme as you sexual partner but this chick looks more like...well, kind of like the dark haired woman from Knot's Landing, Michelle Lee. Charles, you could never be so lucky to find a girl like that in prison. Particularly not with a big swastika on your forehead.

Anyway, the newest edition has apparently removed all of the golden oldies, such as sex on motorcycles and sex with hookers. Now it has gotten all liberated and actually discusses the clitoris. Women have one! Who knew?!

There is also a fairly large discussion on penile injuries caused by vacuum cleaners. Sounds like hours of entertainment.

I have not, however, learned what the current edition's stance on body hair may be and if they still advise men to smell it. I just hope they advise men to, you know, bathe. Unlike ol' Charlie up there.

Ninety-Thousand Two Hundred and Ten

2008-09-10T05:17:00.000-07:00

I watched the new "90210" last night. First off, it is fairly horrible. I can't keep track of anyone. Further, I don't understand why this Naomi chick is so upset that her father cheats. Donna didn't get that upset when she found out her bitch of a mother, Felice, was tramping around on the sainted Dr. Martin.

Further, any character named Naomi is instantly associated with "Showgirls" and she is eerily reminicent of old what's-her-face from "Saved by the Bell." I was waiting for her to stop crying, then run off to a stripper poll somewhere.

The biggest horror of the night was the realization that they were going to bring one of my favorite television mothers of all time, Jackie, back. And that, in order to do so, they were going to make her a drunk again. This totally pisses me off.

First of all, are you telling me that this girl is running around, sleeping in shelters and cars rather than move in with her sister in the first place? Come on. This is the sister that Kelly stayed home from Europe for, the sainted child that David Silver almost lost in a playground once upon a time. This child would be looked after and cared for, if not by Jackie, then by one of her less screwe-up siblings. Instead, we're supposed to believe that she's running around, living in shelters in Beverly Hills. And who knew such things existed!

More importantly, the scene with Jackie all drunked up? Sucked. Jackie does great drunks. She shows up at mother-daughter fashion shows drunk. She does epic drunks! She should not be made to play drunk scenes, alone in her apartment with her bitchy daughters. She should be given a grand stage on which to play: a restaurant, a bar, a school function. The girl playing Silver was fairly pathetic and the script even called for too much from Jennie Garth, not ever known for her acting chops no matter how much we love her. Let's face it, the only one who was ever really good at historonics on this show was the girl we loved to hate, Brenda Walsh.

Frankly, I was really sad they made Jackie a drunk again. I mean, I understand that they needed to give some dramatic underlay to the Silver character. Give her some conflict in her life. But to do it at Jackie's expense pisses me off.

I was always pulling for the old girl.

I Know Why the Caged Office Worker Sings

2008-09-08T06:16:00.000-07:00

I spend most days in an office. Sometimes I get to leave. Do "field work." But many of my days are spent sitting behind a computer, reading publications, writing summaries and correspondence, looking at the clock every fifteen minutes.

What am I looking forward to? Usually? Lunch.

The reason that people that work in offices get fat isn't because they don't get exercise. So many places now have workout areas. Or gym memberships. Or insurance breaks for those who join gyms. Or let people leave for 2 1/2 hours in the middle of the day when their underlings are looking for them to ask questions in order to finish that project that is due? You know?

Wait, that's just me.

Anyway, I look forward to lunch. I look forward to dinner, too, but only because it is something I do after I leave the office.

We have nothing else to look forward to. No other major breaks from the grind. No other time-waster that is so universally recognized. No other time in which we can sit, unmolested, at our desk. Left alone with our left-overs and thirty minutes to read Defamer or Television Without Pity.

So we rock out at lunch. We go out to lunch. We escape. By car, by foot and by calories.

We spend the morning dreaming of cheese sauce and french fries. Of ranch dressing and onion rings. Of hamburgers, hot dogs, cashew chicken and nachos.

Because, for the most part, we have nothing else to look forward to during the day.

I gain weight when I don't have field work. I gain weight when I sit here all day, day after day, with nothing to do but read and write. I gain weight despite time on the treadmill because the only thing that will feed my soul is a nice 6 inch sub with chips. And a pickle.

Step Away

2008-09-05T05:31:00.000-07:00

When I was in college, I was all about politics. I was in student government. I helped in voter registration drives. I didn't go quite so far as to watch C-SPAN because, well, why would I? Later, I worked as an intern for a company in DC that was a large cog in the political system of the country. I worked with PACs. I reviewed FEC filings. I filed complaints with the FEC...not that anyone ever looked at them...

But I stepped away, after a while. It is too hard. It is difficult to put your heart and soul into something and watch people discount the cause for which you've worked. You can't help but have your soul die just a little when your candidate loses. Or your law fail to pass.

Now I'm down to caring only every four years. And even that is getting to be too much. I've spent the last two weeks reading everything on the 'net about the conventions. I've read fact sheets and pundit sites and watched video and listened to replayed speeches. And I cannot do it anymore. Thank God the conventions are over.

I got into a fight last night with someone over politics. And then I agreed with people whose political positions I'd never known before. You know how you can work with someone or be friends with them for a long time? And an election comes up and you start talking? And, all of a sudden you see them completely differently? Funny, isn't it?

People think differently. I wouldn't have it any other way. Even though sometimes I want to hit myself in the head with a rock with frustration, everyone has different views on stuff. That doesn't make me love them less. Instead, it opens up new and interesting possibilities and lets you know even more about them than you did before.

But I still have to step away from the internet. Otherwise I'm going to start looking for a big rock.

Old School

2008-09-03T10:55:00.001-07:00

This time of year makes me think of moving into dorms, of leaving home for the first time, of buying sheets and laundry baskets and shoes and books and deciding whether I was going to write in blue pen or black pen for the year. Would I get another pair of Bass bucs or branch out into something similarly preppy but different? Suede Adidas, perhaps?

I wrote about living in the dorms, once, for my school newspaper. About how no one on my floor knew anyone else when we first got there. We were from all over: Okemos, Michigan; Elkhart, Indiana; Chicago, Illinois; Cleveland, Ohio. From the smallest small town in Indiana to the biggest of the old rustbelt cities. Our dorm didn't have suites. We had one big bathroom, down at the end of the hall. Four sinks, two toilets, four showers.

I wrote about how, if it weren't for those bathrooms, I don't know whether I ever would have had friends in college. My first weekend there, someone was hurling into one of the toilets, getting babysat by her new roommate. I walked in, having just gotten back from my friend from high school's room. We ended up sitting in the bathroom for hours, making sure the sick girl didn't get puke in her hair and learning everything there was to know about each other.

Remember how hot it always was? When you moved in? How miserably hot it was and how no one had air conditioning? Except the one girl, whose grandfather was a doctor and wrote her a prescription for one? She always moved in early and we'd sit in her room during frequent brakes, drinking beer our fathers bought for us at the corner store to drink after lugging boxes up three flights of stairs. They thought the beer was for them. How little they knew.

And how happy everyone was to see each other, after that first year? And how the first weeks were flurries of exchanging phone numbers? And looking people up? Gazing around huge lectures to see if you recognized anyone? Figuring out if you could make it back to the dorm for lunch during the hour break you had or if you had to go to the freak dorm to eat? Finding out who moved off campus? Who was throwing the party? Who was putting together the football tickets so we could all sit together?

I miss those guys at this time of year. I miss them badly. I miss celebrating Smithy's birthday right when we got back to school. I miss lounging on couches with everyone, watching bad talk shows. I miss walking to Taco Bell with Vanessa. I miss the first party of the year at Terra Trace. I miss football games and parties and just...being...with those people. We're scattered now. We don't see each other much anymore.

I wish I could change that.

Sunrise

2008-09-02T09:27:00.000-07:00

There is nothing like the day after a party. A really good party. A party that goes on for hours and hours. Where the food is great and the conversation is better. Where there is a great stockpile of wood for the fire on the beach. Where there are plenty of marshmallows and unbent hangers to go around. Where you don't have to think about going to the grocery store in town to get beer at 10 p.m. because it looks like you might run out in the near future. Where you sit outside under the dark night sky and can see the most amazing display of stars you can imagine. Where you have a contest to see who can find the most shooting stars. Where you can see a reflection of the entire night sky in the amazingly still water of the lake.

And then? There's the next morning. Where you collect beer cans. And dump out beer onto the grass. And smell that beer for the rest of the morning. And find a million cigarette butts everywhere. And you step on hot coals that blew outside of the firepit and continue to smolder. And the marshmallows got wet from the morning dew. And someone left three unopened beers on the ground, letting them get skunky. And someone is talking about breakfast, where, really, all you want to do is vomit quietly in a corner or behind a bush. And the people next door have a saw or something going and, damn, it is really LOUD.

At least we have the sunrise to comfort us.

The One in the Middle had Horns

2008-08-28T04:58:00.000-07:00

I almost hit a deer last night.

There were three of them, traipsing through the business park that runs alongside my neighborhood. I usually scream through there at night, taking the turns too close with the windows rolled down, feeding my dreams of race car driving stardom.

Fact: I saw a special on the fastest truck driver in the world on "That's Incredible" as a kid and, when I found out she was a woman whose handle was "Yo-yo"? My career path was decided. Luckily, I outgrew the 70's.

Anyway, three deer stood smack dab in the middle of the road, looking at me like, well, frankly? They were like deer in the headlights.

I've hit a deer before. It was on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, east of Pittsburg somewhere. A pack of deer--are they packs? No, herds. A herd of deer were in the highway, running along. Traffic was passing them at about 30 mph. One zigged when they should have zagged and bounced right off the hood of my skateboard of a CRX. Scared the shit out of me. I drove to the next exit, which happened to be a rest stop, so I could call my parents and tell them I had a bloody dent in the hood of my car and may have just killed Bambi. I think I shook the entire drive to Ohio.

I slowed down and turned down "Girlfriend" by Matthew Sweet so I wouldn't scare them into running into my path.

"What the heck are you guys doing?" I whispered loudly in their direction.

"Just out for a stroll," they seemed to say with their eyes. "Why are you out so late?"

"None of your business, nosy."

"Don't mind us, we're just heading over to the dumpster at Burger King across the street."

"Hey," I yelled at their retreating white flag tails. "Don't cross that street! You'll get creamed."

They ignored me, tipping off into the darkness.

I drove slowly home, windows rolled down, radio off, just in case. No more Bambi killing for me.

Livin' in a Powderkeg...

2008-08-27T13:26:00.000-07:00

Do you have those songs? Those songs that, when you hear them, they take you back to a specific place? A specific time in your life? Where you can see a scene spread out before you, like you are really there, right then, living it all over again?

"Free Fallin'" When I was a senior in high school, Tom Petty came out with this one. I can see the video, I can hear the words. When I listen to the song, I immediately think of Beth Walsh and my physics class. I can't remember the name of my teacher but I do remember that Beth was the only person in that class I was really friends with. That's what happens when you are in advanced classes your entire school career and then, for your senior year? You realize that you don't have to kill yourself anymore, that you already got into your safety school and that the likelihood of getting off the waitlist at the big school probably isn't going to happen. So no AP Physics for me! We studied free fall in class. This song was in heavy rotation at WMMS and now, every time I hear it, I think of being in a sweaty classroom, surrounded by the smell of chalk and broken eggs, all while demonstrating the art of free fall.

"Smokin' in the Boys Room" 8th Grade. Algebra. Mr...something with a Z. Hated him. Hated Algebra. I was in there with a bunch of 9th graders who seemed sooooo much older than me. One girl had peroxided hair and bright blue eyeshadow. She looked like the blonde sister on "Too Close for Comfort." She'd go up to the teacher and ask for a hall pass to the bathroom every day. And every time, the guys would start singing "Smokin' in the Boys Room." Because that's what she was going to go do. I never said they were creative.

"Ohio" When I was in college, we had a bar. And we went to the bar every Friday eveninig. I would get there first, because I worked across the street. We would sit in the same booth every time and always had the same waitress. She loved us, mainly because we didn't realize that those tips we'd put on our charge cards were going to haunt us for the next 10 years. There was a great jukebox, filled with all kinds of stuff and we each had our favorites. I had a playlist: "Come to My Window," "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down," "Mr. Jones," and "Ohio." Four for a dollar. I'd play "Ohio" when Bo and Markus were there and we'd yell out the chorus as loud as we could. I can smell the smell of that place every time I hear the song.

"Come On, Come On" I don't even remember how I first heard this song, or bought the Mary Chapin Carpenter cd. But I remember listening to this album over and over when I was in college, particularly when sitting out on the deck of the house I lived in senior year. I'd sit out there with a beer, waiting for people to come over so we could walk to the bar together, watching people walk through the pools of light thrown by the street lamps in the cool blue of the falling night, the fireflies just starting to wink on and off.

"Bookends" When I was a kid, I was in a fairly prestigious children's choir in the South. We'd travel in the summer. And I remember being on a bus and listening to Simon and Garfunkle's Greatest Hits. And, in particular, listening to this song, over and over. I can smell the bus, right now, just thinking about it. Oh yeah, that was the trip when I got food poisoning. I'm going to stop smelling the bus now.

"Jealous" Oh my God. Is there anything worse than an infatuated teenage girl? A guy with whom I was obsessed put this song on a tape he made for me and I was convinced, convinced, he was using it to tell me, in apparent musical code, that he really loved me and would totally tell me all about it if he wasn't so...jealous? I don't know. It made sense at the time. And the thing I think of? When I hear this song? Is telling my best friend at the time all about my delusion. She must have thought I was batshit crazy. And she wasn't wrong.

"Dancing Queen" I worked at a bar where this was on the jukebox. I heard it seven times a night, easily. The song makes me want to kill people. I hear it is on John McCain's top ten. There you go.

"Big Log" I heard this song when driving through the desert southwest. I was walking through an empty town filled with white adobe buildings. I think I wore turquoise. With big silver hoop earrings. I met a man there. A man with long, curly hair. He looks like Robert Plant. He is Robert Plant. Oh, wait, that's the video. Nevermind. However, I do recall "Ship of Fools" with fondness because of my horrible crush on one of the dumber guys I've ever met while I was a junior in high school. Oh, Mr. Plant, why do you make me feel so foolish?

"Total Eclipse of the Heart" I went to school in Vermont but interned in D.C. for a semester. I remember driving back to the northlands for a visit with my roommate. We'd surf radio channels for good stations. And then we lit upon this masterpiece. And WAILED! Nothing better than the windows rolled down, the radio turned all the way up and two girls with a good sense of pitch riding down the highway.

If you'll excuse me, I have to go visit iTunes.

Know-It-All

2008-08-25T13:50:00.000-07:00

I have a paralyzing fear of looking dumb. I cannot, for one second, look like I don't know what I'm doing. Unless it involves hooking rugs, plaster of paris or die with more than six sides.

I think I can trace this back to elementary school. You know, they tell you there is no such thing as a stupid question. That's a lie. Anyone who has ever sat in a classroom longer than an hour knows that is a vicious, festering lie. The third time someone asks for a repeat of the rules of a game? Stupid question. Someone asking what time recess is, more than once? Stupid question. They start early. They get worse, the older you get.

So you stop asking questions. Because you don't want to look like the person you make fun of...the person asking the stupid question. Then you become the person who has all the answers. You become the information person...the one who tells people the answers to their questions. And when you don't know the answer? You make one up.

I once told someone that, absolutely, dinosaurs lived at the same time as people. This, despite being about 6 years old and having no idea of any historical support for such a position. Why did I say this? Because I watched The Flintstones. God forbid I just answer, "I don't know."

"I don't know." It is hard to say. It is easier to say, "I'll find that out for you." But that still contains a tacit admission that you don't know what the hell is going on, what the answer might be. In fact, with an answer like that, you might not even really understand what the heck the question is even about.

Now I work in a job where looking like you know what you're doing is not only required, it is demanded. If you don't have that aura of knowledge, you are dead in the water. With a big pool of blood floating around you. To attract the sharks.

I wish I'd taken another road when I was younger. I wish I'd learned to say, "I don't know," more often. I wish I'd been able to allow myself to look at something with wonder and amazement, rather than with dry-eyed cynicism. If I had, I might be somewhere totally different. And be somewhere totally different.

Random

2008-08-25T09:38:00.001-07:00

Some thoughts...

I was walking into my office building the other day and saw the FedEx guy talking to the UPS guy. They were chatting and laughing, using lots of arm gestures and elevated eyebrows. They said goodbye and waved at each other just as I reached the door. UPS left and FedEx came in. I had to wonder if there is an entire subculture of delivery people who all know each other, hang out, talk about their deliveries, catagorize their customers based on the weight of their packages, not to mention whom they receive packages from. Is this going on?
***
I drove past Resurrection Cemetary the other day. And then I thought, that's a bit Pet Semetary-esque, isn't it? I want to end up in "Gone for Good Pastures" or "Extinguished Light Acres."
***
Behind a very odd guy at the grocery store yesterday. He had on a wedding ring, which is something I always look at there, for some reason. But he wasn't buying married person groceries. He was buying just-kicked-out-of-the-house groceries. Or I'm-living-at-the-Residence-Inn-while-my family-lives-in-another-state-because-we-can't-sell-our-house-groceries. Two six-packs of good beer. Yogurt. Vitamins. Jeans. Outdoor shoes. Five bags of assorted nuts. Deoderant. Body Wash. Four cases of soda, including Fresca. Very odd.
***
I totally judge people on the groceries they buy. I can tell if someone is married or single. I can tell if they exercise. I can tell if they can cook. I can tell if they are lonely or bored or sad or throwing a party I'd really like to go to. If I am behind you in the lane, then, yes, I am secretly judging you. And not only because you didn't put the plastic stick down after you unloaded your order onto the belt, you selfish bastard.
***
The guy whose office is next door cuts his fingernails at the office. It makes me want to beat my head against my desk.
***
If you have a 75-25% female to male ratio for your friends on Facebook, I'm not ever calling you again, jerkface.

Living Dolls

2008-08-21T04:59:00.000-07:00

There's something a little strange about women gymnasts, don't you think?

I mean, they're amazing. They are incredibly fit. They do things with their bodies that are absolutely outrageous. They work through incredible pain. They make the miraculous seem mundane. And they do it all with hairpins and hairspray and body glitter and bad blue eyeliner. Thank God they seem to have moved past that look this year.

I mean no disrespect to gymnasts. They are my second-favorite event to watch during the Olympics. And swimming was always my favorite--even before Phelps Mania swept the land. I love the floor routine and the uneven parallel bars are stunning to watch.

But I always get a feeling that I'm watching...I don't know. Animatronic dolls. And it is only the women that I feel this way about. I mean, when they win, they smile. When they lose, they smile. And they hug each other after every routine. And those hugs? They give me the chills.

I know the hugs are supposed to represent good sportsmanship. I know they are supposed to demonstrate that we are higher beings that can put things behind us. That we can be happy with someone else's accomplishments even while mourning our own failures. Or can comfort someone while exulting in our success.

But those hugs are creepy.

There is absolutely no feeling there. The gesture that should seem really warm? Seems cold. It should seem caring. It looks fake. If those hugs were people? They would be the popular middle school girls who look at you like dirt but smile at you when adults are present. The ones who are only nice to you for long enough to get you to switch lockers with them, so they can have one in the cool hallway, while you are regulated to the back hall by the gym.

When you watch male gymnasts? They hug with gusto. Swimmers? They really have to mean it to swim under the lane ropes after an 800 meter race and embrace a competitor. May-Treanor and Walsh could set up their own school to teach people how to celebrate a win with appropriate vigor, although I suspect men would only attend if the teachers continued wearing those white bikini suits.

We watch the Olympics to see the competition. Absolutely. But we also watch to see the human story. To see the excitement and joy, as well as the sorrow and disappointment. When we watch women's gymnastics, it seems like we miss a part of that. And, while I know these girls are drilled on looking good for the cameras, I wish they were also allowed to be just a bit more human.

Almost perfect

2008-08-04T14:01:00.001-07:00

Do you remember, as a child, leaving with your family for a trip? Getting up incredibly early in the morning, putting the suitcases in the back of the car, settling in with a blanket and watching the colors come alive in the morning sky? Driving through the mist and fog, seeing the sun glitter off the net of dew thrown across the grass?

I had one of those mornings today. One of those mornings that seems filled with possibilities. A morning where you can start on a country road and end up just about anywhere.

You could end up driving up through eastern Pennsylvania, over the hills and dales filled with corn and apple trees and the Pennsylvania Dutch folk. You could see horse and buggies driving along busy country roads, heading to and fro, hither and yon. You could end up driving up to a hotel in a town by the interstate, a hotel that seems nothing but boring. But turn around and you can see miles and miles of rolling hills, filled with mist and the ghosts of nearby Gettysburg.

Or you might end up driving in the dark in Texas, slowly past a slaughterhouse. You can hear the sounds of the cattle lowing for what they might know is the last time. You pull up to the local store, intending to get a container of orange juice, but when you step out of the car? The smell of cattle, and death, is so thick in the air that you clamber back in the driver's seat, start the car and drive away without looking back.

You could drive through south Georgia, past one pork barbeque joint after another, all of them with signs consisting of cartoon pigs dressed in overalls, making exclamations like "Hooo, doggies!" or "Come on in!" And when you pass by that particular crossroads, the one with "Boy's Bar-B-Q" and head toward the next one, with "Auntie's Pork BBQ" located on the southeast corner, you'll drive through miles and miles of farmland, with stands selling peaches for warm summer cobbler with cream.

Or you might end up driving through the Green Mountains, with the leaves of the trees still a magically uniform green color, no hint of the reds, yellows, oranges and browns that will pop up in the next few weeks. You could drive for miles and miles without seeing a single person, just acres and acres of green, spinkled with black and white cows, just like the ice cream label.

You could find yourself in north Florida in a driving rainstorm, four other people shoved into a tiny Japanese import with luggage falling out of the trunk. Passing by yet another Waffle House at 4 a.m. when your windshield wiper, flinging itself so viciously back and forth across the glass, finally gets fed up and simply flings itself...off...into the night, leaving the driver's side covered and recovered with big saucers of rainwater.

And you might end up on midwestern backroads, the windows open and the wind in your hair. A new cd in the player. Still early enough to skip out of work if only you can find someone to play hookey with. The temperature under 80 still, just a bit before noon. Blowing past blueberry farms and produce stands, slowing down a bit for towns made up of five houses and a church at the crossroads. The moisture in the air crinkling up the ends of your hair. The rest of the day before you, unraveling in unknown splendor.

Conspiracy

2008-07-25T05:42:00.000-07:00

Dear Cleaning Crew at my Office Building:

I very much appreciate the job you do. I'm happy that you take out the garbage, although you don't give me new garbage bags. I note that you haven't stolen any Diet Coke cans for recycling, which makes you better than the last cleaning crew. And thank you for not rifling through my desk, although that thank you might be premature. I'll wait until I get my next Visa bill.

What I like best is that you put the seats of the toilets up. Because this gives the illusion that you may have, oh, I don't know, actually cleaned the toilets. It serves the same function as the paper band on a toilet in a hotel. The seat is up in the women's bathroom and you think, "oh, the cleaning people were in here. And they cleaned the toilets!"

But you and I know differently, don't we. I see the ring at the water line. I know what you are doing, late at night, turning on the fan in there and doing a one-hitter. Don't worry, your secret is safe with me. You just go right ahead leaving the seat up.

Buckey

2008-07-24T05:39:00.001-07:00

Every morning, when I come into my office, I visit a list of websites. One of them is TomatoNation.com. I was rolling when I read the comments to this post this morning.

When I was a child, growing up about a block from Lake Erie in Cleveland, my parents used to walk me around the block for hours and hours. I knew every inch of that block. The neighbors' house next door with the two sisters and one of their husbands, all incredibly elderly, all of whom adored little girls. The golden retriever next door, the reason for which my first word was "dog." The rock on the other side of the block, that I'd insist on climbing, only to jump off with great fanfare, every single time we passed.

One day, while walking with my mother, a woman was walking, heading toward us. She was, to put it mildly, huge.

To preface this story, I should tell you that, in our house, the preferred toddler word for butt was "bucket" or "buckey."

So this woman was walking toward us. And I was probably 3. And had no filter.

"Mommy," I said, as the woman got closer and closer, and certainly within hearing distance. "That woman sure has a big belly!"

I'm sure my mother just clenched my hand and smiled at the woman, willing the words to disappear in thin air.

We passed her and I turned to look at her retreat. She made it about four steps away.

"And a big buckey!"

Living Large

2008-07-22T06:03:00.000-07:00

The capture of Radovan Karadzic was the subject of a morning email exchange with an old college friend of mine. We're both up on the various histories of former Soviet republics, as he is Latvian and well-traveled and I...well, I had sex in Tuzla once.

Anyway, I was telling my friend how beautiful it is there and how I wish I could go back to the areas in which I travelled--amazing rocky gorges and rolling green hills fading off into the distance, groves of plum trees and sheep grazing on rocky soil. The country air was amazing.

The city air? Smelled like burning garbage.

One of the most overlooked and underappreciated facets of life in advanced western cultures unaffected by war is one of the most basic...sanitation conditions. We put the garbage out. Someone comes to take it away. We drive past landfills on our way to the lake or to the country. They smell like natural gas. We have garbage disposals and dumpsters and, frankly, trashcans in our bathrooms.

Others are not so lucky.

When I was in Bosnia, there did not seem to be any sanitation system in place. There were no garbage trucks. There was no garbage day. Recycling anything but old furniture was unheard of. Unless you count taking over your neighbor's abandoned house. Roadsides were littered with all kinds of waste. Diapers. Toilet paper. Old hoses. Tires. Shoes. Everything.

The countryside was better, as there were less people. I stayed, the first time I was there, in a fairly small town that was less war-torn than most. But there were no garbage pails in the bathrooms. And sometimes there was no water in the bathrooms.

I did not plan well. I mean, I brought everything I would, or could, ever possibly need. I brought things I'd never need. But I didn't...well, plan well. As a woman. A woman in her child-bearing years.

Let's face it, I had my period somewhere with no running water and no garbage system.

This? Was not fun. It was not educational. It was not an adventure. It tested my creativity. As they say, necessity is the mother of invention. But I was not a happy girl until we got back to the big city and some semblence of garbage removal, even if there was water only one hour a day.

I won't tell you how I managed.

I will tell you that, until you have squatted on a mountain path, uphill from a medival-style farm, having searched for land mines, with black tights down around your ankles, trying to figure out what to do with your tampon...well, until you've done that, you haven't really lived.

Cross Road Blues

2008-07-21T09:42:00.000-07:00

I used to do things ahead of schedule. I used to get papers done days before they were due, so I would have enough time to proofread them, review them, move sections around and polish the entire thing. I used to pack several days before a trip. I used to set out my clothes the night before, checking to make certain I had hose with no snags. I used to make lunch for school the night before.

I don't do those things anymore. A paper is done the day it is due, frequently overnighted to wherever it needs to go. I run to the grocery store across the street, in order to buy some L'eggs for the office. Lunch is a cup 'o soup from my drawer. Packing is done the day I leave town.

While the long, slow slide into procrastination has taken place in my actions, I admit that I've always been a procrastinator when it comes to decision-making. I suppose I'm usually of the "if you wait long enough, you won't have to make a decision" school of thought. If I was worried about telling my father about the ding in his car, and I waited long enough, I probably wasn't going to have to tell him. If I didn't have a good idea of what to do after college, something would come up. If I really didn't want to be dating that guy much, if I waited long enough, that would probably take care of itself, too.

I'm trying to motivate myself to do better. I'm approaching a crossroad in my life--slowly but surely I can see the yellow sign approaching as I crest the hill. Tom Hanks is standing there, still trying to figure out which road to take, after getting back from his desert island. I don't plan to wait there that long.

But, in order to make those decisions, take those actions that need taking, I need to be a bit more courageous. I've been a bit of a chicken about life over...well, for much of my life. I rarely take stands when it comes to...well, when it comes to doing the best for myself and for others personally. I've sat back and let things happen, rather than making things happen. And that needs to stop. Even if the things I make happen aren't the things I want to happen.

So I need to get a little courage. I need to be able to let go of the rope when it swings out over the pond. I need to take my foot off the clutch and hit the gas. I need to look into myself and 'fess up to the things that need to be admitted...and then admit them to others.

Time to pick a direction.

Murder, Inc.

2008-07-09T09:31:00.001-07:00

When I was a kid, I used to plot crimes.

I have no idea when I first started creating these fantasy projects in my brain. Probably the first time I read about the perfect murder having been committed with an icicle. The murder weapon melts, get it? Sigh.

There was one long summer when I was obsessed with crime. I spent long hours picking out the houses in my neighborhood that I would burgle. I'd scout out locations for hiding caches of weapons or jewels. I would eyeball areas of overgrowth for body dump spots. I spent a lot of time playing Clue, in order to learn all about various weapons.

I never said my research methods were fool-proof.

In reading the various true crime books about Charles Manson, the Son of Sam and others, as well as the random Agatha Christie picked up at the bargain bin at the libarary, it seemed as though there were some simple rules for criminals to follow:

1) Work alone. Don't bring your buddy or your boyfriend or your mom. They have big mouths. They'll end up talking and sending you to the Big House. And I don't mean the stadium in Ann Arbor.

2) Never let anyone see your face. I spent an entire summer avoiding cameras at pool parties and barbeques in my preparation for entering a life of crime. My mother, I'm sure, just thought I was going through "that awkward stage."

3) Always pick your victims at random. This was probably the most important rule. The less contact you have with the victim, the less of a reason police would have to connect you with them. Of course, this limited my potential pool of robbery/crime victims to a paltry few, since I couldn't ride a bike and knew pretty much everyone in the neighborhood.

4) Avoid looking for messages in albums by the Beatles.

I began to realize how difficult the perfect crime would be. I learned about fingerprints and trace evidence, footprints and hair samples. I started walking around in my father's shoes, with socks stuffed in the toes, just for practice. I'm surprised I didn't end up at the kiddie shrink.

I spent so much time plotting that, by the time I'd crafted the perfect crime in my head, it was time to go back to school, depriving me of the precious hours I'd need to do things like digging large holes in the woods to store stacks of money. And, by the end of the summer, I'd started reading books about the occult and started haranging my mother to buy red, black and purple candles so I could start practicing witchcraft.

The neighborhood was safe, for a time.

Bottle Rockets

2008-07-03T09:50:00.000-07:00

My family is from Ohio. Two places in Ohio. My mom grew up near the city. The actual city, Cleveland. Not the one in the middle or the one in Kentucky. We visited my grandparents there fairly regularly, over the years. I knew their house and was fairly comfortable there. From the Jacques Cousteau books in my uncle's room to the seafoam green bathroom with the etched glass shower doors. I knew where the cereal was kept, where Uncle Robert left the candy corn and how to hide in the attic.

My father was from elsewhere. Not too far, about an hour and a half. On the outskirts of a steel town near Pennsylvania. A mafia town. A football town. A river wound through his neighborhood and you could walk to both the high school and the Dairy Queen within five minutes.

His family was all from that area. His grandparents owned a big old house...the type of house Neil Simon movies in the 40's take place. They lived there and raised their children there. And one of their children raised her children there. Aunt Marg.

Marg and Joe lived in that house for a long, long time. We'd go visit on occasion, mentally preparing ourselves to sit in the tiniest kitchen imaginable. Getting ready for the inevitable political arguments between my red-headed second cousin and, well, pretty much everyone else. Looking forward to really good food, excellent turkey on Thanksgiving, wonderful mashed potatoes and the ever-popular cranberry chutney, before chutney was fashionable.

I can remember the time we were all there, most of the cousins. I think I may have been the only grandchild on scene. Marg took us to the basement and showed us the markings on the rafters. Whenever they had family gatherings, everyone would go to the basement and sign their names in a new spot, marking the date as a special occasion. I think we signed our names that day. I think that was the only day I did.

I can't help but think of that home in eastern Ohio as the family home, the place where people gathered. There were many summer nights spent in the backyard, picking roses from the arbor, running around and capturing fireflies.

There was a July 4th that we spent there, although I cannot remember the year. I was young enough to think that running through the neighborhood in the dark was great fun, and old enough to be out in the dark alone. But you could do that then, run in the dark in a small town alone. Do people do that anymore? I was probably twelve or thirteen.

People in that small town all had their own fireworks, bought during weekend trips to Indiana, and shot them off throughout the night. I can still see the bottlerockets shooting off between the trees into the sky. The lights were flickering through the leaves of the trees, huge and overhanging the yards of the houses. I remember thinking that the light cast by the falling fireworks must have been what it was like in the war, in Vietnam, when flares would come down from the sky, red and white and shimmering. I remember wondering how something so beautiful could be so frightening at the same time.

The house was sold after my aunt and uncle moved to New York to be with their grandchildren. They both died. We have no ties to that town now, other than my memories of holidays, spent on porches and in kitchens and on couches, watching football.

But when I watch the fireworks this year, for the 4th, I will imagine myself back there, running through backyards, jumping through hedges, dodging friends in neverending games of tag. And watching bottle rockets fade into darkness in eastern Ohio.

If I Knew Then...

2008-07-01T05:19:00.001-07:00

People think I have a good memory. I don't. Not really. There are certain events I can recall, places I can remember, things that I did. But the only reason I seem to remember things? Is because I write them down.

I've kept a journal since I was about 12. And I still have them all. Books with puffy, fabric covers. Sketch books with unlined paper. Composition books. No paragraph markings usually. A kinder, gentler version of Kevin Spacey's nutcase journals in Seven. I never vomited on anyone in the subway, either.

I went to visit my hometown this weekend and started thinking about summers in college. And I could not, for the life of me, remember what I'd done the summer between my sophomore and junior year in college. I couldn't remember if my parents were living in New Jersey or Ohio. I couldn't remember if I worked at the Civic Center or if I was hostessing. I couldn't remember who I hung out with and how I spent my time.

So, when all else failed, I went to the journals.

Last night, paging through them in order to jog my memory, I came upon some entries from college.

I was really stupid.

All these entries about boys I liked but was afraid to tell. Entries about boys I hung out with constantly but who hooked up with other girls. Boys I obsessed about who didn't give me the time of day.

My senior year, I was well and truly obsessed. He was the ying to my yang, the black to my white, the Brendan to my Brenda. But not in the creepy, incestuous way. Maybe, had it worked, we would have ended up hating each other for that reason that we were too alike. But then, it was perfect.

I was convinced that it would never work. I was overweight, as only college girls can get overweight. He liked little ditzy cheerleader types, in my mind, most likely because he talked a really big game without ever showing any results. We were just friends and that would be enough. And it was. He graduated and moved to away. I went on to more school. We've lost track of each other now, which makes me sad.

So I'm reading this journal, all about how he's calling me at 2 a.m. to chat. How he would make efforts to come sit next to me. How we'd be out together. And how he was in the bar, playing with my earring...

Huh? Wait, what? Playing with my earring? In a bar? Like, up in my personal space and all? In front of people?

I'm sitting on the floor of my bedroom, surrounded by these books, and lightening strikes.

My God. I totally could have gotten laid.

Dumb. I was so very dumb.

So I closed the book and put it away and crawled into bed, secure in the knowledge that the summer between sophomore and junior year was the really cold and wet summer when I sold pool passes at the Civic Center.

And also knowing that, while I may have missed an opportunity, it was probably one I was better off missing. Because his friendship was worth more than the sex ever could have.

I hope.

Five Houses Down

2008-06-27T05:03:00.000-07:00

I saw a ghost the other day.

I was driving through a nice part of town, a part of town with wide, tree-lined streets and houses set well back on nicely-trimmed lawns. Everyone drives 25 mph and has a car manufactured within the last five years. All the kids go to college and all the dogs get groomed religiously, although few go to church.

A girl was walking down the street. She was probably...ten, maybe twelve. Long hair. Jeans ending at the knee. A blouse with three-quarter sleeves. She looked like she had freckles. She looked like she probably kicked boys in the shins, snuck cigarettes behind the dumpster at school, wore eyeshadow two years before everyone else. She looked like she had an older sister who got into trouble and taught her younger sister everything she knew. She looked like she had a hyperactive younger brother that had to sit in the hallway a lot in school.

In short, she looked like my best friend from 4th grade.

Erin (I won't give her last name in case she Googles herself) lived down the street from me from third grade until 5th or 6th grade, when her parents got divorced and her mom moved away to get remarried. She had an older sister, a younger brother, a parakeet and a wealth of disfunction, much of which she took out on her long-suffering best friend. Me.

Erin was, to put it bluntly, a bitch.

We frequently were a group of three: Erin, me and our friend, Kelly (whose name I really am changing). Kelly lived further away and required a mom to drive her to our houses to play, at least until she got old enough to ride her bike that far. Erin used Kelly in efficient fashion--to put me in my place. If she was mad at me, Kelly was invited over and I was exiled. If she wanted to make me nervous, Kelly would be invited to spend the night, but not me. Kelly frequently got the friendship pins that I was denied. They'd ride bikes together, leaving me at home.

I remember one instance vividly, when Erin kicked me off her canopy bed in the middle of some board game, telling me I was fat and that I should go home. I think I walked home in tears that day. And probably went back the next day for more.

When Kelly and I got into the "gifted" program, notable mostly in our school for getting to take cool trips and learning how to play chess, Erin mocked both of us. With hindsight, I know that's because she wasn't asked to join. When she was, the next year, it automatically became the coolest, most exciting and magical group in the entire world, if not the universe.

As we got older, our worlds expanded a bit. I joined a swim team, which meant I was no longer at her mercy for great swaths of summer. Plus, I could do something physically better than her, which intimidated her a bit, I think. We got into different activities. She did horseback riding, I think, and I started getting more involved in music.

By the time her parents were getting divorced, we weren't as close as we used to be. She moved to a town about twenty minutes away and we rarely saw each other after that. At the time, I seriously wondered if our world was ending--our world of reading books in the den, making forts in the woods, playing in the creek, playing basketball on roller skates in Tommy's driveway, crawling through the sewer system in our subdivision. And it was. But mostly because we were growing up, not because she moved away.

Now, as I look back, I realize that her moving away was one of the best things that ever happened to me. If we'd gone on to high school together, I would have constantly been worrying about what Erin thought. Will she be mean to me if I win this award? Will she hate me if I get the part in the play? Will she speak to me if I beat her grade?

Instead, I have really good memories of growing up, some with her and some without her. I remember getting stuck in the mud in the creek next to her house and our friend Amanda's dad coming to rescue me. I remember waving at Tommy and Andy from beneath the grating in Tommy's yard when we'd run through the maze of tunnels making up the drainage system in the neighborhood. I remember Halloweens and Christmases and Kelly's brother's room, painted to look like Pink Floyd's The Wall album cover.

I don't remember the crying and the fights and the not speaking. At least, not much. And I think of Erin somewhat fondly, at least, for making me into the person I am today. A person who took that kind of treatment. But who won't take it much any more.

NOTICE

2008-06-26T05:58:00.000-07:00

Today is being cancelled due to lack of interest.

The first notice of the problem took place at approximately 5:00, when the alarm went into "snooze" mode and remained there for approximately 36 minutes.

Continuing difficulties were noticed during the following events: attempted exercise, locating clothing for the day, showering, making the bed and finding shoes. Final status was assumed upon the location of thrown-up hair balls on cream-colored carpet at approximately 7:02 a.m.

In the event that the system difficulties continue, tomorrow may also be at risk. Check your local stations for updates on this crisis.

Come On Down and Meet Your Maker

2008-06-25T05:08:00.001-07:00

Every year, about this time, I get a sudden metaphorical itch between my shoulder blades. There's a feeling like something should be happening, something major, something earth-shattering and utterly life-changing. As though the world as we know it stands on a precipise, just waiting to topple over.

And then I think to myself, "Oh, yeah, isn't it time for Captain Trips?"

I read The Stand by Stephen King almost every year about this time. I don't always even read all of it. I'll read the beginning. I'll read the end. I'll read one particular storyline through. I usually skip the parts about Lloyd.

And every year, after finishing the book, I make a plan. The post-apocolyptic plan.

I have a place to go in the event of a world-wide plague that kills off 99.9% of the population. I have a house all picked out, right on the shore. It is built like a bunker and even has a generator or two. There's a fireplace when it is cold and a beach when it is warm and a place to plant vegetables and a place to keep a horse, if necessary. It is close enough to a big town and closer to some small towns. I could store all kinds of necessities there in the various rooms of the warren-like basement. And, since it is a summer house, there would be few of the dearly departed around the area that I'd have to worry about running into.

I know how I'd get there. I have vehicles picked out to get to the place. I'd stop at the National Guard bunker on the way out of town in order to stock up on guns and ammo, not that I couldn't just loot the ol' Gander Mountain on the way out of town. I know where the good camping places are, so I could stock up on dehydrated food. And I'd be close to an unending water source.

I've spent hours upon hours since the age of 11, planning for the eventuality of the summer plague outlined in King's book. I've figured out how to strap the family pet to the back of a motor scooter, just in case. I know which books I'd take and which I'd leave behind. I have an envelope of photos that I could just grab and go, if necessary.

One might even say that I'm obsessed.

Of course, it has never even crossed my mind that I might not be one of the people who survives. What fun would that be?

Practicality

2008-06-19T05:27:00.000-07:00

I cried in my car this morning.

I remember, when my dad died, one of the women with whom I worked gave me a box of kleenex and said, "Keep this in your car. You'll need it." And she was right.

The car is a very cathartic, yet practical, place to cry. You can be sobbing your heart out about a myriad of issues: a dead relative, a lost job, a broken heart, the fact that you're about to turn 36 years old and have absolutely nothing to show for it. You have the illusion of privacy. And yet, you can still be out, moving around, getting somewhere, getting something accomplished. Even when you're miserable, you can still be moving from one place to another, driving through an ATM, going to work, driving to school.

Even when we can't eliminate misery from our lives, at least we can still live our lives while experiencing misery.

Yet Another Query...

2008-06-16T09:37:00.000-07:00

Why is it that, when I go to someplace nice, like a lovely restaurant, a new and fancy bar, or, perhaps, a nice wedding, I still always manage to sit at the table discussing bestiality and anal probes?

Good Wishes

2008-06-15T10:04:00.000-07:00

There have been a number of weddings I've been to in my past that I wasn't particularly excited about, for one reason or another. Because I had to wear a hi-lo dress in a bright blue shade that made me look like Violet from "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" after the blueberry gum. Because someone wanted me to sing "Sunrise/Sunset" and I didn't have an accompaniest and I'd been sick for about a week beforehand. Because I looked reaaaaaalllllly fat in that one bridesmaid dress.

Sometimes I wasn't looking forward to the wedding because I wasn't going to know anyone there. Sometimes it was because I didn't think the couple was a good match. Sometimes it was because I knew that there was no way there was ever going to be a wedding involving me and whatever sad sack I'd drafted into going as my date. Sometimes it was because I knew whoever my date was was never going to ask me to be in a wedding with him.

My friend got married yesterday. The weather was perfect. The sun, which has been hiding behind a drape of grey the likes of which hasn't been seen in these parts in years, came out for the entire day. The ground, saturated with water that hadn't yet drained into the overflowing rivers around here, actually dried out enough for the women to wear heels and not sink into the mud. The setting was gorgeous, the sunset was beautiful and the mosquitos were held at bay.

This was a wedding where everyone was happy. This was a wedding where people wanted to stay, to talk, to hang out and share stories. Not only was this an event that joined two people, it was a really good party. And I'm relatively certain that the bride knows there are few compliments higher than that--to have thrown a really good party.

I wish many things for the couple: health and happiness, wealth and wisdom, years of joy in all of its forms and the strength to deal with life when it isn't always joyous. And I hope that all of their days are as filled with laughter and fun and stories and memories as their wedding day was.

And that they always have someone available to make that last beer run of the night.

Hammer and Sickle

2008-06-05T08:01:00.000-07:00

There are workers outside tearing up every bush, flower and growing thing withing ten feet of my building.

Someone is chiseling away at...something nearby. It sounds like Andy Dufresne behind the Farrah poster.

They "fixed" the bathroom yesterday and it smells like someone died.

The light fixture in the hallway is flickering and I'm expecting the girl from "The Grudge" to appear at any moment.

The light is out in the bathroom in the handicapped stall.

One of the printers is broken and in pieces.

I'm living in a Soviet republic circa 1983.

Yet Another Sign I Have No Life

2008-06-05T05:59:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, over drinks, a group of friends discussed the dynamics of mass texting. When you're sitting alone in a bar, waiting for someone to show up, and you send a text to everyone in your address book: "Where are you? I'm tired of drinking alone." And then you wait for some responses from whoever might be in the area and in the mood for a beer.

"You always answer the text. Like, right away," my friend says to me. "Even if you're someplace crazy. Like, in another state."

"Yeah, you text back, like, crazy fast," another guy said. "I've barely finished texting when I get a response back from you."

Yes, that's all true. Because I do nothing else but stare at my phone all day, willing it to chime to let me know that, yes, someone out there is thinking about me, even though I'm just one more name on their list of people to drink with. BECAUSE I HAVE NO LIFE!!!

That's all, carry on. I have to get back to monitoring my phone.

Blowin' in the Wind

2008-06-04T05:04:00.000-07:00

A boy just asked a friend of mine about me. Well, he's a guy, technically. I mean, who says, "I met a man the other night?" I don't refer to them as "men." They're guys, or dudes, or idiots. But I digress.

So he asked about me. I can understand that, the feeling out about someone else's potential landmines, crazy ex's and other issues. So, in the interest of full(ly partial) disclosure, here's a self-compiled list of what I might consider to be red flags for someone entering into a relationship with me:

1) I wear heels. If you have a complex about being short, don't hang out with me.

2) I may know more about John Wayne movies than you do. Don't let this make you feel like less of a man. I also probably know more about WWII movies in general, as well as anything about the Civil War. And I'm not afraid to argue about it.

3) I won't talk to you in a movie theatre, not even during the previews. Comments are allowed only between previews.

4) I won't rub your feet.

5) I will probably only go to adventurous restaurants for the first few months of our relationship. Then I will tell you that I really don't like fish/curry/MSG/meat/salt/or dairy.

6) I don't cook meat. In my family, the man grills. Even in snow.

7) I may watch more football than you. I will probably also watch more college basketball. But I refuse to watch Ultimate Fighting unless I'm drunk.

8) No brown liquor allowed in the house.

9) I exert control over the remote.

10) I have guy friends. Get over it.

11) My guy friends are assholes and will probably be mean to you. Get over it.

12) If you golf, I will insist on going. If you don't, I will go with my guy friends. You should get over that, too.

13) I'm still friends with ex's. However, they are ex's. So don't panic.

14) I go to bed early and wake up early.

15) I hate to be late. To anything.

16) I will make you return phone calls you don't want to return.

17) I have a cat. She will sit on you and lick your nose in the morning. I don't mind if you pick her up and toss her on the floor but if you kick her, we're done.

18) I hate yard work. And chores. A house will be clean but never spotless. Unless you want to hire a cleaning lady. An idea I fully endorse.

19) If we don't agree on politics, we shouldn't discuss them at all.

20) If you wear a hat in a restaurant and it is later than 10 a.m., I'll never be seen in public with you again.

Random Thoughts

2008-05-28T09:20:00.001-07:00

At the grocery store this weekend, I saw a dude in full biker regalia--leathers, American flag headscarf, steel-toed boots--in the pet aisle, carefully selecting 9-Lives flavors for his cat.

* * *

Never tell your mother that you have a sexually transmitteed disease. Mostly because she will get drunk and tell her friends and your brother all about it one night before going to a party and discussing American Idol for three hours straight with her ex-husband.

* * *

I love "The Paper" on MTV. I hardly ever watch the channel anymore, mostly because I've seen every Top Model marathon already and I hate those stupid Randy Jackson dance shows. But I love Amanda and hate Alex and...God! It is just like being back in high school! In a good way! Where I don't actually have to go back!

* * *

I just pulled out my prom photos. My God, what was I thinking? Although the reality isn't as bad as the memory. I recall the dress being really short in the front and long in the back. It actually differs by about a foot, not the two-and-a-half-feet I recall. But the hair. The hair is so sad. I really did look like a soccer mom. I look younger now than I did then. And why didn't I wear heels? I look like a stumpy fool! And I'm 5'9"!

* * *

Why is it that, once you get the phone with the slide-out keyboard, people stop texting?

Possibility

2008-05-18T13:52:00.001-07:00

Is there anything so full of promise as a warm spring evening in May? The sun starts to set. The streetlamps switch on, creating circles of light and life beneath them. The night ahead seems endless and awash in possibilities.

You could end up driving aimlessly, with the windows rolled down and the radio on full blast, driving to the beach with your two best friends, to end up sitting on rocks and watching the waves until dawn.

Or you could sit in front of the warm glow of the television, watching the last few minutes of the Steven King miniseries. Your friends tumble through the front door like puppies anxious for their first trip outside. "Time for the Peanut Barrel!" they cry.

You might sneak out of your house after your parents fall asleep, to meet a boy and drive down to the tennis courts to spend what simulatiously feels like days and minutes solving the world's problems.

A dance might be going on somewhere, where you dance with the guy you've had a crush on all year, before running off with your friends to laugh about it in the bathroom.

You might simply sit on your deck, watching the neighbors drive by, eavesdropping on their conversations, their personal dramas, peeking into their lives.

Or you might end up in an art gallery, listening to music and drinking wine, watching the world pass by outside. The the afternoon glow turns into dusk, then full dark, while the laughter of friends surrounds you.

On a warm evening in May, almost anything is possible.

Questions

2008-05-12T04:53:00.000-07:00

Who are you people? Where do you come from? Do you live under a rock? Do you have no sense of common decency? Were you raised by wolves in a far Romanian forest, forced to eat raw meat and drink stagnant water? Are you not literate? Can you not function in modern-day society? Can you not interpret the international signal language, which tells us which bathroom is which and things not to do in public? Have you been imprisoned in an Austrian man's basement, forced to have sex with him and have his children for the past eighteen years and, as a result, remain ignorant of common social mores of the twenty-first century?

Does someone really have to sit down and tell you NOT TO TALK ON YOUR CELLPHONE DURING THE FIRST SHOT WE SEE OF IRON MAN FLYING AROUND LOS ANGELES, all of which I missed because I was so overcome with hate and anger directed toward you at such a degree I'm surprised you didn't immediately burst into flames and disintegrate?

And why do you always have to come sit next to me?

The Man at the End of the Bar

2008-05-02T04:59:00.000-07:00

I've never been one for lust at first sight. Not really. Oh, there are guys, men, that I'll see and think, "Wow!" And then he'll straighten his cuffs in such a way that I realize that, in fact, he is gay and, therefore, handsome in a you'll-never-get-your-hands-on-this kind of way. Usually, the reason I find guys attractive is because they're funny and smart and don't look like Scotty Pippen, the ugliest man in America.

I met some friends for a drink last night at an upscale watering hole in town. I was really tired, beat down from a long week and an evening on the golf course. During which in rained. So, not only did I look a little bruised under the eyes, but my hair had seen better days. I bought a beer and sat down. Then he walked in.

He was beautiful. Simply beautiful. Brad-Pitt-knee-shakingly beautiful. Blond, curly hair pulled into a short ponytail. Tan. Golden beard--not like a Grizzly Adams beard. More like Don Johnson. He had the look I thought I got over in college. Apparently not.

He looked like he still had California sand between his toes. Like his skin would taste slightly of sea salt. He'd smell of limes and coconut and fresh breeze. He looked like Richard Branson, the guy who owns Virgin Atlantic, aspires to look. He looked like he had a tan line around his ankle, where he secured the line to his surfboard.

I don't know where he came from. I want to think he was drinking gin and tonics. He polished his silver with his napkin, making me think he worked in the business. He ordered pork tenderloin, I think, with fresh asparagus, and drank a glass of nice white wine with dinner. He had two earrings and a few string bracelets. He sat in such a way that the lamp in the parking lot behind him made his hair light up from behind, like a halo. Or a corona.

A woman came to join him. They knew each other but I don't think they were together. I thought about going to talk to him. And then I thought better of it. So I left.

I thought I'd learned to take a chance once in a while, but I guess I haven't quite gotten there yet.

Best Darn Feeling in the Whole World

2008-04-25T10:30:00.000-07:00

You don't know until just before it happens. You could be anywhere: a snowy street corner, a deck on a rainy fall evening, sitting on a couch in a dark basement, in a garage. There's tension. There's a...a look. And then, suddenly, you know it is coming.

That first kiss.

A first kiss with someone is always exciting, no matter how good or bad the person might be at doing the actual kissing part. The anticipation, really, is the thing. The wondering if...well, if you'll fit together, the way you thought you might. The figuring out which way to tilt. The surrepticious spitting out of gum when they aren't looking. Or swallowing it if they are. The reading of all of the non-verbal cues that tells you whether or not this...is actually going to happen.

I love first kisses. Frequently to the detriment of second kisses. I love thinking about whether they're going to happen with someone. Picturing how they might happen. Rerunning them in my mind. I can remember my first kiss ever. I even remember the date.

Eventually, however, you get to the point where, when you're seeing someone, there isn't any mystery as to whether or not their going to kiss you. And then some of that magic disappears.

Maybe that's why I'm still not married.

A Good Dad Story

2008-04-12T08:42:00.000-07:00

I'm trying to think of a good dad story to tell you. Something that would encapsulate the person that my dad was, show his good points and bad ones. Something involving Fritos and peanut butter, our favorite snack.

Like the time we went to Michigan for a football game and he told me the story of the guy drinking 20 pitchers of beer on his birthday, only to throw up in the 21st pitcher, then drink it.

Or the time we played in the amputee golf outing and I was just playing horrible. But I made the last, really long putt and he was so proud of me.

When I used to go down to the golf course on Saturday afternoons and I'd have a beer with him before we'd go out to play nine. Or when he'd coach my soccer team when I was little.

Or when I got the car stuck in a snow drift in high school and he came to dig me out? Then I ran into the same drift again and he swore like lightening? Or when I crashed my mom's car and ran home. He told her to get me a paper bag because I was hyperventilating. So she runs into the living room with...a grocery bag. And he and I just started laughing, hyperventilation cured.

When he left his keys in a Mexican hotel room.

When we'd randomly call his old friends from college and he'd make me ask for them on the phone.

When he came to my graduation in Vermont.

When he asked me on the phone after awaking from a coma if I still ate at Bambinelli's, somewhere we hadn't eaten in ten years or more.

When he gamely walked through Greece and Italy with no legs.

When I told him I'd bought several cases of beer on his Mobil card. And he was okay with it.

When he came home from the fire at his plant in Texas, with paint all over his college letterman's jacket. And when I got him a replacement, years later.

When he'd tell the story of how he lost his class ring and his fraternity pin.

When I thought Denny's was named after him.

I love you, Daddy.

Easter

2008-03-23T09:39:00.001-07:00

I loathe Peeps. They are the bane of mankind. They are a sign of the apocolypse. And the fact that they are associated with a religious holiday? One of renewal and rebirth? Is a perversion of faith.

On the other hand, Cadbury does its best to overcome the unholiness of Peeps. Cream Eggs are the best things ever. And the chocolate candy covered eggs aren't bad, either.

The coconut nest, with jelly bean eggs, is also a perennial favorite. As long as there are no black eggs.

I saw a bag of black jelly beans yesterday. Unholy.

But they were countered by coconut filled Hershey Kisses.

Who knew the candy aisle was the newest battleground between good and evil?

Chemistry

2008-03-23T09:33:00.000-07:00

Chemistry is such a strange thing. Some times you have it. Some times you don't. Sometimes it grows. Sometimes it disappears. Or hibernates, only to burst into the open at inappropriate times.

Can chemistry be forced? Can you make yourself want something so much that you fake yourself into it? I mean, you can meet someone. Someone you think is absolutely perfect for you. They're considerate. Mostly, anyway. They're kind. They are good parents or children or friends. They're employed. They laugh. They like the same things you do...the same restaurants, bars, bowling alleys, parks, hiking trails, whatever.

But...something just...isn't there. There's no spark. There's no...connectivity. There's an invisible barrier though which that magic just can't get through. Sometimes, the barrier is there from the start. Sometimes, it appears later, like a garage door closing.

Can you act like the barrier isn't there? Can you do that to the point where there isn't a barrier at all? Just because you know that person is really good for you?

Stay-At-Home Mom

2008-03-18T08:06:00.000-07:00

Remember a year and a half ago? When I removed staples from my friends' floor? Because they were getting their hardwoods refinished?

So I'm at the bar about a month ago. Because, honestly? Where else would I go? I'm sitting there with Linda and Jocelyn. This is Jocelyn's first time really going out since she had her first child. She keeps saying, "I have to be home by 9:30." It is about 11 by this time.

There's a table of guys across the way. They aren't bad-looking. One's kind of cute.

Jocelyn, in an effort to recapture her misspent youth, calls the guy over. And he comes. A wealth of uncomfortable conversation ensues. However, he is cute. And funny. And employed. And decently dressed. And not employed in law enforcement. All the things I'm currently looking for in a man.

And he seems...into me, strangely enough. It had been so long since someone had actually chatted me up in a bar, I almost didn't know what to do. Or how to act.

He asked what we did for a living. We go around the table, giving answers. I thought Jocelyn might shrivel up and die when forced to admit that she is a stay-at-home mom. I had to give her credit. I was waiting for "personal shopper" or "set designer" to pop out of her mouth. I wouldn't have pimped her out. I don't think.

So we ask what he does. He owns a floor-finishing company.

Jocelyn's eyes get wide. "You own *insert name of company*?"
"Yeah," he answers.
"You did our floors. Over at *insert address*."
"Oh yeah!"
"She ripped up those staples," she says, pointing at me.
We laugh.
"Hey," Jocelyn says, drinking her overpriced beer. "You live with your girlfriend, don't you?"
"Uh, no," the guy says, clearly uncomfortable.
"Yeah, yeah you do. You live at *insert address* with her. My husband drives by your house all the time."

So not only has she outed herself and her husband as crazy stalkers of their floor guy, she has effectively thrown a wrench into any further conversation I could possibly have with this guy.

The conversation winds down and he leaves. Obviously. No numbers exchanged. No meaningful looks exchanged.

He doesn't live with his girlfriend, we later learned, although he may still be dating her.

He may, however, have his own stay-at-home mom parked across the street, watching every move he makes.

Wandering

2008-03-18T04:57:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling really distracted these days. I don't really know why. Like I need to make some decisions in my life. Where I'm going. What I'm doing. For how long. Where I'm going to do the things I'm going to do. Whether I can be happy doing what I'm doing.

I have a hard time concentrating on any one thing for any period of time. When I'm on the phone with friends, I'm thinking of a million things I should be doing. I wake up in the middle of the night and make lists of things I need to do when I wake up. And, when I wake up, I'm too busy to do them.

My friend's mom copes with this by thinking of current stars, then matching them with old, possibly dead, celebrities that they'll look like in the future. Britney Spears=Judy Garland. Zac Efron=Tony Curtis. That brings her inner peace.

Instead, I distract myself with thoughts of what I could be doing, rather than what I should be doing. I think of moving to the desert. Opening a bakery. Sleeping under the stars in a black, black sky. Watching sunsets and sunrises with religious intensity. Actually going outside for longer than it takes to get from my office door to my car between the months of November and May. Watching flowers open and close with the sun.

I distract myself with thoughts of people I knew. Things of done. Places I've gone. I think of the night I kissed that boy in the middle of the street. The one who wanted me to stay, even though I couldn't. I think about what would have happened if I'd been a little bit braver, a little more sure of myself, a little less nice.

I need to stop distracting myself. I need to either live this life or make a new one.

Sunday Morning

2008-03-16T13:30:00.000-07:00

I saw this postcard on Post Secret.

It isn't mine.

But it could be.

The Elephant in the Room

2008-03-15T09:12:00.000-07:00

I visited an old friend of mine from school last week. The last time I saw her, she was just getting the hang of nursing her newborn baby girl. This time, we picked up that little girl from school while the little brother I'm not sure I knew she had slept in the car seat beside me. The years pass quickly.

We hung out under the bright western sun, digging our feet into the sand, surrounded by cacti in the backyard. The dog stuck his head under my skirt, as dogs do. A hummingbird darted around the flowers that would only be out for a week or two before the heat got too violent for them and they wilted away into memory.

Our conversation covered years. The night the power went out and she went to the hotel with her shady boyfriend. The fact that no one knows where said shady boyfriend is these days. The fates of all the dogs we'd had during school, that the dumbest of them all is apparently the only survivor. Who has had children. Who ran into who at the Ikea in San Diego. Trying to remember the name of the hot guy with the homely girlfriend who never spoke to anyone until the last month of school, when they broke up.

We talked about our jobs, moving from office to office. Whether our decisions were right or not so much. Whether we had regrets going to school for so long and having so little, or so much, to show for it. Whether anyone has made it big, or busted badly.

I asked about her family, her parents, her kids, her brother. We talked about my mom and dad.

The entire time I was there, not once, did she ask if I was seeing anyone. Not once.

And this isn't the first time this has happened. I must admit that it is rare for my friends to ask this question. Many of them know I won't really provide much information, even if they do ask. And, sometimes, you just have to ask at the right time. But she didn't ask at all.

I haven't quite figured out why. I've narrowed it down to a few options:

1) She, and all the other people I went to school with, have decided I'm gay. They don't want to know it and, therefore, are carefully avoiding any conversation having to do with sexuality and/or dating with me. They know I'm liberal, so...who knows?

2) They think I can't get a date. They don't want to bring up reminders of my painful dateless status, much like you won't mention to the poor girl in the cubicle next to you that she has really bad breath. You don't want to embarrass her any more than she already is.

3) I'm Morrissey. Or Mother Theresa. Or Jon Brennan from Real World Los Angeles. No sex for me.

4) I've officially passed the age where someone can politely ask that kind of question anymore.

The funny thing is, had she asked? I probably would have told her way more than anyone else. Because there are some things you can only tell people that have known you forever and whom you only see evey so often. They don't judge you, or at least not as harshly. They're pretty much always on your side. And they automatically hate the jerk that dumped you so unceremoniously, because they never had the misfortune of meeting him.

Good Deed

2008-03-13T05:42:00.000-07:00

I found a dog yesterday. A little Schnauzer. He ran across the street when I turned down the access road by my condo.

I stopped the car, turned on my hazard lights and got out. He sat there, looking at me. I talked to him a bit, as I walked up to him. He just looked at me with big liquid eyes. He shivered in the cold. So I picked him up.

I couldn't believe he let me, but I did. And I put him in the car. I don't think he rides in the car too much. He slid all over the seat as I drove around the neighborhood, looking for someone who looked like they might be looking for a dog. But then I turned on the seat warmer. He stopped shivering.

I ended up taking him to the fire station around the corner. They were incredibly nice about the whole thing. They called the animal shelter, agreed to keep the dog, went out with me to the car to get him. The dog, at that point, really liked the heated seats and did NOT want to get out. We corralled him and I carried him into the station.

He really started shivering when we got inside. It wasn't from the cold. He was terrified.

I cried when I drove away.

During the day, I stopped at the shelter to ask if I could take his picture to post around my neighborhood. He is clearly someone's much-loved pet. His ears were cropped, his coat trimmed. It looked like he just slipped his leash and ran right off. The girl at the desk gave me her name and told me to ask specifically for her, since they didn't usually give people information on the dogs they turn in, for some reason.

I spent much of the day trying to figure out whether my cat would get along with this dog. Whether I could keep them seperate and introduce them to each other gradually. Whether I could get home at lunch to walk him. Whether I knew anyone who could give him a good home.

I called again, later in the afternoon. She told me that he never even made it into the shelter, that the owners called and they were told to pick him up at the fire station. So he made it home safe.

I don't know whether to be happy or disappointed.

The West

2008-03-09T08:46:00.000-07:00

I just came back from Arizona. I've never been before. I almost didn't come back. I loved all of it. I loved the lack of trees but the proliferation of cacti. I loved the rocks and dirt and absence of mud. I loved the dry wind, the dry air and my dry sinuses. I loved the way the margaritas taste a little bit tangier, the beer a slight bit wheatier.

I got lucky on the planes there, for the most part. No one next to me on the first flight. But the clouds kept me from seeing the ground. And Denver? From the east? Is mighty flat. And boring. And then, all of a sudden? There's a airport! Right there! In the middle of BFE. I remember reading about this airport when it opened. No one got their luggage. The baggage carosels never worked right. I hoped that they'd gotten things straightened out in the interim, because every liquid I owned was in my checked baggage, down to hand lotion and chapstick. Because it resembles plastique. Or something.

Flying to Phoenix, I couldn't see the ground--someone else had the window seat. But, on the way out, I got to watch Arizona and New Mexico pass underneath me to my heart's content. It was like watching a Rand McNally map go by. Completely amazing, for someone who grew up in the gentle greens and browns of the midwest, with a quick nod to Georgia's red clay. I imagined Mad Max driving aimlessly in the desert wasteland below. It was gorgeous.

Of course, the man in the seat in front of me for the entire last leg insisted on putting his seat all the way back. And I was in front of the exit row, so I couldn't recline at all. His adult son sat next to me, so I couldn't even kick the back of his seat with impunity. Very disappointing. I had to content myself with imagining garroting him with my headphone wires.

Gross

2008-02-17T09:41:00.000-08:00

My neighbor, the murder suspect, was either watching porn or having sex with a prostitute last night.

And I'm not just saying that because I had my ear up to the wall. With a glass, to amplify the sound.

Do Not Go Gently...

2008-02-17T09:21:00.000-08:00

I went to school at Indiana University. I was there in the early 90's. The time of riots at Varsity Villas. The time of war protesters living in Dunn Meadow. The time of Trent Green. The time of Calbert Cheaney. And Damon Baily. And Brian Evans. And Coach Knight.

They were a couple of years off their last NCAA win when I arrived. Coach Knight ruled all. People conspired to get into classes he taught at the HPER building. There were allegedly two choices. The basketball coaching class was understandable. The fly fishing one? A bit less so, but no less magical a thought to contemplate.

Cream and crimson. Football was a different animal. That was a purely social occasion which provided us an excuse to walk to the party end of campus early in the day. No one went sober.

Basketball, on the other hand? No one went drunk. It was like going to church. Assembly Hall can be as silent as a pin, even with 17,000-plus people sitting inside. It frequently was. Before free throws. At the whistle. During tirades. No one ever waved their hands behind the basket in an effort to distract an opposing player when I was there. No one. It was. Not. Done.

Once, someone put flyers on all of the seats in Assemby Hall. Students, being by their nature rather rambunctious, began flying paper airplanes from the upper deck. It only took one bellow from the General to stop that practice dead in its tracks.

No one brought signs. No one jumped up and down like popcorn. No one talked very loud. We were being trained, all of us. Trained to watch. Trained to be sportsmanlike. Trained to be students of the game.

I was at IU when Coach Knight "pretended" to whip Calbert Cheaney with a towel. I was there when he kicked his son, Pat, off the team. I think he may have actually kicked Pat, too, during a game. He threw a lot of towels. He yelled a lot. A whole lot. And he won a lot, too.

We got to the Final Four one year while I was there. We lost to Duke. The team of Christian Laettner and, the devil incarnate, Bobby Hurley. I knew the apocolypse was not long in coming when they suited him up in an Indiana jersey for Blue Chips. It was a magical tournament for me, even though we didn't get to the final game, when Duke stuck it to the Fab Five, if I recall correctly.

When I was at IU, we, the students, were convinced Coach Knight controlled the universe. Any loss was actually planned by him, in order to instill character and resolve in his team. They needed those losses to season them, to make them better. He also controlled whatever number of points would eventually be scored. He controlled the calls of the refs. Hell, we probably thought he controlled the weather.

I was sad when he got fired, although it was a long time coming. For all that he demanded good manners and sportsmanship from others, he gave very little of that himself. No one can fault his coaching skills and now, when IU has managed to hire a coach with questionable recruiting tactics and various ethical violations trailing him, Coach Knight seems...not so bad.

He's cranky. He's surly. He once shot a guy.

But, then again, so did our Vice President.

He's also a great coach, a good teacher and a winner. There were no ethical violations with Coach Knight. He graduated students and he made them more together than they were individually. And I'm not just talking about his team.

Although I'm sure IU would never contemplate rehiring Coach Knight, it wouldn't be so wrong to look for someone with some of the same qualities.

Besides, Bloomington could use some good weather control.

Crescent City

2008-02-09T08:46:00.000-08:00

I've fallen for Anthony Bourdain. I know, I know. He's too old. He's too famous. He's too married. I can't make up some fantasy where he's here in the midwest, driving around with his television crew from No Reservations, and he ends up with a flat tire and, when I pull over to help, he immediately notices my wit, charm and big boobs and sweeps me off my feet to a life of really, really good food and exotic travel.

The New Orleans episode of No Reservations was on this week. Like with Intervention, I've become addicted to this show. And that episode really drove the needle home.

I do love New Orleans. I love the idea of it. I love the history surrounding it. I love the fact that it has been inhabited and claimed by so many nations. And I love the fact that, despite those claims, it has really been owned by none of them. I love historical novels about the city. The tales of pirates and bayous and criminals and the quadroon balls and Storyville and the Garden District and vampires and the Irish and the Italian store owners who put out plates of snacks to feed their customers, even in the 1800's.

My parents took me there when I was around ten or eleven. We took my grandmother the week before Christmas and New Years. I don't remember the flight but I do remember the drive into the city from the airport. Mostly because I remember trying to catch glimpses of cemetaries. I was entranced by the thought that they had cemetaries above ground. Even at that age, before my demented and rather grotesque sense of curiosity had fully developed.

I remember wanting to go to the voodoo museum and my parents saying no. I remember that they'd never let me walk around alone. We stayed in the Vieux Carre, the French Quarter, in a hotel called the Richeleau. I think it made it though Katrina. I hope so. It was my very first taste of luxury and I loved it. I loved the tiled hallways with the scrolled metalwork. I loved the beautiful wood lobby that led out into the small gardens that so many French Quarter homes have hidden away. I loved the smell of the city and the way the road crews would come in the morning to spray off the streets with huge water hoses, erasing signs of debauchery and decline.

My parents wanted to go to Pat O'Briens. If I remember, they went to New Orleans for their honeymoon, although it might have been Vegas. I do know they went there as a very young married couple. There is a picture of them in Pat O'Brien's, drinking from hurricane glasses, not yet so drunk as to be sliding out of their chairs but certainly a bit glassy-eyed.

I didn't want to go. I was mortified. I lived in states where minors weren't allowed in bars. A trip to the liquor store was exotic enough. My parents were the bad parents that took their young daughter to a bar.

And it was great. The dueling pianos, an idea that has been exported to every town, to its detriment, were amazing. I remember writing song suggestions and putting them in the fishbowl on the stage. I'm reasonably certain they called a woman on stage to sing "The Unicorn" complete with hand motions. I drank a Shirley Temple out of a hurricane glass.

At dinner one night, we went to an old-style restaurant. I don't think it was one of the big ones: Antoine's, Commander's Palace. We did go to the Palace at one point, but for lunch, I think. This place was old-school and may have been Italian, now that I think of it. Professional waiters with crumb scrapers that they used between courses. The tiles on the floor were the alternating white and black that I now dream of for my kitchen. I cannot remember what I ate, but I do remember, at the end of the meal, the waiter brought me a snifter of liquor, with three coffee beans floating in it.

It was sambuca. I don't remember whether I drank it. I think not, since I still won't eat black coffee beans. But I do remember what the waiter said.

"The beans? They represent three things that we wish for you: health, wealth, and happiness."

I felt very grown up that night.

Now that New Orleans is gone. The television program showed vast empty fields where shotgun houses stood. The restaurants are empty, as are the streets. Crime is up and the population is draining away.

I still want to go back. It is an amazing place, filled with history and interesting people and could have a dynamic future as a shipping port, just as it used to, depending on the vagaries of the American economy.

Even more so, I wish the people there what the waiter once wished me: health, wealth and happiness.

The Great Wide Open

2008-02-04T09:59:00.000-08:00

I have a service attached to this site, so I can go and see who is reading this piece of nonsense. I can see who visited, for how long, and how many page views they did. If they get here from a search, it'll tell me what the search term was.

Sometime last week, someone got here while searching for "pink tampon."

I don't recall ever using a tampon that was pink. Maybe pink wrappers, but not actual pink tampons. I don't think I'd want to insert anything garishly dyed in to my body.

You know, other than kleenex up my nose.

Chick Flick

2008-02-01T04:53:00.000-08:00

In movies, or in that particular sub-catagory of movie known as the "chick flick," there are certain pre-established moments that must occur:

1. Girl is single/dating a loser/gets dumped/getting married when financee dies.

2. Girl goes through brief period of soul-searching.

3. Girl sees Guy across a crowded room (Guy is usually dark-haired, in order to show his serious and sensitive nature, unless Ryan Phillipe is available. Also, Guy is usually some kind of scamp/bad boy type, while girl is career-driven and goal-oriented).

4. Guy and Girl, although complete opposites, find themselves thrown together in order to get out a story/put together a work project/get one of their mutual friends out of trouble/travel across country/get through the fiancee's funeral.

5. During all the thrown-together time, Guy and Girl fall for each other, despite the fact that Guy is a love-em-and-leave-em type and Girl is fully aware of this.

6. Guy and Girl have amazing sex.

7. Guy and Girl are torn apart when he overhears her badmouthing him/her ex-boyfriend shows up/he leaves right after having sex without a word to her/they find out they've been lying to each other about the work project/his ex-girlfriend shows up/his wife shows up.

8. Girl takes job in another city/Guy leaves town.

At this point, we all know the formula. Guy or Girl must either apologize for their wrongdoing that led to the falling out or the other party has to overcome the betrayal. Whoever comes to the great ephiphany then has to chase after the other person, thereby leading to the great last scene, frequently filmed outside on a bridge or other large, impressive structure, where they kiss and make up and live happily ever after.

In real life, would this ever happen?

If I broke up with some dude because I came to his apartment one morning with breakfast and his ex opened the door in a negligee in one of those wacky, "oh, she was just sleeping on the couch" moments, would I be charmed when he chased me down the street with a bunch of balloons declaring his undying love for me? Would I be won over when he sat outside of my house all night in a snowstorm, freezing to death in his car?

And if a guy I liked found out I'd been lying to him about the reason I'd been hanging out with him, that I was only with him because I needed to get information on some investigative piece I was writing for the local paper, and left me high and dry just when I realized I loved him? If I started showing up at his gym with flowers, do you think that would change his mind. If I moved into his apartment building, across the hall, would that convince him that I loved him?

No. That would be stalking. And possibly against the law.

So what is there to do? When time and distance separates you from someone that you think, deep down inside, could be the one? Or a possible one, anyway.

Do you drive eight, ten, fourteen hours in order to sit on their fashionable brick front door stoop in an appropriately fashionable yet casual ensemble, with jeans that make your legs look thin and your ass small, until they come home to find you there with a bag of groceries and a bottle of wine?

Which really won't happen, because you'll end up with a flat tire on the way, which will lead to the ruin of your new sweater and the subsequent purchase of a twelve-pack of beer so that, by the time he gets home, you'll be passed out in the backseat with jerky wrappers and empty bottles scattered around your grease-stained body.

Or do you let the opportunity pass you by? Sit at home, thinking about what might have been? Watching yet another chick flick and thinking "Does that ever really work?"

Say Hello to the Night

2008-01-29T14:07:00.000-08:00

Driving to work in the dark. The dials of my car light my face from below. Not a flattering look, I'm certain. Turn on the radio. Free Beer and Hot Wings are on commercial. I switch to O & A.

They're talking about some woman on the train in Boston, I think. Who was getting her ass grabbed. She said something to the guy about it and he said, "I was reaching for the pole." When she got off the train, she found a "very special gift" dripping down the back of her leg.

People were calling in with their similar experiences. I wanted to call in with mine, but I'd gotten to the parking lot by then.

When I was...probably 14, I was at the movies. "The Lost Boys." With Kendra, the new girl from up the street. She was pretty, just moved to town, had mirrored squares with gold veining in her front foyer and knew how to make beds from working in a hotel. I think we were 14. Maybe 15. She must have been violating child labor laws somewhere.

We were at the older theater, if I remember right. Doesn't every town have that? There's the older, run down, kinda junky theater located in a strip mall or off by itself somewhere. And then there's the newer one with plush seats and cup holder armrests. But sometimes the times are better or the tickets are cheaper at the older theater, so you go there.

It was the middle of the day on a weekend, I think. There weren't many people in the theater. I'd been waiting for months for that movie. I loved that movie. I had the soundtrack. I got it on VHS. I could still quote every line, if absolutely necessary.

We went and sat in a side section. There were probably eight seats in the section, with an aisle on either side. The two of us sat down. The previews started. Someone came and sat about four seats over. A man.

The movie started. My crush on Jason Patric started. My obsession with vampires grew. I was enthralled.

Kendra elbowed me. Pointed at the guy down the row. "What the heck is he doing?" she asked.

I looked over. He had his hand in his pants.

"I dunno," I said, and looked back at the screen.

"I'm going to go get someone," she replied. She got up and left me there.

Honestly, I didn't even notice that he'd gotten up and left. I looked up and he was gone. Kendra and security eventually found him at the Fat Boys movie down the hall, sitting near two other girls. He beat feet out the front door and took off in a baby blue old-school Caddy.

We got two free tickets to the movies.

Honestly, I was never really bothered by the fact that this guy was yanking his crank at the theater. Yeah, it is kinda gross. And unhygenic. But he wasn't hurting anyone. He wasn't exposing himself. He was getting off doing this near young girls, but he wasn't hurting anyone.

I suppose an argument could be made that this could just be the first step of an escalating sex predator. But maybe it was some dude who couldn't get off any other way.

In the end, I was just ticked off that my movie got interrupted.

The Girl Who Loved Tampons

2008-01-21T15:02:00.000-08:00

I vividly remember the first time I tried to use a tampon. It calls to mind one word: trauma. More trauma than when Carter and Lucy got stabbed in the ER. More trauma than when Josh got shot outside President Barlett's speech. More trauma than the creature created in New York this weekend while raking up a $41 million box office take.

Well, maybe not that much.

It was before a swim meet. I was to swim the butterfly and freestyle. Anchor the relay. I was fairly good--better at that than any other sport I ever engaged in. Competative, anyway.

But I'd gotten my period. One of the first, probably. Third or fourth time. Remember when they didn't seem to arrive with any sort of rhyme or reason? They'd just show up, like your weird aunt, visiting from out-of-town. Hi, honey! Howya been?! Don't mind me, I'm just stopping by for a few days. Might leave a mess, but you can clean up after me!

My mother tried to teach me to do this. Well, not teach. Coach. I don't know where the hell she bought what she bought. It resembled a small white bullet. Stuck on the end of a long wooden stick. I mean, this thing was to Playtex what Tussy is to Secret. Old school.

I wouldn't let her in the bathroom to help, as I was trying to maintain what dignity I could. So she was talking me through it through the door. While I was trying to read the directions on the fold out instruction pamphlet. You'd think they'd be able to better direct you how to deal with your own body. It is easier to put together a 500 piece Sauder desk. I know. I've done both.

It was awful. It hurt. Mostly because, I now know, I hadn't gotten it in the right place. And if you've never had one of those in "not the right place"...let me tell you, it hurts. It burns. It is like walking around with a piece of sandpaper...somewhere that isn't pleasant.

I didn't swim. I ruined my pink Polo shirt. Don't ask how. I don't want to talk about it.

I don't think I tried that again until maybe high school. I remember suffering with pads all through eighth grade, anyway. Wore sweatpants during gym, trying to square dance. I can't describe that discomfort.

It must have been high school when I started using tampons with any frequency. I don't know how I started. I don't know who mocked me enough to get over the fright of the first time. But thank God they did.

I never thought I loved them. I tolerated them. I varied from Tampax--for the biodegradability--to Playtex--for the ease. I even used OB when stuck in a pinch--gone to another country when I wasn't supposed to start for two more weeks.

Then I met a girl who didn't use them. Over the age of 25 and hadn't used a tampon. I couldn't fathom it. What could be standing in her way of complete and utter freedom? Fear? You'll get over it! Toxic Shock Syndrome? The only person I ever knew who got that got it because of her pregnancy! Genetically still a man? Okay, that one could be a problem.

I caught myself, one night, extolling the virtues of the tampon to this perfectly capable woman with her own decision-making powers. And I thought, "Jesus. Shut up." So I did.

But I am a convert. And a lifetime user. I'll never give them up now. Thank you, tampons. Thanks for making life a little more bearable.

Realities of Baby-Having

2008-01-14T09:04:00.001-08:00

I saw "Juno" this weekend. And it was awesome. Funny, sweet, smart, witty and just generally excellent. And only a bit fantastical.

I caught a bit of an interview with Ellen Page, she who is Juno and who was also the scariest teenager ever in "Hard Candy." Seriously. Scariest. EVAH. Jill Rappaport, who is seriously looking rough these days, asked her about the policital implications of a teenager having a child and exploring the "OTHER OPTION" i.e. going under the knife. Or vacuum. Or both. Whatever.

Ellen's all: "Well, I think we did explore that option and that we dealt with it in a meaningful way." Something like that. I just kept laughing. Because neither she, nor good ol' Jill, would just come out and say the word: ABORTION!!!! Like saying it meant they'd had one. Or something.

I'm not slighting her at all and I think she gave the best answer she could. I mean, she can't be all Katherine Heigl and say how she doesn't understand the choices this girl made and that, in reality, that would never have happened. Which is basically what Heigl said about "Knocked Up." And I agree. That hot chick would never have that dude's baby. Unless he started Microsoft. Or Yahoo. I'd marry Mark Cuban, though. Since he started his company in an effort to listen to IU basketball on the 'net.

I appreciated Ellen's stand on the matter. And, let's face it, they're campaining for nominations. They can't risk the fallout of a star who doesn't believe in the message.

And, in watching this movie, I can see how this particular girl would make the particular choice to have a baby. And I honestly wish that more intelligent girls would make the same choice--to have the baby and give them to a deserving family. Because even intelligent girls make dumb choices every once in a while. Like sleeping with the guy who isn't ever going to get a job, is going to wander from restaurant to restaurant all the days of his life. Because he's born to run, baby. Which is great for his self-image of raging against the machine, but isn't so good when Friend of the Court starts calling for child support payments.

I do wish that they'd shown a bit more of the thought process, though. To go from the lone, sad, pathetic protester informing Juno that her baby has fingernails to sitting in the waiting room and getting annoyed with everyone to deciding to keep the baby? Doesn't necessarily fit that really smart girl and this really smart movie. I know she has to keep it to get to the story. But couldn't we get to a better reason for her to keep it?

Who Am I?

2008-01-14T08:24:00.000-08:00

Who am I? What do I stand for? In what do I believe?

I believe in not giving away spoilers unless someone is forewarned. I believe in scheduling really good movies all day on cable channels, not a mediocre movie five times a day. I believe in the E! News ticker. I believe in snowy nights. I belive in the absolute silence of winter. I believe in the magic of spring. I believe in true love, in the benefits of chicken soup and ginger ale and I believe that crying at television commercials serves to prove you are actually human.

I also believe that someone can put together a plan for universal health care. I believe that people of different races and religions can live together. I believe that a gay couple can raise a child just as well as a heterosexual couple. And I believe that the same gay couple should have the right to marry or "join together" or have their relationship given legal status by their local, state and national government so they can experience all the joys and pains of such a relationship.

No, I am not a divorce attorney.

I believe that everyone is due a good education. I believe that public dollars should be invested in public schools. Not academies. Not parochial schools. That's up to the individual. I believe the middle class is getting priced out of higher education and someone needs to do something about it. I think that state governments need to keep pace with funding for colleges. I believe that kids shouldn't have to go to a community college, then a local college, then to the best state school for a semester or two in order to get sheepskin from the most presigious school in the state. I think they should start there, if they are good enough to get there!

I believe that a woman can be president. I believe a Catholic can be president again. I believe that someone's religion shouldn't define who they are, what they believe is good for the country or how they are going to vote. I believe in the separation of church and state and I vote for people who believe the same thing.

I believe women have the right to choose what they do with their bodies. I believe that the state should stay out of it. I believe the state should also stay out of my decision of whether or not I get to live or die and on what terms I choose to do it.

I believe in drug legalization. I also believe that a Democrat will never be able to propose such a thing. I believe only a Republican can advance such an argument, based on tax grounds, and get it passed.

I believe that I'm a great big bleeding-heart liberal. I believe that my father would roll over in his grave if he heard me say so. I also believe that, just because I believe these things, I'm not irresponsible. I believe we can do these things, think these things, and still be responsible members of society, looking for the best value for our dollar, holding people responsible for their actions and their expenditures. I believe we have to reinvest in our country in order to reap the benefits and I believe that's going to take time, money, effort and sacrifice. But I believe it can be done.

Who am I? I am what I believe.

And I also like horror movies and red wine. And getting caught in the rain.

Drakkar

2008-01-12T10:02:00.001-08:00

I was at someone's house the other night, having drinks. They have a teenage stepson. He was going out with some friends and was busy getting ready in his basement room, then snuck out, avoiding the slightly drunk, very loud women hanging out in his kitchen.

After he left, the family cat came into the kitchen. I picked it up and put it in my lap, petting it. Then I looked at my friend, sitting next to me.

"Smell this cat," I said.

She looked at me. "Is this like the: I think this milk is spoiled--you smell it trick?"

"No. Tell me what you think this cat smells like," I said.

She leaned over and smelled the cat's fur. Far enough that she could jerk back if necessary. Close enough to get a whiff.

"Is that Drakkar?" she asked.

"That cat smells like high school, doesn't it?" I asked.

Later, we discovered that the cat had been in the teenager's bedroom when he was getting ready. When he came home (we were still drinking) and after we asked him whether he was smoking pot with his friends, we asked what kind of cologne he had on.

"Ax Body Spray."

"Ah," we both said, nodding knowingly.

While the scents may change, some things never will. Teenage boys and cologne: two things that should never be combined.

Vacation

2008-01-12T09:52:00.000-08:00

I was going to write a long entry about my boss going on vacation. About how he just left on Friday. Which means he spent three days going through everything on his desk. Which means he was digging through piles of things I'd put there about four months ago, the time he last went on vaction.

About how I came to work on his last day to find piles of papers with sticky notes on them, with cryptic scrawls indicating what should be done on files with expired deadlines. With letters that had never been answered. With messages from people I don't know and have never spoken to.

About how I'm supposed to take care of this stuff that's been sitting ignored for months in the few days that he'll be gone and have finished product sitting on his desk when he gets back so he can review it or ignore it and it can sit on his desk for another three weeks, until he goes on another vacation.

About how I came into the office on a Saturday, thinking I was going to get cracking on all this stuff. How I wore crappy clothes so I could crawl around on the floor, making piles of the most important, vital, time-sensitive stuff to start working on. How I brought Diet Coke and fast food and music to keep me sated and kept company.

About how, instead of working, I started looking through the classifieds.

About how I got a call from a friend and decided, "Screw it, I'm going to the bar."

But then I thought better of writing that, since I wouldn't want anyone to think I didn't like my job.

Nostril-itis

2008-01-05T10:51:00.000-08:00

I hate winter. Really. With every fiber of my being. Or fibre, if you prefer.

Snow is pretty to look at. For about a day. I can't deny the romance of walking through a snowy night, crystals crunching under your feet. The absolute silence blanketing the world. The hint of blue that lies over everything as the moon glances off the frozen crust of snow. Crawling into bed, warming the sheets while looking out a frosted window.

Then you have to get up and drive to work the next day. And that? Sucks.

I hate running the heater. I hate the fact that my gas bill increases times 7. I hate cleaning off my car. I hate salt ruining my shoes and getting on the back of my coat when I walk through parking lots. I hate that people still can't drive in snow. I hate the dirty snow that collects on the side of the road. And I hate getting out of bed in the morning.

I do like kicking that snowy, salty, grey crap off the wheel wells of my car, though. I do like that.

The heaters really bother me. Don't get me wrong. I like being warm. I have a space heater in my office because my secretary is going through "the change" and she could break out into a swimming sweat at any moment. So we all suffer.

But the dry air and the static electricity? I hate it. My lips are chapped, my hair flies everywhere, my nails chip. And my nose is a mess.

I have sinus problems. I have allergies. I blow my nose constantly. I have to use Puffs with Aloe...God bless Puffs. Because if I didn't? My nose would have been worn away by facial tissue years ago. My nose ran so much as a kid that I had a permanent line across it from where I'd push my hand up against my face to swipe my runny nose. Neat, huh?

In the winter, it gets worse by the hour. The heat sucks all the moisture out of the air. It isn't better outside, unless we're going through a periodic thaw. And who wants to be outside for that?

So my nose runs. But is also dried out. Oh, the dichotomy of it all.

The inside of my nose right now? You know how you put mud masks on your face? And it dries? And before you rinse it off, you smile to watch the mask crack? That's the inside of my nose right now.

I have two permanent problem areas that will not heal. In the left nostril, it is right where the nose meets the face, just inside the nasal canal there. If you put your finger juuuuuusssst under your nose? Then move it up? Just inside. Not to look like you're picking or anything. 'Cause you're not. But that's where it is. The starting of a fissure. Like hemerroids for the nose.

The other nostril has one, too. Longerstanding in nature, even. This one's on the septum. The thing that separates one nostril from the other. There's a line, a crevass, that has split open and seeths. Right there. Just inside the nostril.

Go ahead. Feel around in there. You know you want to.

So I'm reduced to sticking fingers full of vaseline up my nose in an effort to soften up the skin enough to reduce the pain. In order to endure the actual blowing of the nose. Because, right now, it hurts too much to blow. I'm reduced to sticking corners of kleenex up there, just to ensure that I can breathe.

Spring can't come fast enough.

Merry F-in' Christmas

2007-12-28T12:11:00.000-08:00

On Christmas, my mother and I went over to my friend's house to have lunch with her and her family. Her husband, mom, aunt and uncle were all there gathered around the den when we arrived, playing with the baby and ignoring the dog, like so many other times I've been there. She handed me a glass of wine, they continued opening presents and making fun of each other. Drinking before noon--a true Christmas tradition. We always called them "after-church drinks."

Everyone sits around, chatting easily. What are the plans for the rest of the day? Are you working tomorrow? What movie are you going to see?

My friend's mom turns to me: "So, gotta date for New Year's?"

A million thoughts run through my head:
Lie.
My mother is watching me answer this question.
I won't be with any of these people for New Year's, so they won't know the difference if I lie.
Do I even want a date for New Year's Eve?
Remember the last time I had a date for New Year's Eve? Disaster.
Why is she trying to publicly shame me like this?

"Um, no."

"I do," she says, grinning.

It would have been un-Christmassy to call her a bitch, so I didn't.

Disappointment

2007-12-18T12:10:00.000-08:00

There is nothing more depressing and upsetting than telling your mother that you're disappointed in how your life has turned out.

My Hair Smells Like High School

2007-10-24T05:18:00.000-07:00

I was at Penney's the other day, in the salon, buying hair product. Because that's how I roll. Anyway, I needed some hairspray and found some stuff that was on sale--two for one--and bought it, along with all the other glazes and mousses and goops and other stuff I use in order to be able to leave the house in the morning.

I opened the hairspray the other day and started spraying. I hadn't ever really looked at the label. The can was white and professed not to contain CFCs but, other than that, I didn't pay any attention to it. But when that sticky rain came out of the nozzle, I could smell it.

The smell of high school.

Sebastian Hair Shaper.

I used that stuff daily for years. The only times I would vary usage to another brand was if I needed really hard hold, for which I'd switch to Paul Mitchell's Freeze Spray. I had cans of Shaper in my locker, my gym locker, the car, my house, my purse. Clouds of it followed me around the school, like I was the Pig Pen of hair spray. The tall, white, pristine can marked me as a young woman of taste and discernment with money to burn and good looking hair.

I think I even used the stuff in college for a bit, before big hair and the hairspray that made it became passe. My mother would send me cans in care packages. My father, had he known how much we spent on that hair spray over the years, would have died a lot sooner than he did. We could have fed small African countries with the money I put into my hair back then. The perms, the color, the product--and for what?

Really, really big hair.

I smell the scent of that hair spray and I am standing in the senior locker bay, right in front of Mr. Covetta's chemistry class, waiting for Jason to walk by so we could walk to Stats together. I smell it and I'm driving around on a Friday night with Lori and Tina with the windows open and "Let's Talk About Sex" blaring on the radio. I smell it and I'm playing pool at Diane's house at midnight over Christmas break.

I smell that hair spray and I'm eighteen again.

Thank God I dress better now.

The Pull

2007-10-22T14:39:00.000-07:00

I don't know if there is something wrong with me sometimes. I wonder if there's a swtich that hasn't been thrown. Or if there is something, deep down, that is defective. Or missing. Or that hasn't quite grown in or filled out. Because I keep thinking that...this thing? The thing I'm supposed to be doing? And I'm not? Should I be missing it? Because I don't think that I am. And I don't know if that means that there is something wrong.

That thing? A child.

People want one. They want one so badly they'll endure shots. And pills. And invasive procedures and special underwear and, according to an episode of Coach, cold water running around their testicles.

Is that right? Or am I wrong for thinking that's not right?

I know, emperically, that people should want children. We want to continue the species. We want to pass on our genetic markers. We want to create a living symbol of our love for another person. We want someone to do chores around the house and support us in our dotage. We want grandchildren to spoil. We want immortality.

And I completely envy and am amazed by those people who have children. Who endure the crying at 3 a.m. Either because the baby is hungry or because the teenaged girl just got dumped by her boyfriend. I'm amazed at folks like Dooce who have children and fight through the maze of post-partum depression and still want more. Who can separate the love for their child from the hell they went through to have them in their lives. Because some people can't. And those people? Are really bad parents.

I don't know if I'd be good at it. I think I'm too selfish. I know I'm too poor. I think of all the things in my life that I'd have to give up. All the things I really like. Red wine. The remote control. Uninterrupted sleep. The freedom to leave my house for the weekend at a moment's notice.

It would be easier if there was someone to share the pain with. If I was with someone, someone who was willing to go through all that with me, it would be easier. Doing it now? Is like looking into the maw of the sand creature in Return of the Jedi. There is no escape. And it isn't pretty.

But even if I was with someone? Would it be different? I honestly don't know. One guy told me he'd been snipped and, if that was a problem, there it was...out there. And...really? It wasn't. Then there was the other guy who said that a family and having kids really meant the world to him. And...that didn't necessarily bother me, either.

I just hate being so wishy-washy on a point that so many others feel so passionately about. But I don't want to have a child simply to have a child. So I can join in the conversations my friends have about breast feeding or epidurals or getting the kid to sleep. So I can say, "If I had a child, I'd never let him do [insert horrible thing]" with some semblence of authority. So, instead, I just avoid those conversations. Because I can't tell whether they are conversations I'll ever want to have. Or be able to have.

Gusty

2007-10-18T09:28:00.000-07:00

I remember walking home from the bus stop in fifth or sixth grade. Walking up Wembley Ridge to the second house on the right. The big Tudor-style house on top of yet another hill I'd have to climb before I could get inside and watch Robotech or hurry up and grab my music before driving downtown to choir practice. I can remember looking out over the neighborhood from that vantage point. Seeing Erin Smullen's house four doors down the hill, my very best friend, who was inexplicably mean to me on a number of occasions. I often thought that her moving away was the best thing that ever happened to me, although it seemed horrific at the time. I can't imagine the psychological abuse we would have meted out to each other over the years had she stayed.

I can remember looking down at Tommy Lackey's house, the big one on the corner that hosted all neighborhood football games, basketball games, games of tags, fist fights and any other manner of warfare kids can come up with. His parents sold Amway and his older sister took him to see Van Halen on their 1984 tour. I can still see the t-shirt, with the little guy and the pointy hat.

I can remember clouds skittering by in the incredibly blue sky, blue that seems to be completely unimaginable these days. Leaves rolled past, down the hill in the gutters, sometimes tumbling into the sewers. We used to crawl around in those sewers until our parents caught us, talking up through the grating to our friends in, you guessed it, Tommy Lackey's yard.

I remember the big empty lot next to Andy Brown's house. Andy Brown who followed me home from the bus stop one day when I flipped him the bird, threatening to tell my mother, walking all the way up to the front door as I begged and pleaded for him to go home. He knew what a goody-goody I was. He knew I couldn't take the risk of exposure. He walked home, laughing. I was never very clear on what his family was like. Or if he even had one. He was the kid who just...was. He showed up for class trips, he had the obligatory Members Only jacket, he had the dirt bike and used it daily on the hills in the lot next to his house. But I never saw his parents.

If it was Friday, David Gallagher's dad would be out, mowing the grass for the last time of the season. He flew home every weekend from whereever he worked, letting David and his mom and...was there a sister? Anyway, they stayed there while he worked. Away. Then he'd come and mow the lawn in his black socks and Bermuda shorts. I had a huge, huge crush on David Gallagher. He used to host pre-set fights in his back yard, because his mom was never home. The spontaneous ones were always at Tommy's.

Scott Humphries's house was just past my street. Blue gingerbread. I'm sure he hated it. Simply because I loved it. It looked like a fairy tale. I remember being in there for some reason, although it couldn't have happened very often. Maybe they bought Camp Fire candy or something from me. He was the blondest of blonds, with freckles. Rarely spoke.

I remember dressing up as a deck of cards for Halloween. That was a great neighborhood for trick-or-treating. Full-sized candy bars at some houses. Avoid the guy that lives next to the folks that own that famous hunting dog--the candy always looks unwrapped. Jason Ewing's mom always had kids come in and bob for apples. She was Martha Stewart, ahead of her time. And don't go to the Korean family over there--they keed dead geese in the garage.

Almost home. The dead ants who baked in the road during the summer are long gone. The roly-polys we'd capture are all burrowed down into the ground for the winter. Pumpkins are on porches. No one smashed them here.

This is the house that I still dream of, still remember. The trellis over the back patio. The bedroom my father wallpapered himself, with the one patch under the window on upside down. The big, big kitchen and the den with wooden floors. The bonus room off my parent's bedroom with the back hallway to the laundry. The smell of new house when we moved in. Sitting and waiting for the movers with Carolyn Johnson when we moved out. We got cable for the first time in the house. And a VCR. We planted blueberry bushes and a river birch, but never got that magnolia the builder promised.

I remember walking home in the fall in Georgia.

Reflections

2007-10-10T05:24:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I'll be watching television. Or listening to the radio. Watching someone walking down the street. And a feeling of recognition will hit me so hard, so forcefully, that I have to hold onto the arm of the chair I'm sitting in just so I don't bend over with the power of it. I have to stop walking, standing there in front of the Gap, convinced of my recognition. But I've been fooled, every single time.

Like I've written before, the smell of Obsession for Men makes me weak. I smell it and I'm immediately transported to a living room at 2 a.m. in northern Ohio, MTV playing on the television and the sound turned off. Lightening bugs flickering outside.

When I see Eddie Murphy skits run on Comedy Central, I think of him, too. I don't know if it is because he used to run those riffs during our marathon phone calls, imitating James Brown's Celebrity Hot Tub or Velvet Jones's "I Wanna Be a Ho" routines. Or if it is because there is this native, natural confidence in both of them, simmering just below the surface. When I see Eddie Murphy move, I see pieces of him in it--the swing of the hips, the roll of the shoulders, the look over the shoulder.

I was watching, God help me, CMT this weekend. There was some guy interviewing the band Sweetwater. And I looked at him. And I listened to him. And he set that thing off in me, the recognition meter. It was as though I was looking through a glaze at someone I knew, listening to his vocal patterns, watching the way he sat in a chair, held a microphone, wore his shoes. It was rather eerie, to tell the truth. And upsetting.

Maybe the fact is that there are only so many components in people to go around. Maybe we're just all unique combinations of a set number of qualities. Brown hair, smooth skin, a hint of an accent, a broad brow, a dimple, self-confidence, a slight limp, a verbal tic. Maybe, like a deck of cards, each person gets the same number of cards--and sometimes even the same numbers on the cards--but in different combinations. Perhaps that explains the theory that somewhere in the world, someone looks just like you.

Until then, I'll just keep looking for people that I recognize in people I don't know.