Traffic behind youlined up for blocks, you movewith the smooth languorof a cat. A manof desire, you are doingwhat your heart wants done.I honor you, manin the middle of my lane,standing by your car.I salute you, manwith the BMW,taking the top down.Marry me, o youof conspicuous wealth andimpressive manhood.The world is your drive-way. Take all the time you need.Cool air will be yours.I celebrate thistraffic jam in your honor.Namaste. NOW DRIVE.
Last night, the husband and I watched the end of the MTV Video Music Awards together. An admitted awards show junkie, I had caught portions of the show throughout the evening, but the husband only walked in for the final 30 minutes or so. My experience with the broadcast had been disheartening: who were these shiny people, and why didn't I get their jokes or references? I read Entertainment Weekly! I enjoy mainstream music and television while remaining both hip and culturally relevant! I have a blog, dammit! Why were all these people so annoying to me? Why were they covered head-to-toe in ridiculous costume jewelry, parading around the stage and complementing themselves? What happened to all the "good eggs" in my beloved pop culture world? Soon after the husband walked into the room and settled onto the couch, Paris Hilton strode onto the television screen to present an award. My sweet gentle husband immediately began to glare and growl. A moment of this passed before he nodded as if having decided something and said, matter of factly, "She needs to get beat down."Now before you get all offended, let me assure you: my husband and I are pacifists. He was raised Unitarian; I was raised Church of the Brethren -- our people hold hands and sing songs about doves. I used to work at a nonprofit serving victims of domestic violence. We love babies and puppies and other soft cute things. We are compassionate, altruistic, and above all nonviolent.Now where was I? Oh yes. Beating up celebrities.Me: Oooh, that would be fabulous. Can I be the one to do it? But what about the guy up there with her? [I have since learned that this guy is a rapper named Bow Wow.] He's kind of a tool, too.The husband: Good point. [Thinks a minute] I could pick up one of them and use him to knock down the other one.Me: That would work.[Silence]Me: I'd like to beat down Sheryl Crow. I'd like to do it with her own yellow bracelet.The husband: What about Ashlee Simpson?Me: Or Maroon 5!The husband: Could you identify any of them other than the lead singer?Me: No, but that doesn't matter. I'd tie them together with rope and beat down the lot of them.The husband: Nice.[Silence. A "highlights reel" rolls, showing selected moments from the awards show before it is even over. We watch, thoughtful.]Me: Oooh! 50 Cent! I would beat down 50 Cent!The husband: He's kind of big. Are you sure you could take him?Me: Hmmm, you're right. Someone would have to hold him still.
For the last two nights, I have spent my evenings in Bars That Rejoice In Their Own Coolness. These bars are not my forte; I go to them for events like birthday festivities and goodbye parties, where I enjoy the company of my friends in an environment that is not my own. When I choose a bar for myself, I usually gravitate towards the Nice Comfy Bars That Serve Beer and Nachos, or Bars Where Good Music Is Played, or Bars That Are Actually My Friends' Living Rooms.Bars That Rejoice In Their Own Coolness are dimly lit. They usually have a schtick, a central theme carefully constructed to make them stand out from the rest. They have a drinks-and-apps menu that does not list prices, or lists prices as single digits without decimals. They have curious bathrooms that are decorated with a conspicuous eye to hipness.Last night's bar, a kind of retro Hollywood-themed lounge, was pretty benign in its celebration of its own Coolness -- although drink prices were roughly the amount of a mortgage payment and the staff wore feather-adorned costumes, it all seemed to be done with a sense of fun. My $37 beer was delivered to the table with a smile. Thursday night's bar, however, which I visited for a friend's birthday party, featured somber waitstaff roaming a dark, tiny room littered with plush black furniture on wheels. That was the schtick, see -- you could wheel around on your plush black seat. The food menu featured about 7 or 8 items, the pinnacle being an offering called "Ten Tiny Tacos." Someone at our table ordered this; when it arrived, a chorus of "wow. those ARE tiny tacos" rang out into the artificially cool air. The plate essentially bore 10 fritos, each topped with a tablespoon's worth of beans, cheese, and sour cream. In writing this, I'm reminded of my 2nd wedding anniversary a couple of months ago, which the husband and I celebrated with dinner at a local restaurant/bar that came highly recommended as a great place to go for "special occasions." This restaurant was fully engaged in a rousing celebration of its own coolness, complete with physically huge menu offering only a handful of dinner choices, a price-free drinks menu, and waitresses dressed in tiny black dresses. After arriving at the restaurant and recovering from our initial chagrin over the prices, we decided that there was no better occasion than an anniversary to squander our future children's college savings on a couple of plates of seafood. We ordered and ate.After awhile our waitress, who was already disgruntled by our standard Poor Folks Order of "no appetizers, one shared dessert, and ice water with lemon to drink, thank you" glided over to our table to ask us how we were doing. "How is everything? Can I get you anything else right now?" she asked. "No, we're good," I replied. A couple of beats of silence passed as the waitress continued to stare down at us, blinking. "So you mean you're content?" she volleyed, as if a mother correcting a poorly-mannered child. I wanted to be all "look lady, when I walk out of this restaurant there is going to be a diner on my left, a Blockbuster video on my right, and a $4 burrito place across the street. You live in a one-bedroom down the street from Dunkin Donuts, just like all the rest of us. So shove it." But instead I just smiled and said "yes, we're all set."And then we sold a kidney to pay the tab, walked out into the evening, and rejoiced in our own coolness.
My hairdresser: [Excitedly beckoning me towards her immediately following the departure of the previous customer] Do you read the paper? Do you? Well, her right there -- the one that just left? She was on the cover a couple of weeks ago! Her son was smothered to death by the security guards at a hotel in the city! [Contemplative pause.] I think there was foul play.Me: Um, wow. So...My hairdresser: So how you been? How's your family in Vermont?Me: They're fine - but they're not in Vermont, remember? I just happened to get married in Vermont -- my family's in the midwest.My hairdresser: Oh yeah. But they're good, though?Me: Sure. My hairdresser: How's the big move going?Me: It's going ok. A little scary, but exciting. I just gave notice at my job.My hairdresser: Oh, that's good, hon. Is your family sad that you're moving so far away from Vermont?Me: Um, no, because my family's in Indiana. They're happy I'm moving.My hairdresser: Oh yeah. So, you know that lady who was just in here...
I spent this past weekend surrounded by Lake People. Lake People are individuals who were raised in, on, or close to a lake, a geographic stroke of luck that has instilled in them a lifelong and all-consuming passion for the lake of their upbringing. Said individuals or their families usually own lakefront property, often a cabin or house that has been passed down from generation to generation. Not to be confused with Cape Cod time-share owners who "summer" "down Cape," Lake People prefer craggy shores and shady paths to ocean waves and cocktails on the beach. They usually learn to swim while still in the womb. They have large dogs that fetch sticks in the water. They pee in the woods.Lake People are not my people. My people vacation in hotels. My people own one home, the one they live in, and that's it. My people play outdoors, but then go inside, take a shower, and watch TV. We swim in swimming pools and in gym class. We pee in the toilet.I spend a lot of time around these foreigners, these Lake People, seeing as how I married into them. My husband's immediate and extended family members own a collection of cabins and homes around a small lake in northern Wisconsin. Doing outdoorsy things, like canoeing, hiking, and picking up toads with my bare hands, is something that I took on when I met and began dating my husband. I decided I would try all of these new things in the hopes that I could fool him into being my boyfriend. Now I'm married and I have to go swimming in water full of slimy weeds, bugs, and little fish. Who was fooled, I ask you? Who was fooled?The Lake People I found myself surrounded by this weekend included my husband and two good friends, one of whom invited us to her family's lakefront cabin in western Maine. While I enjoyed having the chance to spend quality out-of-city time with my friends, I mostly spent the weekend feeling like a stranger in a strange land. Swallowing my inner voice that constantly cried out "It's the weekend! Wash me! Feed me Chinese take-out! Let me sleep till noon!", I took part in standard Lake People rites and rituals. Like, for instance, the constant reminiscing about Ye Olde Fabulous Times of Lake Days Long Ago at This Here Lake Where We Still Gather Every Summer Just Look at That Beautiful Lake, Would You. My husband's family has elevated this particular pastime to the level of artform, with photographs and stories and folklore and it's all just so meta -- like, they can't stop talking about how great the lake is, even when they are AT THE FREAKING LAKE. I'm always like: ok, I get it, I'm looking out the window RIGHT NOW and yes, it's still as lovely as it was yesterday. Also, Lake People like to make up and sing little songs about the lake, songs that are fixed firmly in a tradition of being sung at very specific times and places. Yesterday evening, when we pulled out of my friend's driveway to embark upon our drive home from Maine, her parents stood in the driveway to see us off, waving and singing aloud a little song in unison. My husband's family, on the other hand, has a special song that they reserve just for their approach to the lake. It is to be sung in the car, and goes something like this (I very liberally paraphrase): we're almost at the little red cabin, we're almost at the little red cabin, now i can see the little red cabin, oh my lord this lake is SO FREAKING AWESOME CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS!?! Once, the husband and I went to the lake just the two of us and he insisted on singing the song even then, so great is his devotion and reverence.And really, that's just it. All of these Lake People traditions would border on really annoying if it weren't so totally apparent how genuine is the love of Lake People for the lake. My friends this weekend were so fully and completely happy to be at their lake that it was fun just to bask in their glow, even if I did have to pick unidentified debris out of my hair post-swim. Ultimately, anything that can make my husband's face light up the way it does when he sings his ode to the little red cabin is ok by me. Well, almost anything anyway. I draw the line at substituting "morning dips" for showers. Even I have my limits.
1. Attend outdoor showing of "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" at local park with friend from work.2. Sit in front of four scowling teenagers in lawn chairs, two of whom have tube tops and disconcertingly thick Boston accents which they show off during the first ten minutes of the movie by barking obscenities into their cell phones.3. Make like the librarian that you are, turning around to ask Britney and Christina if they could please shhhhhhhh. Then close your mouth after it drops open upon Britney's retort of "Oh no that bitch di'int just tell me to hang up my phone."4. Recoil in shame when, exactly one minute later, your companion's cell phone rings, loudly very loudly so much with the loudness.5. Continue recoiling, this time with disbelief, when your companion doesn't shut off the phone but instead picks it up and excuses herself to commence having a conversation that will take 30 MINUTES, leaving you alone with Charlie, Willy Wonka, Britney, Christina, and Britney and Christina's boyfriends, who incidentally seem very well pleased with themselves all of a sudden. You aren't sure what they are so gleeful about until you...6. Smell farts.
An aquaintance of mine from high school, who later turned into a close friend from college when we ended up at the same school, recently moved to Massachusetts. We were hanging out the other night, shooting the shit and reminiscing over old photo albums, when we came upon a packet of priceless nostalgia: a tiny keepsake book filled with "senior pictures" from our high school classmates.
Senior pictures, for anyone who is somehow unfamiliar with them, are wallet-sized professional portraits that high school seniors send out with their graduation announcements, trade with their friends, give to their grandparents to be framed, line their hamster cages with, etc. In these pictures, students often choose to pose with something scenic (like leaning against a tree), or with an object symbolizing an interest they had in school (a guitar, a basketball, their birth control pills). Some students opt for the classically pensive chin-resting-on-hands pose, or the eyes upturned looking-off-into-the-corner-wherein-lies-my-bright-future pose. Doesn't really matter -- no matter how you pose, what really count about senior pictures are the messages written on the back of them. It's like yearbook-signing, but better.
When my friend and I discovered her album of senior pictures, we immediately took them out one by one and read the messages each student had written on the back of his/her photo. Then we laughed until we peed. The trite sayings, the oddly insistent commands ("Don't ever change! Don't forget me next year! Drop and give me 20!"), the proclamations of eternal friendship from people whose names we couldn't remember. That evening I returned home, looked through my own high school photo album, and found that I too still had a stash of senior pictures from high school friends.
Seeing as how you don't know any of these people, nor did you know the high school version of me, you may not laugh until you pee. Maybe, though, you can squeeze out a little trickle, for me:
"Melinda: Thirteen years we've been friends. Wow! I'm glad we had some classes together this last semester. Have fun at college. I expect to hear you're a famous writer someday." [from the girl whose illegitimate child my mother now babysits]
"Melinda: Whether you expected a picture or not, I saved one with your name on it. All the best. All my love." [from the only guy I ever dumped, who gave me the silent treatment for 6 months before giving me this picture. The drama!!]
"Hey pup!! I have sooo much to say!! (Guess I'll have to give you another picture ha ha!!) Anyway, I'm glad we have been friends for so long. I could and still always count on you. You are very special to me - I will take you with me in my heart."
"Melinda: Thanks for the squeezes in Bio-Ethics. Thanks for talking to me also. I'm glad I got to know you better. Stay cool. Don't change. '95 rules!" [from a guy I apparently squeezed.]
"Melinda: I'm glad to have gotten to know you you make me laugh. It's hard to believe it's almost over (high school years). You're a great friend. Best wishes next year. Hopefully we'll have another class together. But if we don't, make sure you say hi when you see me in the halls!"
And my favorite, the senior picture eulogy:
"Melinda: You have set a great impression on my heart. I'll never forget the happiness you portrayed."
This past weekend, I went to see a movie called "The Aristocrats." This cinematic treat is a 90-minute documentary about a joke so vile and offensive that comedians only tell it to each other. The film features a cast of about 100 comedians, some mainstream and some that I had never heard of, telling the joke, talking about the joke, and reminiscing about great instances when the joke was told by someone else. In a climactic scene, it features Bob "Full House" Saget gleefully uttering about 5 minutes' worth of the filthiest obscenities you have ever heard in your life. Doesn't sound appealing to you? Then you definitely shouldn't go see it. For me, it sounded - and was - decidedly awesome.Apparently, AMC Theaters didn't feel the same -- they banned the film from showing at any of its locations. The theater chain claims that they decided not to show the movie because of "limited audience appeal." An interesting choice of excuses, given that among the comedians spotlighted in the doc are such big name draws as Whoopi Goldberg, Jon Stewart, Drew Carey, Robin Williams, and George Carlin. I would guess that each of these names alone carries broader audience appeal to a general cross-section of America than, say, the flock of birds that star in the tiny French flick "March of the Penguins," which, incidentally, is currently playing on AMC screens all over Massachusetts. Let's be honest here - the reason this film is being kept out of some theaters is because it uses NAUGHTY LANGUAGE. And what could be worse than exposing our tender ears to some gratuitous curse words and references to unspeakable sex acts, I ask you, my gentle Republican friends?Well, never fear! Nothing quite so horrible as bad language is to be found at your local AMC Theater. Why, on the same day I went to see "The Aristocrats" at my friendly neighborhood independent theater, the nearest AMC theater was offering up the following wholesome and widely-appealing cinematic gems: "Four Brothers" (featuring gun violence, strong physical violence, and sex scenes), "The Dukes of Hazzard" (which is about 2 guys speeding around in car and staring at Jessica Simpson's ass), "The Great Raid" (apparently about war), "Wedding Crashers" (which - although I loved it - was totally about naked boobs and fart jokes), and "Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo" (which is an affront to humanity). See, AMC is a family establishment.This kind of prudish, selective censorship is what drives me up the wall and back down the other side. Violence, war, naked women (not naked men, though, because that would somehow merit an NC-17 rating) -- all totally acceptable, and clearly heralders of broad "audience appeal." But cursing and foul language? Lock up your daughters!Today when I was driving home from work, I heard the new Black Eyed Peas song, "Don't Phunk With My Heart," playing on a popular local radio station. The song had been altered, so that whenever the lyrics called for the word "phunk," the lead singer's voice replaced it with the word "mess" - a la "Don't mess with my heart." Apparently, Focus on the Family, George W. Bush, and the collective PTA-members of rural Texas have finally joined forces to deem it officially inappropriate to even use words that SOUND LIKE curse words. Hell in a handbasket, people. Hell in a handbasket.This is the kind of stuff I'm worried about having to deal with if I find myself working my next job in a public library -- you know, fielding complaints from parents who are fine with letting their kid play with a G. I. Joe doll or look at a WWF website, but who take issue with their daughter finding a book on the shelf that features a gay character, or the word "penis," or - gasp - the word "shit." It's ridiculous, stone-age, pick-and-choose moral censorship, and it sucks. One person's curse word is another person's war toy -- it all has the possibility to be inexcusably offensive to someone, but it seems that the "official" word on what is and is not appropriate to be seen/heard/read is being defined by a self-appointed, increasingly conservative contingency. And it's not fair. I mean, I may be sitting behind the reference desk, silently deeming you a big loser as you pore over the battered library copy of "Playboy," but damn if I"m going to deny you the right to be that loser.
My blog is the number one Yahoo search result for the queries "guinea pig porn" and "Kids Incorporated show opening theme".I can die now.
At around 2:30 Tuesday morning, the husband and I woke up to the sound of a woman's blood-curdling screams. "Help! Help! Help!" the voice repeated over and over again. Whoever it was, it sounded like she was right next to us, perhaps right outside our window. The ferocity of her screams instantly brought to mind the worst possible scenarios: someone was being raped, or beaten up. My Lifetime Movie of the Week training kicked in -- offer to help, but don't put yourself in danger. I stumbled out of bed, turned on the light, yelled out "Where are you?""I'm in the basement! I'm going to break a window! Help! Help! Help!" It was our upstairs neighbor, a single woman in her (we think) 40s with whom neither I nor the husband have ever really conversed for more than a minute or two. Probably, the safer and more rational choice at this point would have been to call 911, but it was 2:30 in the morning and we had just been awakened by screams. Rational thinkers we were not. We ran to the basement door, opened it, and flipped the light switch at the top of the stairs.Instantly, Upstairs Neighbor appeared at the foot of the stairs, all screams suddenly ceased. She was standing in her nightgown, peering up at us. "I couldn't find the stairs," she said. She seemed to be shaking violently. She started climbing the stairs into our apartment, all the while talking incoherently about how she had been waiting until dawn for something or someone, and that she had been told that we would have keys to let her into her apartment. We asked her if she was ok, and she replied, "Yes. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you."At this point, I became utterly useless, standing in the middle of the kitchen with my mouth hanging open, trying simultaneously to figure out what the hell was going on and to un-scare the bajeezus out of myself. The husband calmly took over, explaining to Upstairs Neighbor that we did not in fact have keys to her apartment and helping her to call a 24-hour locksmith. He did not ask her how or why she was in the basement, in the dark, screaming for help. We gave her a jacket to wear while she waited for the locksmith, who fortunately arrived just ten minutes later. We then laid awake all night trying to figure out if we should tell someone -- our landlord, perhaps -- what had happened. Was Upstairs Neighbor someone who had suffered some kind of psychotic break, and if so were we obligated to see that she had someone looking out for her? Or had she merely sleepwalked into the basement, "woken up" disoriented and afraid, and been embarrassed to explain the situation to us when we came to her aid? We decided on leaning toward the latter, thinking that we could opt to check in on her over the next days to make sure that she was ok.Then, on Thursday night, we were entertaining some guests when we looked out our front window to see an ambulance and three police cars pull up to block our driveway. My heart just froze up and sunk like a stone. Turns out that Upstairs Neighbor had been admitted to a hospital -- we don't know what kind of hospital, and we don't know when -- and had left said hospital before she was supposed to. The police and paramedics had been dispatched to our house to find out if she was at home. Our landlord let them in to Upstairs Neighbor's apartment. She wasn't there.Between Tuesday night and Thursday, we didn't check in on Upstairs Neighbor to see if she was ok. We had talked about it, but were so exhausted on Wednesday after our previously sleepless night that we just put the whole thing out of our heads and went to bed early. Maybe checking on her wouldn't have made one shred of difference. Maybe she would have already been gone. But it's certainly something I will wonder about, and regret, for awhile, I think.
On the radio this morning there was a segment called "Everyone's Favorite Make-Out Songs." Naturally, this intrigued and delighted me. I like making out! I like songs! Surely this would make for enjoyable listening. Sadly, though, the segment only included three songs, all of which I deemed questionable choices: "Because You Loved Me" by Celine Dion (glorifies codependency; plus just plain lame), "By Your Side" by Sade (too obvious), and "Crash Into Me" by Dave Matthews Band (played out).Making out deserves better than this, I think. Here's my own list, divided into user-friendly categories. Add your own faves -- or, better, put them on cassette and bring them over, and we'll have a make-out party in my parents' basement and it will be awe-some.Category 1: Good Make-Out Music, Tested and Proved ReliableSting's "Ten Summoner's Tales"; Portishead's self-titled album; U2's "Rattle and Hum"; Mazzy Star's "So Tonight That I Might See" or "Among my Swan"Category 2: Songs That People Mistakenly Make Out To, Thinking That They are Romantic, When Actually They Are All About Loneliness, Separation, and Heartbreak:"I Will Always Love You" by Whitney Houston; "My Heart Will Go On" (theme from Titanic) by Celine Dion; "Sometimes When We Touch" by Dan Hill; "Every Breath You Take" by the PoliceCategory 3: Not Acceptable as Make-Out Songs, Under Any Circumstances:"More Than Words" by Extreme; "Let's Get It On" by Marvin Gaye; anything by Creed or any other undercover-contemporary-Christian bandCategory 4: Songs That I Totally Made Out To In High School And As Such Have A Nostalgic Affection For, Even Though They Suck:"Truly" by Lionel Richie; "The Best of Times" by Styx; "I'd Die Without You" by P.M. DawnCategory 5: Music That I Have Not Yet Made Out To, But That I Admittedly Would Like To:Coldplay's latest album; "Wicked Game" by Chris Isaak; "Ribbon in the Sky" by Stevie Wonder; "Ten New Songs" by Leonard CohenCategory 6: Music That I Have Not Yet Made Out To, But That I Secretly Would Like to:"Angel" by Aerosmith. On repeat.
A couple of days ago, I got another visit from our new landlord, He Who Wears White Wifebeaters. New landlord came bearing a veritable fruitbasket full of reports of newfound plumbing problems in our house.Backstory: Throughout our two-and-a-half-year tenure in our current apartment, the husband and I have endured enough bathroom and kitchen leaks to keep us well-hydrated for many, many years to come. There was the bathroom ceiling leak that our Old Lazy Landlords (OLLs for short) refused to fix until the ceiling actually rotted through, bringing with it a flood of brown water and debris. There were the crumbling shower walls and fixtures, which prompted the OLLs to "renovate" our bathroom -- meaning, they hired their batshit crazy friends to come in and tinker with pipes, rip out our bathroom walls, and trample all over our apartment in their dirty, dirty boots. There was the gushing leak under our kitchen sink, which the OLLs ignored until, the day before they set out to sell the place to the new, wifebeater-wearing owner, they executed some kind of bandaid quick-fix and covered the rotted wood underneath the sink with cheap contact paper. [Note: were my archives working -- hi Blogger Support! Remember me? -- I could provide links to the corresponding blog entries for all of these occasions. But they're not. So I can't.]So now, flash forward to the current day. New wifebeater-wearing landlord has purchased our house. For a lot of money, I must add - I checked the real estate agent's website. Being diligent tenants, we describe to New Landlord all of the various plumbing problems we have encountered and documented over the years: the days without facilities while our bathroom was being "renovated," the little cups and bowls placed strategically throughout the house to catch drips, the time a couple months ago when little pieces of spaghetti from our garbage disposal came up through our bathroom drain. New Landlord is struck with sudden and understandable concern, of the "what did I just do with my life savings" variety. He brings in his own plumber to give things a look-see.And lo and behold, as New Landlord reported to me on my doorstep a couple of days ago, the true extent of the mess was revealed. Apparently, the stooges hired by the OLLs botched the plumbing to such a degree that New Landlord is going to have to have it all redone. And what's more - some major pipe that runs vertically through the whole house is completely broken, and was knowingly patched up by the OLLs using nothing but some tar and a smile.This all means, of course, that once again the husband and I have to deal with work being done in our apartment. This time, New Landlord is bringing in a plumbing crew to rip out part of a wall in our kitchen, repair the big vertical pipe of mystery, and subsequently replace the missing wall with sheetrock. This should make for a lovely and scenic kitchen in which we can entertain guests during these, our last three months in Boston. The good news? The work is set to take place during a weekend we are planning to spend away in Maine with friends, and New Landlord gave us $200 back from our last rent check, for the inconvenience. And at least, all wifebeater references aside, New Landlord seems committed to actually getting the work done right, and in a timely way.But still. Enough is enough already. You know? Renting sucks.
Remember back when we were youngsters -- you know, back in the day? Back when we used to pick up the phone and call one another, proposing things like "Hey, you want to come over?" Me neither. That's because that part of my brain, the part that used to have space for such things, has long since been obliterated by the phenomenon that is: Reply-All.You're familiar with reply-all, right? It's the glorious email feature that allows one to reply not only to the sender of a message, but also to everyone listed in the message as addressees. Yesterday, I spent like half a lifetime clicking the little "Reply-all" button on my email screen, trying to plan a movie night with a small group of friends. The whole planning process was fraught with issues. I was not free on a particular Friday night in question. Another friend was not free on Saturday. Still another was seemingly only free on one specific weekday (at precisely 3:45 in the afternoon, for about 5 minutes) for the next month. In the course of about two hours, we reply-all'ed our way to about 18 messages between 5 people, only 4 of whom actually contributed to the mess (the husband wisely abstained). I finally logged out of my email account with no social occasion planned and a considerable amount of residual angst. How did "Reply-all" come to take over my life? Everyone has their own unique Reply-All style. My friend K., for instance, comes from the Nonchalant school of Reply-All etiquette. She usually waits until the particulars have been negotiated, until the punches have been thrown, and then chimes in with an agreeable "Sounds good! See you there!" Dori, a model of efficiency, often takes a Summarizing approach, ending a string of messages with a bright "Ok, so I'll meet you at X on Tuesday at 7:00." Another friend, J., plays the role of Continuity King, sending extra messages to point out that, for instance, in my last email I had invited him and a handful of other friends to a gathering in June when it was, in fact, already August.As for me? My name is Melinda, and I am a recovering Overenthusiastic Reply-All'er. When an idea for an appealing outing or social gathering is proposed via email, I am too quick with my joy. This opportunity must not pass me by! We must make plans! I must offer practical and executable options! I compose long messages listing my thoughts, my availability, my proffered contributions. I click "send," only to find that as I was carefully crafting my own email, three more messages arrived in my inbox from other participants in the reply-all string, each of them preemptively refuting my ideas in their own special way. Then I am filled with Reply-All Shame.At the risk of sounding all "kids these days" or "when i was your age," I must say this: I like my friends. Love them, even. I like to get emails from them, too. But 20 messages a day, half of them (my own included) containing only cryptic blurbs like "No can do. We'll discuss."? Yikes. We'll be robot-brained People of the Future, incapable of verbal communication, in no time.So... you want to come over?
Last night I woke up just after midnight to the crashing and booming of a monster thunderstorm. This storm was not messing around - it was ear-splittingly loud, with thunder and lightning so constant that it felt like we were starring in "Twister 2: Electric Boogaloo" and our house was at the epicenter. Normally, I am a fan of thunderstorms. Also, normally, I am not a person who is easily spooked, except by earwigs and Republicans and the occasional nightmare about death by gunshot wound. But last night, as lightning made the sky so bright that it looked like it was the middle of the afternoon, I found myself progressing through some clearly defined stages of fear.Stage 1: QuestioningMe: So, um, what exactly happens when something gets struck by lightning?The husband: Mmmfph. [Rolls over]Me: No, seriously. Like, what happens? If our house got struck by lightning, would we die?The husband: Not necessarily.Me: Would it fry us up?The husband: Melinda...[Silence]Me: So, what makes one building more likely to get struck by lighting than others...?Stage 2: Progressive Verbalization of Deep ConcernI'm not proud of this, my feminist friends, but at the precise moment when a blast of thunder shook our house at its foundation, Wizard of Oz style, I actually shrieked aloud and clutched the husband's arm -- a move I'm sure he will bring up again at a later date, probably when I am heartlessly mocking some girl I don't know for doing something lame like screaming at the sight of a spider.And finally, Stage 3: The Part Where I Lose My ShitThis is where, after about 10 minutes of nonstop thunder and lightning, I do not let the husband leave the bedroom alone, because did you all SEE "War of the Worlds"? This is how it starts, people! You think it's just a storm but it's ALIENS, see, ALIENS, and they want your children and your food. Then, forgetting that I no longer live in Indiana, I take the husband into the living room and turn on the television, flipping through all the major networks fully expecting to find the familiar "Emergency Broadcast System Tornado Watch" icon blinking at me from the bottom of the screen. And then I get angry when it isn't there, because clearly someone has dropped the ball here - people did you HEAR that thunder?? Clearly aliens, by way of funnel cloud.And then, well, I went back to bed, and had dreams about my college roommate getting married in an orange dress decorated with fruit and vegetable prints, and then about adopting a dog that turned into a baby who looked Cambodian and who could only say the names of colors, nothing more. Again, clearly the work of the aliens.
