Anything Said: May 2005

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

One last thing before I go...

Bo Bice was robbed!

That is all.

Vacation, all I ever wanted. Vacation, have to get away.

What? It's been going through my head for the past week, and now -- it is my gift to you.

The time has come. The bags are (almost) packed; the pigs are (almost) ready to go to their pig-sitters; we have (almost) ensured that we are not due to get kicked out of our apartment at any point during the next 17 days. Tomorrow, we are off to Africa.

The husband and I have never been on a big vacation together before. Our families are spread so far and wide that we almost always have to use any time off from work to visit them. You might think that I'm implying that vacations in Indiana, Maryland, Kansas, and Wisconsin are not action-packed and fabulous, but in actuality... well, that is pretty much what I'm implying. We have taken long weekend trips to Vermont or New Hampshire, and once we went on a five-day, relatively unremarkable getaway to Montreal. But other than that, our Archive of Vacation Lore is pretty empty -- with the exception of our honeymoon, that is, and that trip was such a thrill-ride of hanging out in ill-chosen B&Bs full of babbling seniors, howling in pain over post-wedding-anxiety stomach malfunctions, and pooping in the woods that I tend to file it away under Things I Have Endured rather than under Vacations.

My hope is that I will emerge from this voyage A) unscathed by the many, many hours on those horrible death traps you people insist on calling airplanes, B) still married, and C) with dozens and dozens of stories to tell. I may not get a chance to tell any of those stories on this here blog until I return, as I am not guessing that sitting in front of a computer screen will be my first priority when hanging out in a country where there are zebras running around like they own the place. But when I get back, watch your back - because I am totally going to be That Girl With The Photo Album Who Will NOT Shut The Fuck Up.

So look forward to that.

Monday, May 23, 2005

Goodbye to all that

This past weekend, I said farewell to the Unsatisfying Choir. We held our final concert on Saturday night. I have said farewell to many a choir in days past: the high school show choir for which I donned tap shoes, threw jazz hands like they were gang signs, and choked my way through endless medleys of God-fearing showtunes; the college choir which was directed by a crazy-eyed manchild and which went on a much-ballyhooed Spring "tour," performing concerts in abandoned-looking churches throughout Oklahoma and Texas; the post-college women's ensemble that sang happy little songs about bluebirds and sunshine, all the while making me feel like I was harboring a secret penis somewhere for my lack of unbridled glee at said song selections.

So saying farewell to the Unsatisfying Choir was just another in a long line of goodbyes. How sweet it was, though, on Saturday to hear the crazy old lady in the second row screeching out orders ("THE CONCERT STARTS IN AN HOUR, PEOPLE. DIDN'T YOU READ THE EMAIL STATING THAT NO ONE WAS TO WEAR STRONG-SMELLING PERFUME? IT IMPEDES MY BREATHING PROCESS.") for the. last. time.

The concert actually went fine. The husband and some friends came to watch, and they said they had a good time. After the performance, there was a reception for the choir and our guests (from which I totally bailed). We all had to contribute snacks and/or drinks, and as tempted as I was to have my lasting legacy to the choir be my potluck contributions of a 40 in a brown paper bag and a half-empty box of Snackwells, I opted for the mature route and brought some Diet Coke. But, still. I totally shook up the bottle on my way in. Take that, The Man.

Saturday, May 21, 2005

Educational Saturday

These are some things I have learned today already, and it is only 2:00 in the afternoon:

From the magazine rack at CVS: Oprah Winfrey just threw a huge party, ostensibly to honor 25 notable African-American women she admires, wherein she required all attendees (including the 25 honorees) to wear only either black or white, while she showed up in a lavish red ballgown. This is only one of the many reasons I loathe Oprah Winfrey.

From msn.com: Mary Kay Letourneau, second in my scandal-loving heart only to Amy Fisher, was married yesterday to her former student, the one she was imprisoned for having sex with when he was 13. She got married at the Columbia Winery outside of Seattle, where my friend M. got married last summer. I've been there! Finally! A link between me and Mary Kay!

From the EMS store in Harvard Square: EMS does not sell "low-tech" things such as plastic rain parkas. If you ask the EMS cashier for plastic rain parkas, he will laugh openly at you. You will feel the urge to remind him that he is a cashier at the EMS in Harvard Square, but you will resist this urge.

From my taste buds: Even if it is the official last remaining cold beverage in the fridge, do NOT sample the husband's oddly-colored Gatorade. There is a reason that it has been sitting in the fridge for half a lifetime.

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

If today were an episode of 90210...

...I would definitely be Brenda. OK, so Brenda may have been ahead of me in the fashion department -- she could rock a choker and a set of blunt-cut bangs like nobody's business. But aside from that - I would totally be Brenda. I'm self-centered and angsty! I'm snarly with a sensitive soul! Anyway, I'm not promiscuous enough to be Kelly Taylor and my IQ is too high to be Donna Martin, so Brenda it would have to be.

If today were an episode of 90210, I would have sauntered into work late, not concerned about timeliness because it is, after all, my own business that I started from scratch using seed money that somehow fell in my lap even though I have no qualifying degree or discernible skill-set. After all, that's how things happen on 90210. My best friends Kelly Taylor and Donna Martin would have come to visit on break from the clothing boutique they own in the mall, which they open and close at will even though they appear to have no employees except themselves. Oh, and Donna's ice-skating cousin who later turns out to be her sister.

If today were an episode of 90210, I would have stopped for lunch at the Peach Pit with Kelly and Donna. I would have sampled a burger and the peach pie, because I've always been an eater despite my small frame and creamy complexion. Kelly would have had a side salad and a water, due to body image issues resulting from her recent indoctrination into a cult and her addictions to both cocaine and diet pills. Donna would have eaten whatever her boyfriend Ray told her to eat. While we munched our meals, I might have engaged Ray in a little conversation, asking him the following: "How do you talk to an angel? How do you hold her close to where you are? How do you talk to an angel?" His answer, of course, would have been something along the lines of "It's like trying to catch a falling star."

If today were an episode of 90210, I would have closed out my day by going home to have dinner with my husband Dylan McKay. Yes, I know he went through a lot after I moved away to England for college -- he got together with my best friend Kelly, he watched his dad get blown up by a car bomb and then later found out that he was still alive but in hiding, he married the girl from the Noxema commercials only to have her get murdered by gunmen on their wedding day, etc. etc. BUT, come on. We all know he was meant for me. Remember how we did the nasty after the Spring Dance? Remember how we fought The Man through the anti-establishment nature of our love? Remember how "our song" was, inexplicably, "Losing my Religion" by REM? How could destiny hold anything else for us but marriage and Brenda-Dylan spawn?

Who am I kidding, though? If today were an episode of 90210, I would have totally ended up being Andrea Zuckerman. Because, please. That girl wore some serious librarian-worthy eyeglasses.

Monday, May 16, 2005

Romance

The scene: my couch.

The husband: [tries unsuccessfully to snuggle]

Me: [flips tv channel to an episode of "The Bachelor"]

The husband: Come here, or I won't give you my final rose.

Me: I've already got your final rose.

The husband: Nuh-uh. What if I give it to someone else?

Me: YOU'VE GOT NO FINAL ROSE TO GIVE.

[Silence. It is revealed that one of the female contestants vying for the heart of The Bachelor is named "Chrissalee."]

The husband: Can we name our first daughter Tiffalette?

Sunday, May 15, 2005

An open letter to my hideous landlords

Dear Hideous Landlords:

Greetings. I am one half of the couple who rents the first floor of your house. You may not recognize me without the $1,300 check in my hand, but rest assured it is still me. Lately, I've noticed that we have been having somewhat of a communication breakdown, and I wanted to take a moment to clarify in writing a few of the points that we have touched upon in recent conversations. Don't worry; I will try to use small words.

Item the first: We understand that you are selling the house in which we live. That sucks, and I just want to put that out there.

Item the second: That being said, remember how when you first told us that you were moving, you assured me that we would be given 24 hours notice before you entered our apartment to show it to any prospective buyers? Yeah, remember that? Because I do. Maybe you'd like to borrow my watch, because you seem to be having some problems calculating how many hours make up a full 24-hour period. I'll give you a hint: if you call me at work in the morning and ask me if you can come that afternoon, that's not quite cutting it.

Item the third: When I tell you that I have family visiting for four days to celebrate my husband's graduation, and when you assure me that you will not disturb our celebration with any house-selling-related business, and then when you go ahead and schedule an inspection anyway for first thing in the morning on the day of my husband's graduation and the first day of our family's visit -- well, that's pretty much a shitty stunt to pull. Karma's a bitch.

Item the fourth: You know that voice mail you left me on Wednesday, the one in which you said that you "just happened to notice" that our kitchen sink was leaking into the basement, and wondered if we might permit you access to our apartment that afternoon in order to fix it? Well, of course -- go right ahead! How nice of you to be concerned about the condition of our living space! I'm sure you just innocently forgot the fact that that sink has been leaking for months, that we have in fact notified you several times in person and in writing of the leak, that you have in fact already inspected the leak with us at least twice, and that you have consistently put off fixing it, leaving us with smelly, rotted wood under our sink where the leaky dishwater gathers. I'm sure that it is just a total coincidence that you finally got around to fixing it the day before the inspectors came to evaluate the house for your potential new buyers.

Item the fifth: By the way, covering up rotted wood with cheap-looking contact paper is not exactly convincing. But, you know, whatever.

Item the sixth: And just a note for future reference, in case you have tenants again sometime in the future: "My husband is very emotional these days," is not an acceptable excuse for trampling on your tenants' rights and disregarding their interests. File that away somewhere.

Anyway, hope that clears some things up. Stop by the apartment sometime if you have any questions or just want to chat. We'll leave the door open for you -- oh wait, you've got keys! Silly me!

Hugs,
Melinda

Friday, May 13, 2005

Dr. and Ms.

The husband defended his dissertation yesterday. Naturally, he was brilliant and hot, and was given a lovely introduction during which he was referred to as “the world’s expert” in his particular area of study. He gave an hour-long talk that could’ve been in Swahili for as much as I understood it – but the other people in the audience, the ones who could define “neutron” for you, sure seemed to enjoy it. And then he retreated to the closed-door “defense” part, where he was questioned by a group of individuals who were sufficiently old, white, and male. He emerged smiling, and there was cake and champagne afterwards. I don’t gather they make those things available for people whose dissertations are rejected, so… it appears there is now a doctor in the house.

It was strange to find myself sitting in the auditorium where the presentation was delivered, surrounded by people who knew my husband but who didn’t necessarily know me. With a few notable and lovely exceptions, I don’t spend much time with members of his grad school community – usually because when I do, I either don’t understand what they’re talking about, or I don’t want to talk about what they’re talking about ON A FRIDAY NIGHT, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PEOPLE. So it was just interesting to be in a room full of these science folks, some of whom didn’t even know that I was the wife, the center of the universe, she who has sacrificed greatly and solemnly for the sake of Science.

My brother-in-law and little niece are in town for the weekend to celebrate, as was my father-in-law yesterday and as will be my mother-in-law today. With the exception of my hideous landlords scheduling a house inspection for 9:00 yesterday morning, a deplorable injustice from which I have yet to recover, the visit so far has gone well. My niece calls me “Auntie Melinda,” which is both adorable and strange – in my family, calling your aunt “Auntie” would get you laughed out of the room. To me, it conjures up images of wealthy old ladies who set up trust funds and play croquet at garden parties. But with marriage comes new family traditions, so it’s cucumber sandwiches in the parlour for this Auntie, all the way.

Anyway, it’s been all excitement over here for the past couple of days, and the weekend’s promise has yet to unfold. I’ll post again when I emerge on the other side. In the meantime, I leave you with this piece of private shame: the new Backstreet Boys song, “Incomplete.” I’m powerless to its shiny, angsty charms. Discuss.

Monday, May 09, 2005

"And if you just climb over this copy machine, you'll see our weight room. Cute, huh?"

People! Today I went to my first ever physical therapy appointment. As I had never before been to physical therapy, I was not sure what to expect. Turns out, here's what to expect: you will arrive at the facility, proceed up 6 flights of rickety stairs, sit for 15 minutes in an unbelievably tiny waiting room filled with maladjusted-looking people and dead plants, be greeted by a physical therapist who says to you, "I'm supposed to show you around", take a 45-seconds-tops tour of the facility which includes three exam rooms and a carpeted "exercise room" the size of a standard office cubicle, be rushed back out into the waiting room, and finally be sent promptly and summarily home because you did not bring the doctor-referral that your insurance company assured you you would not need.

Excellent.

I'm not sure why I wasn't told that I would need a referral last week, when I called said facility and informed receptionist "Charise" that I had never been to physical therapy before, had no idea what I was doing, and in fact had not even seen a doctor for my most recent ankle injury. Seems like that would have been a good time for Charise to slip that little piece of info in, but what do I know? When I mentioned this teeny complaint to the physical therapist on my way out the door today, she grunted "Oh. We usually don't think we need to tell people that, because everyone just knows you have to have a referral."

Faboo. So Wednesday I will be heading on over to some orthopedic specialist for a thorough exam, and then will be hitting the yellow pages for an alternate source of physical therapy. If anyone in the Boston area has any good recommendations, please let me know. I prefer sites that don't employ people named "Charise."

Sunday, May 08, 2005

Yo' mama

Reasons my mom is the Best Mom Ever:

1. Because I was a horrible little shit of a child, and she resisted the inevitable urge to sell me on the street to the highest bidder. My mother had me in her early twenties. From very early on, I tormented her with medical emergencies (colic, hernia, broken arm), temper tantrums (footprint stamped into the wall, shattered bathroom mirror, door ripped from its hinges), and regular spewings of precocious verbal entitlement ("You can't ground me! I'm an American citizen - I have rights!"). I threatened to call Child Protective Services on her when she punished me; I "ran away" several times to the park down the street; In a fit of rage I threw a piece of buttered bread at her, which stuck to her pant-leg as if some kind of absurdist art piece. Yet still, she did not stick my head into the toilet and flush, as was her due.

2. Because all the things she does that I used to find humiliating as a child, I now find adorable and fabulous. Like, how she absolutely CANNOT walk past an in-store display of toys that make noise (stuffed animals that sing and dance, books that talk, etc) without pressing each and every "Try me!" button and then standing by, cackling with glee. Like how she can't pronounce the words "Ibuprofin" and "Nintendo", and how she calls me a "women's libber" when I rave about Hillary Clinton. Like how she always tries to engage check-out clerks, bank tellers, and waitresses in cheery conversation about the weather. Like how she holds my dad's hand in public, and how she jumps on his lap in our living room. Like how she gives her children a swift pat on the butt as a show of affection.

3. Because she is hilarious. A couple of years ago during a holiday visit, my mom and my sisters and I were in the car and the song "Jenny from the Block" came on the radio. As this song is one of the greatest unintentionally ironic anthems of all time, I sang along with great gusto. The next day, my mom returned from a shopping trip and, arms loaded down with groceries, called out to me as she entered the house, "Honey, your song was just on the radio again!" I called back, "What song, mom?" and she cheerfully replied, "I'm Just Judy from the Bronx!"

4. Because she trusts me to make my own decisions, and she never says "I told you so" when I make the wrong ones. You're not sure you want to belong to our church anymore? Ok, as long as you explore other churches and faiths on your own. You want to get a meaningless degree from the most expensive school you applied to? Ok, as long as you are willing to pay back your own student loans. You want to live in sin with your college boyfriend? Ok, but when you come to visit at my house, you WILL sleep in separate beds.

5. Because she loves my husband as if he were her own son. She is unabashedly affectionate with him, and it makes my heart feel so full I don't know what to do.

6. Because she taught me how to love other people with my whole heart. She taught me that love doesn't happen like in the movies, that we choose to love people and then we make it our work to become good at loving them. That just because other people are quiet, doesn't mean we have to be -- that it's ok to love big and loud. Because she lets me know what it feels like to be loved unconditionally.

7. Because when I said "Happy mother's day" to her on the phone 20 minutes ago, she replied with "You too, honey."

People, I am the official winner of the Mom Lottery over here. I couldn't have been squeezed out of a better womb!

Thursday, May 05, 2005

Hands off

Does anyone else think that there's something a little scary bubbling just under the surface of this whole "runaway bride" case that's in the news right now?

Here's what I see: a woman flees a few days before her giant-sized wedding, faking her own abduction. She turns up a few days later. We hear of her return, but we don't hear from her -- she disappears from the public eye entirely (short of one shot of her walking around a police station with some sorry-looking towel draped over her head). Meanwhile her husband-to-be hits the media, essentially wearing a Superman cape. He is gentle, sweet, understanding, wouldn't hurt a fly -- says that of course he still wants to marry her, that she's just going through a rough patch, that "she just wants the whole world to know she's very. very sorry." A few days later, we finally hear from her, through a statement she gives to her pastor. In the statement, what does she want us to know? "Please may I assure you that my running away had nothing to do with leaving John. . . I could not wait to be called Mrs. John Mason."

That's what I see. Admittedly, I'm seeing it through the eyes of someone who used to earn her (teeny tiny) living working with victims of domestic violence. I've been trained to see it, trained that people "seeing it" is sometimes the only thing that saves women's lives -- which does mean that from time to time I may look for it where it doesn't actually exist. What sucks, though? A lot of times, it does exist.

People who work with victims of domestic violence are familiar with a pattern called "the cycle of violence." In the cycle, perpetrators of violence proceed through predictable stages of treatment toward their victims -- from a steady build-up of tension and verbal attacks, to a violent explosion, through a period of blaming and remorse, and finally to what we used to refer to in my organization as "hearts and flowers," a phase in which the perpetrator tries desperately to convince his victim and everyone around them that "we don't have any problems."

I really hope that I'm totally and completely wrong about this guy. I hope that the signs I'm recognizing as pretty textbook are all in my head -- that it's not that this woman ran away because she was trying to escape, that she didn't return a few days later out of fear of repercussions (as is so common with victims who try to leave their perpetrators), that the fiance was not trying to both silence her and protect himself against public suspicion by glowing to the media, that the woman's public statement was genuine and not forced upon her. And the reason I hope I'm wrong about this? Is because after a woman leaves or attempts to leave an abusive partner, she is statistically much more likely to be killed by that partner.

Yeah, so... anyway. What a downer of an entry.

Hey, though, look on the bright side -- at least we scored one hit against domestic violence this week. The girlfriend-beating contestant on American Idol got voted off last night! Woohoo! I much prefer to enjoy my voyeuristic reality television without having to take out a restraining order...

Monday, May 02, 2005

A shake for breakfast, a shake for lunch, and a sensible dinner

I belong to a women's gym, conveniently located across the street from my place of employment. I go to said gym three times a week, on my lunch hour, to enjoy strenuous yet manageable workouts while listening to my Ipod and reading Us magazine. These workouts are a wonderful break from what is becoming an increasingly stressful workday, and leave me feeling fresh and energized and happy.

Since my demon left ankle snapped yet again two weekends ago, I have not been able to partake in my beloved noontime workouts. I am, in general, a sedentary girl -- my committed relationship with pop culture requires it. Therefore, I'm surprised at how much this lack of exercising has affected me after a mere week of inactivity. In short: without my workouts, I feel like a big slow fattie.

I have never been one to deny myself food -- I buy full-fat salad dressing and ice cream, I eat donuts for breakfast, I consume immense amounts of bread and pasta, I make fun of carb-counters behind their backs. I feel that the day men start consuming SlimFast shakes by the gallon and showing up in Weight Watchers commercials glowing about being able to fit into their "skinny jeans" is the day I will start obsessing over calories.

But here's the rub: usually, it's ok (or at least relatively so) for me to eat with abandon, because I exercise regularly to counterbalance the Krispy Kreme. Not only do I work out, but I also walk and take the subway as my primary forms of transportation. But right now, with my ankle in an aircast, I'm driving myself from place to place to spare my foot the strain, and I'm clearly not going to the gym. So... those french fries I ate today? Threw a french-fry party in my stomach and then proceeded to come to their final resting place right on my thighs. I do not feel healthy at all -- I feel listless and blah.

So badly did I want to work out today that I actually packed up my gym bag and headed out at noon, determined to at least put in 20 minutes on a low-impact cardio machine. By the time I got across the street and up the walk to the gym's back entrance, my ankle hurt so much that all I could do was go sit in the sauna. I miss the elliptical machines! I miss the sweaty weight room! I miss reading people's cast-off copies of Ladies' Home Journal!

I do like healthy food -- honestly, I do. But the day when I have to deny myself that extra helping of ice cream, that last slice of pepperoni pizza, those salt and vinegar potato chips -- that is a sad sad day in Melinda's world. But until I'm able to work up some kind of a sweat (and I'm talking about the GYM - get your minds out of the gutter), I'm afraid that day may have temporarily come.

Don't forget me, greasy-giant-sized-chocolate-chip-cookie-from-the-store-around-the-corner-from-work! I'll come back for you soon!

Update

Most likely in response to the three angry emails I sent over the weekend, my landlord appeared at my door today bearing apologies and two expensive-looking bottles of wine.

My rage? Is still present. But I might as well enjoy some fine drinking while I litter the apartment with porn and guinea pig poop.