Anything Said: February 2005

Monday, February 28, 2005

"It's easy once you know how it's done..."

I was going to post today about the Academy Awards, about how I thoroughly trounced Laurie and won back my honor, about how I came in third in my office Oscar pool, about how Renee Zellweger seriously needs to lay off the Botox --

but all that will have to wait because Oh.My.God. my new ipod shuffle just arrived, and it is tiny and adorable and demands nothing but my immediate and utmost attention.

Sunday, February 27, 2005

Party like it's your birthday

Last night some friends and I had an "old-fashioned birthday party" for K., a college friend who recently moved to Rhode Island but who often comes back to our neighborhood during the weekends - partly because we are all awesome, magnetic friends and she can't stay away, partly because the guy she's seeing lives here. The party featured a pink cake with copious frosting, about 17 kinds of ice cream, party hats, and balloons. It was a fun party, the kind where you sit around and talk and eat, and then you go home thinking about the little leftover bits of conversation left floating around in your head. I went home and thought about birthday parties.

When we were kids, birthday parties had a kind of formulaic nature to them. You invited 15 or so of your little classmates, they all came bearing wrapped presents (A Strawberry Shortcake doll! A Michael Jackson trapper keeper!), you played organized games like Pin the Tail on the Donkey or you bashed in the head of some defenseless pinata animal, and you dug into a cake shaped like a cat or a rainbow or Raggedy Ann.

Now, we're Grown Ups. There are a variety of options for Grown-Up birthday parties from which we can choose. For my last birthday, I had a pretty standard party, the kind where friends from various avenues of your life (college friends, post-college friends, coworkers, etc.) come together in your apartment. Some walk around and mingle, some stick to established social circles, most drink, some drink too much. The year before that, I think, I chose the controversial Let's Dine Out in Honor of My Birthday option, wherein my husband invited 12 or so friends to a Portuguese restaurant for dinner to celebrate. This option is good because it alleviates the minor hassles of hosting a party at your house (the mess, the noise, the purchasing of alcohol and snacks) and allows for fun and usually relaxed conversation, but it is also bad because it can create a situation wherein your friends not only have to pay for their own dinner (at a restaurant not of their own choosing, no less) but also usually feel obligated to pay for your dinner. For friends on a budget, this can be tough.

When I briefly lived in St. Louis after college, my roommate's girlfriend threw her a roller skating party for her birthday. She rented out the entire rink for two hours, and we all got to wheel around in circles to our heart's content. We even got to pick the music that was played over the loudspeakers. This was most excellent. I remember always desperately wanting a roller skating birthday party when I was a kid, and being jealous to the point of tears when a friend would get to have one. The local roller rink where I grew up was called "Holidays," and whenever there was a birthday party hosted there they would make all the skaters in the rink form a circle, with the birthday kid(s) in the center. Singing of "Happy birthday to you" would then commence, followed by an awkward transition into the Hokey Pokey. Have you ever done the Hokey Pokey on roller skates? It is only for the truly hard-core. I always longed to be the celebrated birthday girl in the middle of a ring of skaters, triumphantly sticking my left foot in, out, and shaking it all about.

I can only really remember one birthday celebration from college, and that one involved a fair amount of a certain smokeable substance and ended with me and a friend throwing brownies at the wall to see how long they would stick. It's probably for the best that I don't remember the other three.

Sometimes birthdays can be celebrated too much. When I worked at my first "real" job after college and Americorps, the job at the anti-violence nonprofit that was my own personal hell, I had a co-worker who claimed the entire week surrounding her birthday to be her "birthweek" and insisted on celebrating it as such. She said this was because she didn't get to celebrate other holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas because they had been ruined for her by her dysfunctional family, so her "birthweek" celebration was, for her, a reclaiming of her right to be celebratory, a personal "take back the night," if you will. The part of me that had yet to be deadened inside by that job wanted to be compassionate and supportive of her -- but in reality, I just found it totally annoying. Like, it's a birthDAY, and we all have them. And no, I will NOT cover your on-call shift for you so you can host your birthweek campfire song-fest unencumbered.

But I digress...

I think I was inspired by the kind of easy fun of K's old-fashioned birthday party. Hearkening back to the days of yore can be the new thing. Maybe for my next birthday party, I'll invite only girls, my mom can come and bring us pizza and generic soda (Mmmmm..."grape pop"), and we'll braid each other's hair and stay up until 10:00!! Awesome - who's in?

Saturday, February 26, 2005

Pet envy

This morning when I was walking home from the supermarket, I saw a woman leading the cutest, fattest bulldog puppy on a leash. I was overcome with warm fuzziness, immediately followed by jealous rage. Why do I have to live in an apartment with a "no dogs" policy? Why are all the apartments that are both subway-accessible and dog-friendly so expensive? Why can't I live the dog-owner lifestyle?

I am obsessed with dogs, specifically pugs. I have pug calendars, books about pugs, pug dayplanners, pug magnets, a stuffed pug. Do you have any idea how many pug-related greeting cards are available for almost any occasion? I do, because I've gotten them all sent to me at one point or another. I become a dangerous stalker when I see a pug being walked on the street, or running around in a park. Car accidents have been narrowly averted after I, while driving, spy a fat pug rump with upturned tail wagging just blocks ahead of me and swerve to get a closer look.

I love my guinea pigs, I really do, but Mildred and Agnes are only capable of providing me with so much companionship. Yes, they are cute and lovable when they squeak and chase each other around their cage. Yes, it is endlessly amusing to watch them kick it Harlequin-romance-novel-style and mount each other, but that only happens once or twice a month. The rest of the time, they spend their hours eating, pooping, eating their poop, pulling up and eating the newspaper that is spread out underneath their wood shavings, chewing on their cardboard tube toy, pooping, pooping, squealing, and pooping. Sometimes we take them out of their cage so that they can run around and poop on the floor, or we hold them so they can poop on our laps.

Before Mildred and Agnes, my last pet was another guinea pig that I shared with my old roommate Laurie. The pig was aptly named Pug-dog. Pug-dog was a high-maintenance pig. He liked to chew loudly on his cage at 5:00 in the morning to indicate that one or both of his mommies should get up and give him some hay and green peppers, as was his due. When a flier for an online dating service appeared on our doorstep one day, Laurie and I decided that perhaps some of Pug-dog's troubling attention needs would go away if only he weren't so lonely, if only he had a girlfriend or boyfriend to love. We signed him up under the name "P.D." We listed his interests as "good food, rest, and exercise," his turn-offs as "squalor and unexpected change," and his appearance as "I would prefer not to be judged based on my external characteristics, but rather on my heart." Sadly, there were no responses.

Before Pug-Dog, I had a maladjusted hamster for one semester in college. The hamster was just not enthused with his life. I think part of the problem was all the secondhand pot smoke he inhaled whenever I put him in his little hamster ball and let him roll around in the main hallway of my dorm. When in his cage, he refused to run in his wheel but rather climbed on top of it, using it as a stepladder from which he could attempt to chew his way to freedom through the wire lid of his cage. After his one semester with me, I left to go to Scotland for my semester abroad program, and we gave the hamster to a friend of my little sister's. This, apparently, was a bad decision. When I returned to the States months later, I Iearned that the hamster had been fed something inappropriate and unnamed, something that made him turn green (like, actually green, as if he had been dyed) and pass on to that great hamster wheel in the sky. I hope he finds more happiness there than he did here on earth with all the pot-smoking freaks that tried to feed him Tostitos.

So, in reading all of that, does anyone want to let me walk their pug?

Thursday, February 24, 2005

You can't make this stuff up... unless you're, like, V.C. Andrews

Ok, so let's say your name is Mary Kay Letourneau. You are a 5th/6th grade teacher, and you start sleeping with your 12-year-old student. You get pregnant with the student's baby, get caught, go to prison. You have the baby, get out of prison, start sleeping with the student again, get caught having sex with the student in a car. You go back to prison, already pregnant with the student's second baby. You give birth while in prison. Lifetime Television for Women makes a movie about your life. After 7 years, you are finally released from prison. What to do, what to do? Do you discreetly hide from the prying public in a cabin somewhere? Do you make public statements of remorse? Mary Kay, what do you do next?

Why -- you marry the student, of course, and you register at Macy's.

Wow.

Should I buy her some flatware? I mean, what DO you buy the woman who has everything?

Monday, February 21, 2005

Free day!

Three-day weekends are just made for lounging. Happy - uh - President's Day, is it? I don't even know what it is that I'm supposed to be celebrating, or commemorating. It's the birthdays of Lincoln and Washington, right? Or is it some kind of general recognition of past presidents? I don't know. I don't ask questions, I just sleep until 10:00 and then lie in bed and watch Dawson's Creek reruns on TBS. That's right, I said Dawson's Creek. What of it? At least I've grown out of that embarrassing "A Wedding Story" phase.

I find that on a three-day weekend, nothing beats a good marathon. I'm not talking about the outdoor kind that involves exercise and good sneakers. No, that's the husband's kind of marathon. I'm talking about the sit-on-the-couch kind that involves a TV and a subscription to Netflix. Right now, I'm enjoying some quality time with my new favorite Netflix find: "The L-word." The husband recently saw an ad for this show in a glossy magazine, featuring 7 or 8 gorgeous mostly-naked women tangled up in some kind of amorous human pretzel. He laughed and said, "Real lesbians don't look like that." I countered, "No honey, real PEOPLE don't look like that."

But for me, that is a big part of the draw with this show. It's an angsty soap-opera-esque drama, full of beautiful people, emotional baggage, and just the right music paired with every scene. Except with this show, I don't have to fast-forward through all the lame male-focused scenes to get to the good stuff, because -- there ARE NO male-focused scenes! Hooray! It's all ladies, all the time. I can get my feminist groove on without turning my back on my Aaron Spelling past.

Previous Netflix finds I have enjoyed include the following:

"The Sopranos": Basically, this is the opposite of The L-Word. It's so well put together and well acted that I can usually (I said usually) get past all the gratuitous violence. This is not a show for the kiddies. Often I tune out during a lot of the mob stuff and start paying attention again when Adrianna or Carmella is on screen. Yes, I know the mob stuff is kind of the whole point, but Adrianna is hot. R.I.P., Ade.

"24": Now, the husband and I watch it together on Monday nights, but back in day we were 24 DVD junkies. We discovered season 1 through Netflix long after it had aired on television, and I think we basically watched all 24 hours of it in a couple of caffeine-fueled all-nighters. We've pretty much disagreed with every decision the show has made since then (hate women and Arab-Americans much?), but loyalty to the glory days keeps us hooked and hopeful.

"Sex and the City": Ok, I didn't discover Carrie Bradshaw through Netflix, but Netflix certainly enabled me to share 6 lovely seasons with her. I will admit to feeling kind of disappointed with the way the girls ended up in the finale, all comfy and paired-off and seemingly more defined by their relationships with men than with their relationships to each other. But I still love them. Even though if we were ever to meet in real life, they would be all "um, did you buy those shoes at Payless?" and I would be all "what do you mean, The Olive Garden is for losers?", in TV Land we are one big happy family.

Happy Presidents' Day, everyone. I may not support the current pres, but I'll take the day all the same. I even take Columbus Day. I do generally have principles, but I'm not made of stone...

Saturday, February 19, 2005

Into Africa

In May, the husband and I are going on a 2-week vacation to South Africa. This will be by far the biggest trip I've ever been on. The only other time I've been out of the country (aside from assorted Canadian jaunts) was my college study-abroad semester in Stirling, Scotland. I am not a risk-taker. I dream of big, adventurous voyages, and then I go take a vacation in New Hampshire.

Yesterday, the husband called Kruger National Park, where we will be spending the second week of our trip, to confirm our camp reservations and to book some game drives and guided bush walks. Turns out, our reservations are all set, but the games drives and walks in the camps we selected? All booked. Totally, completely, unforgivingly booked. Now we have to either find some camps that still offer available game drives and try to get our reservations switched (which makes me a little sad, as I was so happy about initially being able to book our first-choice camps), or resign ourselves to spending our entire time in Kruger looking for wildlife from the inside of our low-to-the-ground rental car.

Yes, this is just one small setback, but my reaction to it (read: gloom and despair) makes me worried. I am worried about my tendency to worry. I want to plan everything; I feel pressure to make the trip perfect. Already, I'm stressing out, and the trip is months away.

I'm worried about the flight. I hate flying, I will do almost anything to avoid it. Bad things happen in airplanes, like turbulence and shoe-bombs. Yes, I know, I am a million times more likely to die in a car crash, blah blah blah. Save your breath, I'm still going to be clutching the arm-rests and practicing deep breathing during take-off and landing. The flight to South Africa is an 18-hour flight through Amsterdam. 18 hours. I need to invest in a tranquilizer.

I'm worried about driving. We are planning on renting a car in Johannesburg, driving it north along the Panorama Route, and finally making our way into Kruger. The only cars we can truly afford to rent there are manual transmissions, as automatics cost over twice as much. So... now, not only will we be concentrating on driving on the left side of the road, but we'll also have to adjust to shifting gears with the left hand and pressing the clutch with the opposite foot. Will we get in an accident? Run over a local? Kill each other from the stress of figuring it out?

I'm worried about Doing Things Wrong while in Africa. I am a nervous tourist. I never want to seem stupid, or say something offensive. My husband is a blissfully not-nervous tourist. He will stand on a crowded streetcorner with a huge map unfolded in his hands, brow furrowed in concentration. Once when he visited me in Scotland, he bought a slice of pizza which cost 2 pounds and confidently paid for it using what was essentially a 2-cent coin. He does these things with such cheer that people seem to warm to him, never bothered or annoyed. I am grateful for this.

I'm worried about money. We cannot afford this trip. We are going to go broke, and then later when we have children they are going to have to wear hand-me-downs and eat nothing but potatoes and go to school barefoot and their only chance to go to college will be to earn athletic scholarships, and all because mom and dad just HAD to go to South Africa.

These are the things I need to remind myself: I have always wanted to go to Africa, and now I get to go. I cannot plan everything out ahead of time. We are going to take risks. We are going to have adventures. It is going to be amazing, and I will grow from it. Making mistakes will not kill us.

Unless, of course, the mistake is not being able to get the car into gear when a lion is about to pounce...

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Fun with gender stereotypes!

Email forwards are so clever and full of wry insights! Today I was sent one about the "Reasons Men Are Inferior." It listed a bunch of things that men do that women find distasteful. I learned a lot from this forward -- of particular note, I think, were the number of ways in which I am, apparently, a man:

1. This morning, just like pretty much every morning, I drank from the milk carton.

2. In my household, I alone control the remote control. AND I channel-surf relentlessly.

3. I hate doing dishes. I let them pile in the sink until my spouse gets disgusted and just does them himself in order to escape the Stank. I also let the trash pile up until it takes itself out. (But I do dust.)

4. When not feeling well, I exhibit the "I'm sick, take care of me" syndrome. I lie on the couch and whimper. I require soup.

5. I am often lazy. Numerous Saturdays, I sit in front of ESPN and eat potato chips. (When it is not basketball season, I sit in front of Lifetime... but still. The potato chips are year-round.)

6. When at home, in the privacy of my natural environment, I have been known to burp and scratch. I'm not asking for a gold star, I'm just saying it is what it is.

Somebody better get me some eyeliner and a carb-free Lean Cuisine, stat! I'm in danger of going over to the other side...

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

Professional development

Today's mail brought the annual paperwork for renewing my membership in the American Library Association. The lofty ALA is the main professional development association for librarians. If you're a librarian, joining ALA is just one of those things that you do. It's like peer pressure in junior high school -- all the other librarians are doing it, don't you want to be cool like everyone else? Yes? Good - now GIVE ME YOUR LUNCH MONEY!!

Or maybe that was just my junior high school experience...

As far as I can tell there are only two real benefits to being a member of ALA. The first is a subscription to "American Libraries," a monthly journal that tackles the tough issues facing librarians today. Last month's cover story was entitled: "Silence is olden: balancing the old shushing act." Each issue features lots of briefs from libraries around the country -- who's losing funding, who's getting a new state-of-the-art facility, who was just ordered by a band of suburban moms to take Are You There God, It's Me Margaret off the shelves. "American Libraries" is my morning commute reading. I read it openly, because I like to look as badass as possible to my fellow commuters.

The second benefit of ALA membership is the conferences. Or so I hear. Having just attended my first, the recent "Midwinter Meeting" in Boston, I certainly can't claim to speak with much authority on the subject. In fact, I didn't even attend any of the sessions, choosing instead to register only for a day of browsing the hundreds of vendors that came to peddle their wares to a book-hungry crowd. Looking back, I don't know if I could have handled much more than that. Not that event was bad in any way -- it was obviously well-planned and well-attended. It was just... surreal.

Librarians are an odd lot. My friend and fellow librarian T., in a recent email to me, called them "strangely socialized." She and I met in library grad school, primarily because we shared the same survival strategy to get us through our MLS program: at the beginning of each new course, look studiously around the room. Identify the three or four Normal People in the class, scope them out, and then MAKE THEM YOUR FRIENDS. Do this consistently, or before you know it you will find yourself surrounded by That Girl who only reads fantasy and finds a way to bring it up in every single class period, That Woman who constantly speaks like she's giving a story-hour, That Guy who always completes the reference homework three weeks in advance using only his own copy of the OED and Google, That Girl who wears a costume for her final class presentation and then breaks down in tears when she can't get her Powerpoint slides to work. You know, them.

This is what made the recent conference I went to feel surreal -- it was my first time being in a room with not just 35 or so of these librarian-types (both Normal and Patently Not Normal), but hundreds of them! Swarming around me, clutching at canvas bags, sizing up my nametag to see where I work! I attended the conference with my boss, and we navigated our way slowly through the maze of booths and displays. Awkward-looking white men in suits tried to sell us new automated systems for circulating and cataloging our collection. Clearly bored women selling book tape and spine labels tried desperately to woo traffic to their tables. Friendly children's book publishers waved "50% Off" signs at us and smiled knowingly as we stumbled towards them like Pavlov's dogs.

Librarians are generally people who love to accumulate Stuff, and in this respect the conference did not disappoint: there were the usual giveaways of bags, pens, paperweights, postcards, and catalogs, along with an abundance of Librarian Crack (otherwise known as free books). Many publishers handed out advance reading copies of yet-to-be-published books. I grabbed some young adult fiction, a couple of novels, a book about the Bill of Rights. My boss bought an expensive graphic novel at 75% off.

The strangest moment came toward the end of the day, when an announcement was made that a popular publisher was closing its booth and was going to begin giving one free new release or bestseller to each person who visited until they ran out of stock. I'm telling you, it was like the gates of heaven had opened up and an all-you-can-eat manna buffet sat on the other side -- it was MADNESS!! People ran, people shoved. Instantly, a line formed and snaked all around the main vendor hall. Mild-mannered librarians bounced impatiently, strained on tiptoes to see whether the line was moving, stared ahead in deep contemplation over exactly which book would be most beneficial to grab. We decided to take our leave.

I love being a librarian and all that comes with it, ALA membership included. But sometimes, even the "strangely socialized" have to draw their limit.

Monday, February 14, 2005

I call a do-over

I had the perfect day today! It was so great it was like being on vacation. Want to know how you can recreate my day, so you too can experience soul-bursting joy? Here's an agenda you can clip n' save, share with your friends. Enjoy!

1. Start your day with a leisurely 45-minute wait for the subway. Yes, yes, I know the schedule says it's supposed to come every 5 minutes during rush hour, but you know better than to look on the downside. Instead, use the wait time to catch up on your reading, tackle that pesky claustrophobia problem, make friends with the slightly-crazy-looking elderly gentleman who keeps poking you in the back of the knee with his umbrella even though it is TOTALLY NOT RAINING, dude.

2. Arrive at work 30 minutes late and already exhausted. It's like your workout has begun and you haven't even hit the gym yet today. Bonus!!

3. When you finally do go to the gym over your lunch break, relish in the colorful cast of characters filling the place with sunshine. Especially that mousy woman who keeps staring at your legs in the locker room when you are standing there in nothing but a towel -- she must really find you attractive. How flattering, and not at all inappropriate! Oh, and look, there's that woman who brings hot-rollers with her to the gym and spends 30 minutes drying and curling her hair while humming. You can really learn a lesson from her about upping your girl-factor.

4. After work, go to the grocery store. It's like a block party in here -- the whole neighborhood's come out to shop and wheel those cute little carts around and enjoy one another's company! Oh no no, you go ahead, I insist. No, excuse ME!

5. Come home and revel in the cuteness that is your pet guinea pigs. Yes, they appear to have eaten their weight in newspaper during the day , and to have flung their poop into various corners of the room for some reason, but damn they are cute.

6. Greet your husband when he comes home from work. Why, it IS Valentine's Day, isn't it? Accept the pink flowers he is handing to you and pretend not to notice that they are already so dead that they are a strange shade of orangey-brown. Mmmmm. Everything's coming up roses, indeed!

7. Log on to your blog and pass along the love.

Sunday, February 13, 2005

With a start like this, how could the marriage be anything but sweet? Happy V-Day to the one who shares my taste, artificial flavoring and all.

Saturday, February 12, 2005

Christian Singles - are those like Kraft Singles?

Apparently looking out for my best interests, the gods of the junk-email universe keep sending me daily messages urging me to "Meet Christian Singles Today - Click Now." I have never opened one of these emails, but I imagine them to be full-color catalogs of God-fearing men, dressed neatly, smiling non-threateningly, offering me dates to the park or the library. One of them might buy me a puppy. I like puppies.

You might say that my teenage years were teeming with Christian singles. Ok, maybe not teeming with them, but they did seem to be the primary boys who wanted to go out with me. M., the love of my high school life, was the son of a Church of the Brethren pastor. I was raised in the Church of the Brethren, so M. and I were literally a match made in Heaven. We started dating during my freshman year - his sophomore - and spent our first date on a parent-chauffeured trip to the public library. We weren't kidding around -- I wore his class ring, we went to church together, we talked about spirituality and our future, we made out in my parents' basement and pretended it was part of God's plan.

But also a part of God's plan, apparently? Was for M. to sleep with various members of the high school color guard. A member of the marching band and drumline, M. took on this higher calling with relish. We broke up at the end of my freshman year - purportedly because he needed to really focus on his summer mission trip to France. You heard it here first -- "summer mission trip to France" is the new euphemism for "incoming freshman girls."

So, that summer I did what any self-respecting 15-year-old would do. I decided to go out with M's best friend, S. Now, lest any readers think that I am anti-religion, I do consider myself to be a somewhat religious (or at least spiritual) person -- however, S. took religious to a whole different realm of meaning. For example, his class ring - which I, of course, wore during our brief "relationship" - was gold with a blue stone, and imprinted inside of the stone were, I kid you not, a Bible and a crucifix. He had this T-shirt that he wore, featuring a portrait of the crucifixion on the front and the words "The Lord's Gym: His Pain, Your Gain" on the back. He made me mix tapes filled with contemporary Christian love songs with lyrics like "Love is patient, love is kind..." With S., I never accompanied him to church (he belonged to a Missionary congregation, which even in this phase of my life kind of freaked me out), but we did sit around and talk about how Blessed we were.

We also made out. A lot. So much so that one night, S. tried to take things a lot further than I wanted to go. When I refused and pushed him off of me, he hung his head and praised my "purity." The next weekend, he broke up with me during a trip to the county fair, in front of that game where you throw a ball into a goldfish bowl to win a goldfish.

M. and I actually ended up getting back together later on in my sophomore year, and we dated on and off until the summer after he graduated from high school. Throughout that time, he seemed to be able to turn his leanings - both religious and, uh, recreational - on and off like a light switch, seemingly unphased by the fact that he was, say, GOING TO CHURCH with a hickey on his neck from a girl who was NOT HIS GIRLFRIEND. But whatever. In the end, the light switch seemed to have been permanently switched to the "on" position: I tearfully sent him off to his college of choice, a religious school in Florida where he took only Bible-based classes, was prohibited from watching movies with ratings other than G, and was only allowed to be alone with females for a 2-hour period each Saturday afternoon. He met his future wife there, and in their engagement photo (which my mom helpfully clipped from the newspaper and mailed to me at college) he wore a shirt that I has bought for him. Last I heard, he is working as a missionary in Australia.

My own religious life has taken a beating, what with my disastrous high school dating ventures as well as a miserable experience with a Christian group on my college campus. As an adult, I'm constantly trying to ferret out what it is that I believe, as opposed to the things I've been told I believe. I'm getting there, and so far the journey has been pretty interesting, so I really shouldn't complain.

But as for finding romance with Christian Singles, I think I'm done with that. Now my dates look more like last night did, sitting on the couch with my agnostic husband, eating pizza and wings and watching a basketball game on TV. I'll take that over class rings and the county fair any day.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

Stubbly

I'm just wondering...

In what universe is it appropriate women's-gym-locker-room behavior to blatantly stare at my (admittedly unshaven) legs, look up at me in clear horror, and then slowly look down again at my legs with a patented Head Shake of Disgust?

None?

Yeah, that's what I thought too.

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

You can take the girl out of Indiana...

In general, residents of Indiana can be divided into three distinct categories: Indiana University fans, Purdue fans, and Notre Dame fans. My family? Notre Dame, through and through.

I have loved Notre Dame basketball for as long as I can remember. Growing up, my dad would take me to games as a special treat. These games were my arena rock concerts, my visits to Disneyland. One year we even got season tickets. That was a very good year. My basement bedroom was papered with green cut-out leprechauns, shamrocks, block letters spelling out the words "Fightin' Irish." I clipped and hung photographs of team members as if they were pin-ups of movie stars from "Teen Beat" magazine. I was a girl in love.

Loving Notre Dame basketball requires a certain tolerance for frustration and heartbreak. The team has not always excelled at, well, winning games. Especially not when I was at the peak of my obsession, during junior high and early high school. Losing games could leave me angry or depressed for days. When watching from home, my dad and I would yell at the TV, occasionally throw things. "What are you doing? He's open! HE'S OPEN!!!!" "Hustle! You've got to hustle if you want to win, " I would chide the screen severely, knowingly. I only scolded because I loved.

When I was about 13 years old, a freshman point guard joined the team, a kid from Michigan named Brooks Boyer. He mostly sat the bench, coming in from time to time to shoot three-pointers. He was cute, all-American, muscled -- he became my Chosen One. I filled videotapes with footage of his time on the court. I squealed with delight (yes, even I have been known to squeal with delight) whenever he entered a game. If we happened to be at a game and Brooks missed a shot or turned the ball over, I shot an icy glare toward any spectator who dared to utter a critical sound. My loyalty was fierce and knew no bounds.

One day during eighth grade, I decided to write Brooks Boyer a letter. I penned a loving note, introducing myself to my beloved hoopster and informing him of the joy his presence on the court brought to my life. (I would like to think that this was an eloquent missive; however, what it probably actually said was something to the effect of "Hi. My name is Melinda. I like pizza and the color blue. Do you have a girlfriend?") I mailed the letter, care of the Notre Dame basketball office. And then, a few months later, I found an envelope with my name and address on it waiting for me in our mailbox. It looked like a normal handwritten piece of mail, nothing special, until I looked at the return address and saw that OH. MY. GOD. the name in the upper lefthand corner read BOYER. I think I peed my pants and bawled my eyes out, all at once. This was better than Kirk Cameron, better than any member of the New Kids on the Block, this - was Brooks Fucking Boyer, college basketball benchwarmer extraordinaire.

I still have the letter in a box of trinkets and memories at my parents' house, that's how much it meant to me. The content itself was nothing extraordinary -- some tidbits about upcoming games, a few sentences about his life at Notre Dame. But the best part? Was where he wrote that my note had really cheered him up after a long, tiring day. I read that part over and over again, barely able to grasp it. This Brooks Boyer, my weary warrior of the hardcourt, my superstar of the second-string, had been cheered up by ME. I think I floated, literally floated, for weeks.

Brooks Boyer has graduated and moved on, but my love for Notre Dame is as strong as ever. Despite the fact that the team members are my juniors many times over, they are still my rock stars. Especially when they do exciting things like trouncing an undefeated No. 4 Boston College team last night. Maybe it's time to dig out those old paper leprechaun cut-outs -- my bedroom walls have been looking a little bare lately...

Monday, February 07, 2005

Verses for the day after

I live next-door to two New England Patriots fans. I don't want to risk expressing any "preformed judgments" about these boys (as I so callously did to poor Leo Dicaprio in a previous post, according to the comment of one concerned reader) but I must let you know that these two particular fans/neighbors are pimple-faced kids with rage issues. I've composed a series of haikus in their honor, in the hopes that lyrics will help to assuage their explosiveness.

Last year, the Sox won.
True fans, you screamed all night and
smashed your own window.

Now, the Patriots.
Superbowl victory tastes
sweet as dollar beer.

But please, my neighbors -
It is after midnight and
the game is long done.

Kindly put your clothes
back on, turn down the reggae,
and stop shouting "WOOOOO!"

Love and peace,
the old lady next door

Sunday, February 06, 2005

If everyone else jumped off a cliff...

A friend recently suggested that I go see "The Aviator," so that I could be fully informed come Oscar night. I have seen all of the other best picture nominees, so it would make sense for me to check this one out as well. However, here's my dilemma: I don't want to see "The Aviator." When I first saw a preview for "The Aviator," I laughed out loud, that's how bad I thought it looked. Leonardo Dicaprio looks like an overgrown chubby-cheeked child, and unless he's playing a mentally retarded (or autistic?) kid in a Johnny Depp movie, I want nothing to do with him. So I'm torn -- do I turn my back on personal preference in favor of becoming informed so that I may reign supreme in Oscar pools, or do I hold firm to my principles and stay away? As recent history has shown me, an Oscar nomination does not necessarily an enjoyable movie make. Examples of instances when following the buzz rather than my better judgment has proved unsavory are as follows:

"Forrest Gump" (1994): Yes, I know that hating this movie is akin to kicking babies. Whatever. It blew.

"Braveheart" (1995): Otherwise known as The Passion of the Scot. This movie was like 17 hours long, and throughout the whole thing all Mel Gibson ever said was "Freedom!" "Why hello William Wallace, can I take your cape for you?" "FREEDOM!"

"As Good As It Gets" (1997): I'm sorry, did you say as good as it gets? Because I could've sworn it was as mind-numbingly boring as it gets. And let's just be honest -- nobody believes Helen Hunt and Jack Nicholson would ever be a couple, so why is my heart supposed to be warmed?

"Gladiator" (2000): Please. I think I was supposed to be awestruck by the shiny swords and the big battles, but in reality I fell asleep. Thank God we rented this one, so it was only a waste of $4.00.

So the question remains: do I throw caution to the wind and take a chance at repeating past mistakes, or do I save the cost of the movie ticket and buy myself a couple of burritos? Any suggestions are welcome.

Saturday, February 05, 2005

You are what you eat

I've been thinking a lot lately about food -- specifically, about how we use food to remind us (or others) of who we are or who we want to be. When I first moved to Massachusetts back in 2000, my first job was with a nonprofit serving victims of violence. Purportedly a nonjudgmental feminist workplace, this organization was staffed by a group of women who ruled the lunchroom with oppressive food-related tyranny. It was $9.00 salads from Bread and Circus or else! My peanut butter sandwiches, cans of soup, and microwaveable leftovers were met at first with disapproving glances which, over time, grew increasingly scornful. It bothered me at first, but I eventually grew to enjoy the challenge of finding fresh ways to horrify my colleagues with my eating habits. Frozen meals full of preservatives! Sandwiches made with Kraft singles and margarine! Is that.... no it couldn't be.... FAST FOOD?!?

I enjoy healthy food as much as the next person. My favorite food is Thai food, I love cooking with fresh veggies and experimenting with new recipes, and sometimes all I want in the world is a plate of perfectly cooked, crunchy-on-the-outside-but-soft-on-the-inside tofu. But I am also a midwestern girl through and through. I am from Amish country, and one side of my family actually is Amish, with my dad having been raised in the Kansas Old Order before moving to Indiana and leaving the church. I was raised on the Amish diet of heavy creams, full-fat dishes, lots of sugar in everything - even things you would never imagine should have sugar in them. In fact, ESPECIALLY things you would never imagine should have sugar in them. As much as I realize that a lot of the meals I was served growing up are not good for me, it's so important to me to keep these family food traditions active in my life. Eating this kind of food helps me feel close to my family, even though we are so far apart geographically; it helps remind me what makes me me.

So in the true spirit of my roots, when I make a dessert I don't mess around. Over the past couple of years I have added a number of family favorites to my repertoire, much to the delight of my husband's ridiculously fast metabolism. Whoopee pies - huge sandwich cookies made of chocolate cake, with a sugary cream filling; my grandma's sorghum cookies; my aunt's raspberry freeze; my cousin's custard pie. I have become the master of the Jell-o Cake, that unbelievably moist combination of boxed cake mix, unset jell-o poured into holes in the cake to create tasty ripples of artificially-fruity goodness, and whipped cream topping.

And don't even get me started on the ways I have come to emulate my mom's cooking. Because of my mom, I love salisbury steak and instant mashed potatoes, frozen sausage links, green beans with bacon in them. She is the master of the midwestern casserole, capable of creating works of art with cream of mushroom soup and Velveeta cheese. Yes, I said it, Velveeta cheese. Don't try to cross me on this one. I make a tasty soup out of Velveeta cheese, boxed scalloped potatoes, and canned tomatoes, and I WILL NOT BE SILENCED! And if you haven't yet tried making your grilled cheese sandwiches with Velveeta, just try it once and you can thank me later.

Tonight, I'm making meatloaf. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes, I think, with a recipe I got from off of FoodTV's website. The potatoes may be freshly boiled and mashed instead of instant, and the meatloaf may be topped with a salsa and garlic sauce instead of with ketchup, but I'd like to think I'm still keepin' it real, yo.

Thursday, February 03, 2005

Texas is for lovers

Teen moms of Texas, arise!

How awesome is this? A study commissioned by the Texas Dept. of State Health Services just found that Texas teenagers enrolled in abstinence-only education programs actually became increasingly sexually active after having participated. In Texas! On George W's home turf! Read the article -- my favorite sentence is this one:

"The federal government is expected to spend about $130 million to fund programs advocating abstinence in 2005, despite a lack of evidence that they work."

Nice. My high school had abstinence-only "sex ed." I think it was money wasted on me, though. I don't know if it was the James Dobson book that my mom gave me in junior high school that described the many paths connecting sex and eternal damnation, or if it was the string of oddly Christian boyfriends who did things like make me mix tapes of Amy Grant and Stryper songs -- either way, I had the whole abstinence thing pretty much covered. My high school, though? We had a day-care designed specifically to care for the children of students, more "child life" classes than you can shake a stick at, and the swing choir I performed with for 2 years - a group of 20 students - had to replace 3 singers due to pregnancy during the 2 years I was a member. That's abstinence-only education at work, people!

I wonder if this is what was meant by "no child left behind." Kids, that biological clock is ticking! Don't be left behind -- breed before it's too late!

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

Aggressive Lady With Car

I think I made an enemy last night, and I don't quite understand how it happened.

I sing in a choir that meets for rehearsal once a week. For the most part I enjoy this choir, aside from the presence of a small group of women who constantly try to turn rehearsals into sorority meetings ("So, if everyone could just pass their dues checks to the right, we can get started talking about the spring fundraiser!"), and the older woman who sits to my right who is LOUDER THAN GOD as well as, how shall i say it, vowel-challenged ("Kyreee-ahhhhhhh eelaaaaahson"). We sing music that is fun and challenging -- but not so challenging that I feel like a big talentless freak and not so "fun" that it is showtunes.

Anyway, several rehearsals ago I was enjoying some pre-rehearsal small talk with a woman I barely knew, and during the course of the conversation it came to light that we both lived in the same neighborhood. She casually (note how casual) offered to give me a ride home from rehearsal at some later, unspecified date (again, see, casual), as her car was in the shop that night and thus unavailable. I thanked her for the offer and that was that. I promptly forgot the whole conversation.

The next week, I left rehearsal at the end of the evening and walked outside, as usual, to wait for the subway. The subway, in this case, is an above-ground trolley, so one essentially catches it by standing in the middle of the street and hoping it doesn't fly past you. As I was doing just this, chatting with a few other choir members waiting for the train, I heard my voice being shouted from across the street. "Melinda! MELINDAAAAA!!!" I turned around. It was her, the woman who had offered me a ride the previous week. We'll call her Aggressive Lady With Car, or ALWC for short. She was standing on the sidewalk across several lanes of traffic, waving her arms and shouting. "Come get in my caaaaar!" she shouted. "Come now! I'm going your way!!!"

Ok, so this stressed me out. Her intentions? Spot-on, I'm sure. But her execution? All wrong. I could see the train pulling up in the distance, I was enjoying a conversation with my friends, and this woman was literally screaming at me across rows of speeding cars. I called back, "No thanks, I'm ok. But thank you!" She stared for a second, and then shouted again "But I'm going your way. I'm GOING YOUR WAY!!!" The train pulled up next to me. I felt all flustered and pressured and didn't know exactly why. I yelled one last quick "thank you -- see you next week," and boarded the train.

The next week, feeling somehow guilty for not accepting the ride (after all, it was a really kind offer), I replied in the affirmative when ALWC jingled her car keys in my direction. We climbed into her car after rehearsal, along with the two other singers to whom she regularly gives rides home. The problem with this scenario? Well, while ALWC lives in my neighborhood, these two other singers most certainly do not. The ride home took a full hour, about 15 minutes more than it takes by subway. The warm comfort of the car ride (instead of the cold jerky trip on the train) was a plus -- but, my friends, so is the much warmer comfort of my bed, and after a long day of work and rehearsal, getting to that bed as soon as humanly possible is my number one priority.

ALWC dropped me off at my house, calling me her "neighbor" and welcoming me to her "crew." Her enthusiasm made me nervous. How was I to tell her that I had already decided somewhere during the last hour that this was to be our one and only joyride together? How could I tell her that I choose the dark and sort-of-sketchy nighttime subway over her car, without insulting her? I decided I would tackle that issue next week. In the meantime, I sought advice. My boss told me to try the "I need private time to unwind at the end of my day, and the subway offers me this unique opportunity" line, while a friend advised me to pull out a pile of Important Looking Papers and sigh heavily, "I have so much reading to do." But when the time eventually came, I settled on the truth. "You know, I think I'm going to take the train. But thanks!"

And that's when I received The Glare of Doom. Her eyes narrowed, her face scrunched up, a little "hmph" came from her lips.

"It just... took a little bit longer last week ... than it does on the train." I felt like I was making an ass of myself, without really understanding why. "But I really appreciate it."

"Ok, that's fine," ALWC replied shortly, "but just so you know, I was perfectly happy to drive you." And with that she turned and walked away, clearly Not Pleased. I walked out to the subway, lamenting my situation with a couple of other choir members. Did I do something wrong? Why do I feel obligated as if ALWC and I were close friends, or had entered into some kind of contract? How can someone who barely even knows me be angry at me? Why was I made to feel like I was letting someone down? Thus far, the general consensus among those consulted has been: "yikes, what's with the pushy chauffeur routine?" But for me, I'm not so sure. I still feel oddly bad about the whole situation, still not sure how exactly I got myself into it. And, above all, one lingering question remains:

Should I wear a wig and sunglasses to the next choir rehearsal??