Anything Said: April 2005

Saturday, April 30, 2005

First and last month's rent

I have lived in some crappy apartments in my day. There was the crack-den I shared with two roommates during my senior year of college -- presided over by a distant slumlord, this apartment crumbled and molded to the point where it gave us all ringworm. The post-college apartment my friend Laurie and I shared in our nation's capital seemed lovely at first, until we began receiving nightly visits from a band of cockroaches, a downpour of filthy water from the upstairs apartment's bathroom, and drunken crazies that hung out at the bus stop on our corner until 4 in the morning.

The husband and I have been in our current apartment for a little over two years now. It is an old apartment, and we have endured its many old-house quirks (frequent fuse blows, doors that don't shut all the way, creaky heating system) due to the apartment's proximity to the subway and its semi-reasonable rent. HOWEVER. Our landlords, while nice (albeit clueless) people, have been terrible about keeping up with repairs. They have some kind of freakish aversion to plumbers and contractors, and insist on fixing things themselves using only a "For Dummies" guide checked out from the public library. Hence, when water from their upstairs bathroom began streaming through their floor (our ceiling) into our bathroom, it took weeks of pleading (on our part) and loudly experimenting with power tools (on their part) before it was finally fixed -- only to begin leaking again weeks later.

A few months ago, when our shower wall caved in and they could no longer deny the necessity of serious repairs, our landlords finally called in a contractor to replace the bathroom in our apartment. The contractor that they chose spoke no English and trampled his way through our apartment for two weeks, leaving rancid food scraps in our kitchen sink and often forgetting to lock, or even shut, our front door. When he was finished, he left behind a leaking faucet, leaking radiator, and -inexplicably- leaking kitchen sink. These leaks are his lasting legacy, as our landlords have yet to fix any of them despite our frequent reminders.

I share this tale of woe to illustrate how accommodating the husband and I are as renters. We SO DO NOT WANT to have to move, because moving is hell, and because we like our neighborhood and our low rent. We do not report our landlords for their poor attention to our repair needs; we pay rent on time and in full; we Play Well With Others. And how are we repaid for this kindness, you ask?

This is how: our landlords are selling the house. They are selling it, like, now - as in, they are having an open house in our apartment tomorrow, where all kinds of strangers will stomp through our home and open our cupboards and touch our belongings and IT'S JUST ALL WRONG. All of a sudden, there is a For Sale sign in our front lawn. To me, the sign does not just say "For Sale" -- it says "For Sale to New Buyers Who Will Kick You Out of Your Apartment Just Months Before You Are Scheduled to Move to Chicago, Melinda."

Yes, the Chicago move is final. The husband accepted a post-doc, it's a done deal. We are moving in the fall. Which means that if the new buyers of our apartment decide to boot us (which they can totally do, since we have a month-to-month lease), we are up shit creek. We will have to move and do all the move-related-chores (packing, schlepping, forwarding our mail, etc.) for a period of mere months. And what kind of short-term lease or sublet will we have to deal with? I am already having visions of myself having to put everything I own into storage so that I can move into a spare bedroom in some smelly college-student den of porn.

And speaking of porn... sweet readers, what are your thoughts on general open house etiquette? To leave the house in inappropriate condition, or not to leave the house in inappropriate condition? Because I'm thinking, if our landlords are going to spring this last-minute "hope you don't mind that we're inviting strangers into your home with no advance notice" crap on us, we can at least have some fun with it. Please vote for your favorite of the following:
A. Discrete candy dish filled with condoms on the coffee table
B. Dozens of clear plastic cups filled with apple juice in the fridge, to indicate urine samples.
C. Signs taped inside the fridge and cupboards reading "Mind your own business!"
D. Blow-up doll in bed.

Thursday, April 28, 2005

Good for what ails you

I've had a couple of bad days, what with my ankle and my stress level and being yelled at by the maladjusted check-out woman at Starmarket last night. I've been sitting here staring at the computer screen for 15 minutes, and I haven't been able to think of anything interesting or witty to write about. Everything I want to say sounds grouchy. Meh. So here is my attempt to shake stuff up, Pollyanna-style. Here, for my own benefit more than anything else (but you can stay and read if you are nice and don't yell at or poke me), are Reasons I Should Quit Whining:

(note: this is NOT an Oprah Winfrey gratitude journal. I resist that woman's voodoo powers.)

1. The usual: I'm healthy, my family is healthy, my friends are healthy.
2. I have all my teeth, unlike the mean check-out woman at Starmarket who yelled at me last night.
3. I am not the mean check-out woman at Starmarket who yelled at me last night.
4. Constantine got voted off American Idol.
5. As of today, Tom Cruise and Joey Potter are now officially dating, which is excellent news as far as my Star magazine subscription goes.
6. I cooked dinner last night, so tonight I don't have to.
7. I get to see my niece in 2 weeks.
8. I get to sleep late in 2 mornings.
9. I have three flavors of ice cream in the freezer right now, and only one is freezer-burned.
10. As Anne Shirley says, "Tomorrow is a new day, with no mistakes in it yet."

What are you happy about?

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Dearly beloved...

If I could reinvent the whole institution of marriage, here's what I would do: first of all, clearly it would be open to all. I'm talking about sexual orientations here, not marrying your cousins or your siblings or your pets. I'm talking about girls marrying boys, girls marrying girls, and boys marrying boys -- essentially, folks being allowed to marry whomever it is that they happen to love. Because, people, I implore you: can we REALLY still be debating this point?

Next, maybe I wouldn't call it marriage. Maybe the churches can keep their "marriage," and the rest of us can have something else. Maybe we can call it "hangin' out," or "joined." Maybe we can call it "unity," or something else sufficiently Unitarian. I don't know. I just feel like if individual churches got to do "marriage" and everybody else got to do, basically, the equivalent of civil unions, then there's no way (or should be no way, anyway) that anyone, gay or straight, could be denied their right to be legally joined to the one they love.

Also, I would do away with pre-marriage blood tests. I got married in Vermont, so I didn't have to do those. But they always seemed dumb to me.

In my perfect marriage world, the words "Who gives this bride away to be married?" would not exist. Because next thing you know, people are going to be selling their brides at Goodwill, or trading their brides for dry goods.

Also, there should be a manual that gets handed out at the very moment at which you and your beloved are pronounced legally wed. This manual should detail things like the following: that no matter what you decide to do with your last name - someone, somewhere will judge you (I am a controlling bitch who doesn't love her husband -- what are you?); that you will not always be good at being married - but what's important is that you always try to be; that you should remember to take advantage of the fact that you get to live with someone whose job it is to say things like, "Why do you even watch this show? We both already know that YOU are America's Next Top Model"; that sometimes bad things happen, like you may hurt your ankle during the same week that your spouse's dissertation is due, and while that may suck and result in neither you nor your spouse getting the attention and sympathy that is rightfully yours, this too shall pass. The manual should be spiral-bound and should include stickers, because who doesn't love stickers?

And finally, I would put some kind of cap on the amount of marriages each celebrity is allowed to have. Didn't anyone ever tell these people that they are not legally required to marry each other, that it's ok just to DATE? Because 3 or 4 marriages in as many years? That's just crazy talk.

Monday, April 25, 2005

Boredom like a river flows

Things I have discovered after 2 days of lying on the couch with my ankle elevated:

1. The television show "Nashville Star." Like American Idol, but with more twang and more thanking God. The contestants wear PG-rated clothing and cowboy hats, perform little snippets of popular country music songs, and then are judged and voted off. And one of the judges? (This is the awesome part.) Is Bret Michaels, the lead singer of the 80s hair-band Poison, who is now trying to reinvent himself as a country music artist. While the contestants are performing, sometimes the camera pans to Bret and finds him rocking some air-guitar or, better, air-drums with his eyes closed. On one episode (yes, I watched more than one episode - they were airing a marathon), Bret even got on stage and performed "Every Rose Has A Thorn," backed up by a full country ensemble including a fiddler. Where have you been all my life, "Nashville Star"?

2. When you physically are not able to clean your house, everything looks 10 times dirtier than it did 5 minutes ago.

3. I do not enjoy lying on the couch as much as I though I did.

Sunday, April 24, 2005

Gimpy

I turned my ankle on Saturday night. The husband and I were walking to a coffee shop, where we were going to spend a lovely evening relaxing with hot beverages, travel guides, and some paper on which we would compose elaborate and detailed plans for our rapidly approaching vacation. Apparently, I should have known better than to engage in risky behaviors such as, you know, putting one foot in front of the other. About halfway to our destination, my ankle gave out and I fell in a heap in the middle of an intersection.

This is only about the 47th time that my ankle has given out on me. Before yesterday, the last time it happened was a few months ago, when I was headed out the door to meet a friend for dinner at a local neighborhood restaurant. My front steps were covered in snow and ice, and I lost my footing and wiped out. I had to hobble back inside, call the restaurant, and say, "Do you see a cute, short brunette sitting there in the waiting area? Yes? Can you put her on the phone please?"

Essentially, my left foot is attached to my left leg by a few thin strings where an ankle is supposed to be. This lack of a functioning ankle is entirely my fault and can be traced back to my senior year of college, when I first injured the ankle in question by falling off the side of the sidewalk while walking home from class. A stranger driving by stopped, scraped me off the pavement, and took me to my apartment (God bless Iowa), and I refused to go see a doctor until, at about 4:00 the next morning, the pain become so unbearable that I drove myself to the emergency room. I was x-rayed, pronounced "severely sprained," and given an air-cast, ibuprofen, and crutches. The aircast and ibuprofin I used; the crutches, not so much. I was a Very Important college student with lots of Very Important papers about the gendered lens of Elizabeth Bishop's tourist-centered poetry to write, and I could not waste time trying to maneuver myself around campus on crutches. Please!

But because bad decisions are so much more fun in pairs, I was not yet finished in my quest to do as much damage to my body as possible. I thought -- what would be an awesome thing to do with an ankle that is still healing from a severe sprain? I know! I'll go on a 150-mile hike through the mountains! And so it came to pass that I embarked upon a 3-week post-graduation trip, hiking the Vermont section of the Appalachian Trail with my air-cast stuffed into my hiking boot. I did get A's in college and grad school, but I don't always get them in life.

My ankle survived the hike, but it has never been the same. I can't wear shoes with heels even if I wanted to (which, fortunately, I don't), and I have to be hyper-vigilant about my foot positioning whenever I am walking, hiking, or otherwise exercising. I have lots of "little sprains," where my ankle turns but quickly rebounds, causing just a few days of minimal pain. I also have big painful sprains like yesterday's spill, where I have to get doped up on anti-inflammatories and keep my ankle elevated and iced for days. These sprains suck. Therefore, today sucks. Especially because I had saved pretty much everything I needed to do this weekend (most notably: a full house-cleaning) for today, and now I am too lame to get anything done. And I do mean lame in every applicable sense of the word.

I know that, really, this whole thing is my own fault. I know that I need to be more proactive in pursuing physical therapy, and I know that ibuprofin and air-casts are not longterm solutions. But for today, I am just going to wallow in my misery, nurse my wounds, and chalk the whole thing up to just another way The Man is trying to keep me down. How? I don't know. But The Man is always a reliable scapegoat, as far as I'm concerned.

Friday, April 22, 2005

Brush with fame

Yesterday, I spent two hours standing in line for last-minute rush tickets for the opening night film of a local movie festival. Normally, I Do Not Do waiting and/or lines. It also usually takes nothing short of a crane to get me out of my house on a weeknight, as I am an Old Lady and consequently need my rest. However, the film in question last night was A) directed by a cool Famous Actor (who was to be in attendance at the screening), B) filmed almost entirely in my middle-of-nowhere hometown, and C) written by a guy I used to sort of hang out with.

I can’t really call this guy a “friend,” because we haven’t spoken in years and never really had a highly personal relationship to begin with. You know how during high school or college people have a tendency to hang out in big groups? And you know how sometimes, with the way relationships work in those big groups, you can find yourself hanging out with the same person night after night without actually ever having a conversation with him/her? And you know how, when you actually do manage to have conversations with that person, you’re not really, um, “fully present” enough to remember what you talked about? Yeah. That’s how things were between me and the guy who wrote this movie. We hung out all the time, we had a lot of close friends in common, but since finishing college I’ve only seen or heard from him a couple of times.

Still. How cool is it that he wrote a movie? A movie that went to Sundance, and that has been traveling around to festivals across the country? A movie that was directed by an actor that the husband and I both love, and that starred actors that you have all definitely heard of? How cool is that? The answer: so, so cool.

I have an unhealthy obsession with movies. I love them. And if there is one thing that will get me off the couch on a weeknight, it is the opportunity to see my hometown on the big screen. If you are not from a small town, you have no idea. This was a Big Deal for my town. If you don’t believe me, take a look at the online archives for the local newspaper. Throughout the few weeks during which the movie was filming, the paper was filled with headlines touting the town’s newfound celebrity. “Local Man Gets Big Break During Scene At Applebee’s.” “Area Homemaker Bitten By Show Business Bug.” “Movie Stars in Town for Filming Are Nice, Pretty.”

I will admit that I had to sit on my hands while watching the film to keep from pointing and shouting: there’s the bar where I went on my 21st birthday! There’s Main Street! There’s the hospital where I was born! There’s the Guy Who Wrote the Movie’s house, in the subdivision back by the nursing home. There’s a cornfield! There’s another cornfield!

After the screening, there was a question and answer session with the director, who was greasy and funny and humble and lovely. And then, as I left the theater, I saw the guy who wrote the movie, walking quickly away down the street with a duffel bag strewn over his shoulder. We hugged and shared a couple of minutes of catch-up talk. I re-introduced him to the husband, who was still the fiancé the last time we saw one another. He showed me a picture of his new daughter; I pointed down the street to indicate where I live. And that was that. We went our way, and he went his (his way, I must point out, being toward the overpriced new bar in the neighborhood, our way being toward $4 burritos). Even though he is now the screenwriter for a Real Live Movie, a movie that I just stood in line for and watched, he still looked and seemed remarkably the same – a concept that just does not agree with the philosophy of celebrity worship to which I currently and unabashedly subscribe.

Because if the line between movies and real life is so easily crossed, if a place and people from my past can so easily show up on the big screen – then my obsession with the host of the Amazing Race might officially be considered stalking. And that, sweet readers, is a crime.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Green line. 10:30 PM. After a Red Sox game.

Your beer-breath smells great
as you yell "Shit yeahhhhh Red Sox!!!!"
Come, stranger - draw near.

This train is packed, and
you are shouting in my ear
while crushing my toes.

You don't have to tell
me you love me. I can tell
by your sweet gestures:

the rancid laughter,
the drunken shove from behind,
the bellowed refrain.

"GIVE ME A KISS, I'M
THE PIMP-MASTER OF THIS TRAIN!
RED SOX NUMBER ONE!!!!!!!!!"

I hope one day you
will overcome your shyness,
so our love can bloom.

Monday, April 18, 2005

Hot damn!

I just returned from a fabulous day of breakfasting with friends, cheering for Boston Marathon runners, and watching post-race action movies. Marathon runners are just awesome, you know? They push their bodies to the limit, run and sweat in the hot hot sun, and still manage to easily throw out a happy wave or a smile when they hear you call out encouraging words to them. My friends and I followed the racers to three different points along the course, stopping to watch and jump around and shout at people we didn't know. Some of the runners wore their names or other identifying info on their clothing, so we could personalize our cheering: "Keep it up, Karen!" "Hang in there, Mike, you're doing great!" "Woooo Canada! You go, Canadian guy!" With others, we had to be more creative: "Hells yeah, shirtless guy! You don't need no shirt, shirtless guy!"

By the time we got to the final stretch to watch the runners bring it all home, damn if they didn't look like they had been to hell and back. But they also had this sort of glow about them, somehow. And I don't think it was just from the sun radiating off of their inch-deep layer of sweat and grime. (Mmmmmm... sweat and grime.)

The summary of this story is -- My husband just ran the Boston Marathon today.
In the words of Paris Hilton: "that's hot."

And to think, I feel proud of myself for doing 30 minutes on the Stairmaster instead of 25.

Saturday, April 16, 2005

Nobody can read 50 books

This year, I am trying to complete the 50 Book Challenge. This is a difficult task for me. I love to read, but am not a fast reader by any means and usually forget the basics of a book (i.e. : plot, character names, etc.) right after I read it. This is embarrassing when you are, you know, a LIBRARIAN. But anyway. Reading 50 books in one year would be big for me. So far, my progress could best be described as... heartfelt, but slow. I just finished Book #13.

These days, my reading tastes usually center around general fiction, biography, and poetry. For the challenge, I am trying to explore different genres with which I may not be very familiar. For example: mystery. I went to the public library and took my first trip downstairs to the "Mystery and Horror" section, where all the books are marked with a little red sticker of a skull and crossbones. I checked out and read two of them. Now, I am trying out what Amazon.com and Entertainment Weekly refer to as "chick-lit." This past week, I borrowed from the library a pile of books that I selected from "Best of Chick-lit" booklists I found online. On deck are titles like The Devil Wears Prada and Good in Bed. They look funny and fun, and their covers are shiny. I am intrigued.

When I was a kid, there was a picture of my little grubby face next to the word "bookworm" in the dictionary. (And yes, I did confirm that "bookworm" really is in the dictionary before writing that sentence. Please.) There was no need to make book lists back then, because my reading was entirely driven and guided by that tool of delicious brain-suckage that is the Series Book. I was 13 years old, and I loved me some V.C. Andrews. I actually loved me some V.C. Andrews when I was 12 but I wasn't allowed to actually have the books myself until I was 13, so my best friend Kara would read her copies to me over the phone. That whole "No V.C. Andrews Until You're 13" rule seems a little odd, looking back. Like, is 13 the magic age at which it becomes appropriate to read about incest, the evil children that are the products of incest, and the murder of said children with poisoned breakfast pastries?

I also loved those books about teenagers who were dying of terrible diseases, like cancer and lupus and juvenile arthritis. They always had titles like Too Young to Die, Please Don't Let Me Die, and I Want to Live. In almost all of them, the main character is diagnosed, then sent away to a summer camp for kids who have the same disease, where she/he meets a best friend who is very sick but also eternally optimistic, who then dies, leaving the main character sad and wistful but determined to "fight this thing and win."

Also, I will admit to having read the Sweet Valley High books. Remember sweet, studious Elizabeth and daring, trampy Jessica? Remember they drove a red Fiat convertible and had matching gold lavalier necklaces? Remember when Elizabeth went against her parents' wishes and took a ride on Todd's motorcycle and they crashed and she ended up in a coma and then she woke up except she had a new slutty personality and she went to a party where Bruce Pattman cupped her breast and called her "Sweet Liz"? Remember that? Whatever. You totally do.

After my most recent trip to the library this past week, I jumped in and read a book by an Oprah-endorsed author, a book with a shiny cover, a book that played a dirty trick on me. It was a story about two people who fell in love as teenagers and then were kept apart by cruel circumstances beyond their control. They were separated after a horrible car accident and didn't see or speak to each other again until years later, when they both found themselves in Africa and married to other people. Then, again, they got torn from each other, only to find each other once again later on in life, when they are both successful poets giving readings at the same conference. The story is told in "reverse," so it starts at the poetry reading and ends with the car accident.

I got kind of into the story, as it was filled with enough angst to fuel two or three Lifetime made-for-tv movies. (Which is a good thing, in case you were wondering.) But then. At the end of the book. The author up and pulled one of those "It was all a dream" punches, and it turned out that the whole book never happened. One of the main characters was dead the whole damn time. The hell? Then why did I just spend all week reading about her?

Is this the kind of thing Oprah generally endorses? Because if so, I'm not so sure this genre is for me.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

Stupid Cross, Not So Smart Shield

I just received a claim summary from Blue Cross Blue Shield, referencing my recent trip to the travel medicine clinic for immunizations. Before visiting yon travel medicine clinic, I had called BCBS to make sure that such immunizations were covered under my insurance plan. I was assured by customer service rep "Sheila" that they were. And behold: sister-friend of the blue cross and the blue shield was not lying -- on the claim summary I received today, each and every immunization was indeed covered. What was not covered, however? Was the office visit at the travel medicine clinic, during which I received said immunizations.

No, I am totally serious.

Apparently, I am entitled to my immunizations. I am just not entitled to GO SOMEWHERE TO GET THEM. Mail-order self-immunization kits are apparently all the rage with Blue Cross Blue Shield customers.

"Sheila," if that is your real name: I think we need to have a little talk about our relationship. In short - I'm not fulfilled.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Pop culture watch -- criminal activity edition

So, ok. Is it too much to ask that my "American Idol" contestants NOT beat up their girlfriends? I understand that I am a grown woman who follows television shows that are targeted to teenagers, and as such I really shouldn't ask for much. I understand that a show centered around sexed-up student council members performing Edwin McCain covers does not list political correctness among its main priorities. HOWEVER. When a female contestant several seasons ago was found to have posed for an "adult" website, she was promptly booted from the competition. Likewise, when it came out that another prior contestant, a guy this time, had gotten into a violent fight with his sister, he was also kicked off the show. But now, current finalist Scott Savol's criminal background has been revealed, and it includes being arrested for threatening, shoving, and throwing a phone at his girlfriend, all in front of his 3-week old son. Charming. I mean, I knew from watching the show that he was ugly and had some problems dressing himself, but now my vague suspicions that he is also a colossal dick have been confirmed.

Now Scott, of course, was also promptly booted off the show. Oh, wait. That's right. He TOTALLY WASN'T. Instead, he was allowed to stay, because he was "honest and forthcoming" with producers about his arrest. See, the other previous contestants who had gotten into trouble with the po-po's had both failed to reveal their criminal histories to producers early on in the process of auditioning for and filming the show. Producers claim that these contestants were kicked off not for their bad deeds, but for lying about them. Gather 'round, kids -- American Idol wants to teach you a little lesson about morality. Lying = evil. Don't do it lest ye burn in hell. Beating on your girlfriend in front of your baby son = generally not advisable, but at least you were honest about it. Now here's a cookie.

Also, remember Chris Klein? That guy from the American Pie movies? No, not that one -- the nice, clean-cut one. The one who was engaged to Joey Potter until they broke up a couple of months ago? People, I just read today that he was arrested for drunk driving! The humanity! Is nothing sacred? If I can't look to reality TV and teen sex comedies for my celebrity role models, where can I look?

(And also, in the category of Things That Are Not Yet Criminal But Should Be: Britney Spears and the guy with the ratty bandana have produced spawn. So... does that mean she's not a virgin anymore? Cause she totally had me convinced.)

Monday, April 11, 2005

Fun with work history

I am casually job-hunting. I say "casually" because I like my job and don't necessarily want to leave it, but I have started to check online job boards for the Chicago area in the event that the husband and I do decide to take the plunge and move there. This has got me thinking a lot about the whole job-search process: the resume-crafting, the cover letter sales pitch, the ridiculous "thank you" cards that must be sent out after interviews -- as if anyone is actually thinking, like, "thank you so much for allowing me to sit through that verbal vivisection; I really enjoyed the opportunity to feel unqualified in your presence."

If only people were allowed to be honest during the job-search process, then it might be a lot more fun. I think my resume would be a lot more interesting to read if it listed my actual job duties (and resulting qualifications) over the years, as opposed to being littered with phrases using the words "implemented," "initiative," and "liaison." Like, if I were to send out a resume based on the hours of labor I've contributed to the working world from the time I was a teenager up through college graduation alone, I think it could get me to an entirely different place in my career. Would you hire me, based on the following experience:

- Waitress at a Nursing Home. (High school job) Served meals to senior citizens in a pink-walled "assisted living facility." They always forgot what they ordered. They weren't allowed to leave us tips, so sometimes they left us balled-up kleenexes or religious articles torn from Reader's Digest instead. We thanked them by pretending not to notice when they lost bladder control at the dinner table.

- Cashier at CVS. (High school job) I worked both of these jobs at the same time, and this was my favorite. Regularly "borrowed" (stole) candy and soda because I thought it was my due. Also gave my friends discounts on cigarettes and magazines. And peeked at customers' photos in the photo lab. Once a man threw a Cadbury Creme Egg at my head in anger because we were out of some sale product he wanted. He missed.

- Line worker at car parts factory. (Summer before college) Cowered in front of large machinery. Cried in the bathroom on my first lunch break. Quit after three days, when a lecherous man tried to touch my butt and then wanted to drive me home in his "sweet truck."

- Cashier at Ben Franklin Arts and Crafts. (Summer before college) Sold lots of fake flowers and sequins. This job sucked. Old ladies who obsess over doll house furniture and scrapbooks are mean.

- Serials Assistant at my college library. This was an 8-hour-per-week work study job. Really boring work, but nice people. And cushier than working in the dining hall.

- Salad Bar Bitch at the Ponderosa Steakhouse. (College summer job #1) Worst job ever. Served cheese sauce and jello salad and fried chicken wings to Very Large People. Had to wear a dress shirt, suspenders, knee-length green denim shorts, and a cap. People repeatedly called me "sir."

- Editorial Intern at a small-town newspaper. (Summer job #2) Covered parades, county fairs, beauty pageants, and anything cute done by children. Interviewed three Elvis impersonators in the course of one summer. Quietly seethed.

- Youth care worker at a home for at-risk girls. (Summer job #3) Spent 40+ hours a week being called names by children who had set fires to their pets and masturbated with Ken dolls. Drove said children around in a 10-passenger van and tried not to die.

I think if I were to present these qualifications to a potential employer in lieu of my standard professional resume, a lot of new doors would be opened for me. I don't know if I would choose to walk through those doors, but it would at least promise to be a more colorful experience. Maybe my next great career opportunity (tupperware lady! my own paper route!) is just around the corner...

Sunday, April 10, 2005

The feet of a clown, part 2

Weeks ago, I posted about the angst I experience over shoe-shopping. Yesterday, with the help of my friend S., I came one step closer to overcoming this problem. S. is a friend who bears many gifts. First, she subscribed me to Star magazine for my birthday, which is decidedly awesome. Second, she dates a lovely man who owns (and throws parties centered around) both Dance Dance Revolution and Karaoke Revolution, which is also decidedly awesome. And third, yesterday she took my hand and guided me to a place where big-footed girls can frolic like the petite-stepping glamour girls we are in our hearts, heads held high and caution thrown to the wind. And that place? Is Designer Shoes.

I offer you the link to this store's URL as a public service. So awesome is this place, that you don't even have to live in Massachusetts to enjoy the spoils of their riches. You can shop online! They have up to size 15! They carry double-wides! And the shoes are not the dregs -- they are cute and in style! And you don't have to pick from like 5 pairs that happen to be in your size, because - they are ALL in your size, and there are tons from which to choose.

But if you are in Massachusetts and do choose to visit the lovely retail store, you won't be sorry. Because the saleswomen? Are nice and friendly and happily say "Sure!" when you ask to see the cute strappy sandal in a size 11M. You can even try on all the Carrie Bradshaw shoes with, like, 6-inch heels and sequined purple fringe, because those come in your size too.

And when you're done shopping there, you can also mosey on over to this other store called Tall Girl, which sells really long slacks and jeans, and shirts that extend down below your belly button. If you go with my friend S., she will probably try on and buy leather pants. Because that's what she did yesterday. And it was decidedly awesome.

Saturday, April 09, 2005

Why I love my husband

Because while watching a production of "The Phantom of the Opera" at The Opera House last night, for which we had gotten free tickets, the thundering Casio-keyboard-inspired music inspired him to lean in to me and whisper "There's so much synthesizer - I keep waiting for the Phantom to shout: 'I'm KILROY! KILROY!'"

Thursday, April 07, 2005

Embarrassing moment #537

So, work with me here.

Let's say you're walking from the subway stop to your place of employment. It's a crisp, clear morning; you've got your headphones on; you're early because you are participating in a tech-y training session for a new software package your office is adopting. La-di-da,it's a lovely day.

You cross a sidestreet by way of a well-marked crosswalk. Isn't it great how cars have to yield to pedestrians in crosswalks in your city? Oh wait, what's that -- SCREEEECH!! You jump back to the side of the street. A man in a gargantuan compensation-for-tiny-manhood-mobile, a black SUV with some kind of yuppie canoe-contraption strapped to the top, has almost run you over. Not content to embody just part of the cliche, he is, of course, talking on his cell phone. He is wearing a smarmy suit and has shellacked hair. He has screeched to a stop about 3/4 of the way through the intersection, so that you have to walk in a wide semi-circle around the front of his car in order to cross the street.

You cross in front of him, and while doing so you meet his eyes with your patented Glare and HeadShake Combo of Righteous Disgust, the one that you reserve specifically for minions of The Man. Due to how close you came to bodily injury, you also mouth the word "asshole" at him for good measure. The driver looks disinterested. You continue on your way.

About three minutes later, you arrive at your place of employment.You are walking through the parking lot toward the front door of the building when you notice a familiar vehicle parked in one of the visitor spots. It is a black SUV with a yuppie canoe-contraption strapped to the top.

Of course, you think to yourself. Naturally, this is how things would unfold.

You go inside. You take off your coat. You walk into the room where your training is to take place. You are introduced to the software developer, a man in a smarmy suit with shellacked hair. He shakes your hand and says to you, "Have we met?"

Monday, April 04, 2005

Tonight, we took Agnes and Mildred to our friend E's house, for a playdate with her rabbit Aaron.

This is Aaron. In this photo, he appears to be thinking, "I will destroy you and all you stand for." But actually, he is cute and nice. He is, after all, a bunny.

It took much prodding, and some time spent on opposite sides of a gate...

...but finally, pig and rabbit joined together for some sweet, sweet ass-sniffing. Success!

Sunday, April 03, 2005

Q & A

GuusjeM, a fellow librarian from Texas whose blog is one of my daily reads, was kind enough to initiate me into the world of blogger fads by sending me "Five questions" via her site. This essentially means she read my blog, wasn't too repulsed by the frequent mentions of burping and scratching, and came up with a couple of things she'd like to know more about. The answers are below. Who knows? Those who comment may happen to find five questions of their very own coming their way.

1. Guinea Pigs - most folks opt for cats or dogs or fish if they want something low maintenance. Why Guinea Pigs (though they are awfully cute!)?

Simple: we rent our apartment and are at the mercy of pet-hating landlords. Guinea pigs are about the only pet we are allowed to have. We wanted an animal with which we could interact -- nothing against fish or turtles or pet rocks, but they don't provide much love. Of course, as it turns out, neither do guinea pigs... but at least they provide entertainment by furious squeaking and humping.

2. You did a post on your father being raised Amish till he left the church. Did you ever go and visit grandparents and such or did leaving mean excommunication?

Yes, growing up we visited my dad's side of the family in Kansas every other summer. It was, and is, a huge part of my life. Not all Amish practice excommunication, and fortunately my family is among those that don't. When I was a kid, almost all of my dad's siblings (there are 9 of them) were still Amish. Over the years, many of them have left the church, and now I only have a few aunts and uncles and a number of cousins who are still Amish. My grandparents, though, were Old Order Amish until they died. My childhood memories are really rich with the experiences I had with that side of the family. I hope my own kids get to make similar memories.

3. Since we are both librarians; I just have to ask - what pushed (dragged?) you into the profession?

I was neither pushed nor dragged. I went willingly. I finished college thinking I would go into social work, specifically working with victims of domestic violence and rape. I then proceeded to spend two years working full-time with victims of domestic violence and rape, and realized that it wasn't in me. I'll always care about that work and be grateful that there are people who can do it full-time, but I'm not one of them. I went "career-shopping," discovered librarianship, and started grad school in library science. While grad school was a soul-sucking experience, so far the career has been a great fit. I get to learn stuff every day, read a lot of books, and use my organizational skills and know-it-all tendencies for good and not evil.

4. I guessing you live in Boston, or close to it. What's the best part of living there? What's the worst?

The worst part of living in the Boston area? The accents. The crowding. The batshit crazy drivers. Rent prices. Mean people. Street parking. Being far away from my family.
The best part? My excellent friends. Abundant folk music. Anna's Tacqueria.

5. What prompted you to take up blogging?

Blog envy, basically. I read lots of blogs, but was always too nervous to start one of my own. When my friend Dori started her great blog, Strongly Worded, I decided there was safety in numbers and started one of my own.

Wow, that exercise just made me feel very narcissistic. I'm going to go think about world peace for awhile or something...

Saturday, April 02, 2005

K-I-D-S Kids Incorporated

I heard the Black Eyed Peas on the radio this morning and felt inspired -- not to "get it started," as the song ordered, but rather to write a tribute to my favorite musical group and television show of days gone by. Because Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas will always be known to those of us who grew up with the Disney Channel in the 80s as Stacy, the youngest member of that glittery and bedazzled troupe of joy, that collective teacher of concise ethical lessons, that 20-minute daily musical marvel: Kids Incorporated.

What is Kids Incorporated, you ask? Sit down, my friend. This could take awhile.

Kids Incorporated was a 20-minute television show that aired from the mid-80s to the early-90s. I think it was originally supposed to be a full 30-minute program with commercials, but after its first year or so on the air it was punted over to the commercial-free Disney Channel, where it flourished with Republican-sponsored wholesomeness. The show followed the adventures, musical and otherwise, of a pop cover-band comprised of five kids under the age of around 17. The band, aptly named Kids Incorporated, held down a regular gig at a soda fountain joint named "The Place" (used to be called "The Palace" in its heyday, but the "a" in sign tragically burned out). The make-up of the band changed from season to season - but its glory years in my opinion were 1985-1986, when group members included very young versions of the aforementioned Stacy Ferguson, currently of the Black Eyed Peas, Renee Sands (later of the ill-advised sexed-out pop threesome Wild Orchid), Martika ("step by step, heart to heart, left right left, we all fall down like toy soldiers..."), and Mario Lopez (A.C. Slater) on the drums.

Each episode of Kids Incorporated told a story, a story in which the Kids Inc. crew taught its viewers a little lesson about life. Sometimes they did this by solving a troubling personal dilemma. Sometimes they did it by fighting crime. Sometimes they did it through exploring the healing powers of the dance. But always: they did it with music. Artfully woven throughout each episode were five musical numbers, performed by Kids Inc. band members in a way that tied each episode together as a narrative whole. The structure of each episode was a fixed point, and proceeded as follows:

1. Theme song and credits.
2. Opening musical number, performed by full group, on stage at The Place, in front of cheering "audience" of children.
3. Group members come off stage and set up the plot. The issue of the day is revealed.
4. The group returns to the stage for musical number #2. The song is usually peppy and often plot-related in its lyrics.
5. Again, the kids leave the stage. Further plot complications are revealed. There is angst, usually felt most strongly by one group member, who has thusly been revealed as the moral heart of the present episode.
6. Solo musical number, performed by the aforementioned moral heart or by another concerned party. The singer performs the number while strolling sadly through the playground, or while gazing wistfully out a window. No one understands his/her pain. Except for me.
7. More plot goings-on. A solution to the day's problem begins to be revealed. It may involve tomfoolery. It almost always involves teamwork.
8. Fourth musical number. This song is almost always plot-related in its lyrics, takes place "on location" (if the episode's problem is about shopping, the fourth musical number will be set in the mall), and involves costumes and dancing.
9. Problem solved! The episode's issue is brought to a close in the episode's final plot section, and a lesson is learned by all.
10. Final musical number, on stage at The Place. The group is in full concert atire, with matching sequined outfits, legwarmers, and the occasional fedora. Sometimes balloons and confetti are released. Jazz hands are used liberally.

The songs performed were popular pop songs of the day, with any potentially questionable lyrics changed. For instance, if a song used the work "kiss," the Kids Incorporated version often replaced it with "hug." No kissing for these crazy kids! The songs were usually significantly shortened, as well, in order to be able to fit them all into one jam-packed episode. My future life and the lives of those around me have been impacted in a very real way by all of this. To this day, I cannot listen to the radio without periodically announcing to all around me, "They sang this on Kids Incorporated," and then attempting to sing along, only to find that I only know one verse, the chorus, and the bridge. My college roommate has gotten to the point where, if I open my mouth to say "They sang this --," she cuts in with "ON KIDS INCORPORATED. I KNOW."

So obsessed with Kids Incorporated was I in my youth that I videotaped every single episode, memorized them, and then acted them out in my bedroom, using the folded-up top portion of my trombone music stand as a microphone. I was fully convinced that I was In The Band. My favorite plots to act out were the most angsty and/or elaborate: the one where the owner of The Place is rumored to be dying of kidney disease; the one where Stacy runs away from home because her parents won't let her have a rabbit (the reflective third-song solo in this episode, I remember, was "Honesty" by Bill Joel); the one where the gang is visited by an alien who is studying earth for a school project. This last one is particularly awesome, because the alien kidnaps Renee and, in response, she sings "Never Can Say Goodbye" while being held behind a forcefield.

I don't know what heartless bastard ultimately succeeded in taking Kids Incorporated off the air, but I for one will always have a special place in my heart reserved just for them. A few years ago, during my much-maligned ebay phase, I purchased several videotapes full of Kids Incorporated episodes, so that I could prove to my friends and my husband that the show really did exist. Every once in awhile, I will pull one of these tapes out and watch an episode. Everyone needs a nice ethics refresher every now and again. I try to keep the line-reciting and singing along to a minimum, though. Nobody needs to hear that.