Anything Said: January 2006

Sunday, January 29, 2006

Success!

They said it couldn't be done but, people, it finally happened: the husband and I accomplished a successful weekend outing right here in the windy city. We were not thwarted by crowds or traffic or snow, nor discouraged by mean-looking strangers or bad Mapquest directions. We merely made and executed a simple plan. Who knew it could be that easy?

First, we met for dinner at a sandwich shop in downtown Chicago, where we ordered tasty dinners and inexpensive milkshakes. We ate our meals sitting at a counter, looking out the window at all the people hurrying home from work. Then we scooted on over to the Gene Siskel Film Center and took in the Chicago premiere of a little independent documentary called 24 Hours on Craigslist. Which was hilarious and great and featured a tiny Asian teenager who, while discussing her craigslist posting for a model for her pornographic/religious art, displayed an almost OCD compulsion to insert the word "cock" into all her sentences. Now that's entertainment.

Then we went home and, still wide awake, decided to watch another documentary we had out from netflix: Grizzly Man. This is, was, and forever will be a profoundly disturbing film. It tells the story of Timothy Treadwell, a "grizzly bear activist" who lived among grizzlies in Alaska, filmed himself, and showed the footage in classrooms around the country in the name of promoting awareness and protecting bears. In so doing, Treadwell broke every rule of wildlife protection, managed to assimilate the bears to humans so that they become easier prey for poachers, and eventually put himself and his girlfriend in harm's way to such a degree that they were eaten by the very bears he imagined himself a part of. This movie was hard for me because I knew the guy was dead, killed in an unthinkably horrific way, and I wanted to feel sympathetic to him and his cause - but in the end I just really, really didn't like him. If any of you have seen this movie, let me know - I would love to discuss.

And then, to top off what had already been the ultimate in successful weekend endeavors, the husband and I did the ultimate: in the midst of our friendly little suburb, a town marked by a deep pride over its prior history as a "dry village," a town chock-full of family-friendly establishments, we found a bar. A real live bar, like, with many kinds of beer on tap that one could pour into a glass and subsequently drink. Big fans of beer, the husband and I stumbled in the door like parched travelers from a far-off, non-alcoholic land. We ordered the most exotic sounding stouts on the menu, then essentially proceeded to gulp them down while the mugs were still soundly held in our server's grasp. They were that good, and we were that pleased.

And now, it is Sunday. The day of rest. And after all that weekend success, I feel completely comfortable spending the rest of the day grocery-shopping, dog-walking, and potato-chip-munching. With an emphasis on the latter.

Thursday, January 26, 2006

The paper blogiversary

Sometimes when I sit down to write a blog entry, I cannot for the life of me think of anything to say. I mean, you all are so interesting, with your delightful kissing and your grad schooling and your British boyfriends and your nightshift-working and your mad poetic stylings. You make online time-suckage so very choice, and it's mighty fun to hang out with you on this here world wide web.

And so, in lieu of something topical or newsworthy, and in honor of my one-year blogiversary this week, I present:

Melinda, in Fifty Quirks

1. I have a man-made bellybutton, due to a hernia I had as a baby. It looks like a real belly button, except when you stare at it real hard.

2. I can feel the weather in my left ankle.

3. One of my eyes is smaller than the other.

4. My least favorite part of my body is my crooked teeth. I know I could change this if I wanted to, but I have an as-of-yet unconquerable fear of the dentist.

5. I like the rest of my body just fine, thanks very much. And I'm glad about that.

6. I love to sing, but won't do it in front of people (even my husband), except as part of a choir or group. Way too self-conscious about it.

7. When I was a little kid, I used to try to run away from home a lot.

8. Even thought my parents are and always were great, I had an elaborate fantasy as a child in which I was saved from my abusive home and adopted by Bon Jovi guitarist Richie Sambora. Richie and I lived next door to the guy who played Steve on 90210, and he became my boyfriend.

9. Yes, the guy who played Steve, not Brandon or Dylan. Don't ask - I have no idea. I guess even then I was a sucker for the 'fro-mullet.

10. Sometimes I worry that I am too emotionally dependent on my husband and my mom.

11. Other times, I'm just grateful that they love me so much.

12. I am fully and utterly addicted to Chapstick. I can't be without it. I carry a tube in the pocket of my pants at all times. Two days ago I wore pocketless pants to work, and I had to excuse myself from the reference desk every hour or so to go have a Chapstick break.

13. I'm also addicted to 2% milk, feta cheese, and ice cream. Dairy is my crack cocaine.

14. I smoked a lot of pot during college, and I don't even feel that silly about it now because I had a lot of fun.

15. I've never tried any other drugs, though.

16. Except for this one time I drank half a bottle of Robitussin with some friends from high school, because they said it was fun. It wasn't. I got so sick.

17. Even though I know it's terribly unfashionable, I believe in God and Jesus and all that jazz. Selectively, though. I don't believe in hell or original sin. I haven't read most of the Bible, but I've liked the parts that I've read.

18. I think the Left Behind books are hilarious, especially when they are being hawked on tv by Kirk Cameron. Because if there's anyone who's going to lead me to salvation, it's Mike Seaver.

19. In college, I had to leave the campus Christian group because I wouldn't say that being gay was a sin. Then, afterwards, I was assigned a Christian stalker who followed me around and "confronted" me on drinking in public and having sex with my boyfriend.

20. At the time, I wasn't yet having sex with my boyfriend. But hell if I was going to tell her that.

21. I was, however, drinking in public. Even Jesus did that.

22. I think my husband is really hot.

23. I think he'll be really hot as a bald man. And I think that will happen soon.

24. Almost three years after the fact, I still struggle with some of the political contradictions of my wedding. I'm proud of the feminist ceremony, that my husband walked down the aisle just like me, that we both changed our names. I question myself over my need for an engagement ring and a white dress.

25. I see sexism everywhere, and sometimes I worry that this makes me into a caricature of a feminist.

26. But then I recognize that that's just The Man exercising mind control over me, so I stop worrying and resume dismantling the patriarchy.

27. Except for when the patriarchy is directly responsible for providing my entertainment, like when I'm watching "The Bachelor" or a Lifetime made-for-tv movie. Then I thank the patriarchy for the gift that is Tori Spelling.

28. I don't wear make-up, for both political and personal-comfort-related reasons.

29. I make up for this by owning an obscene amount of lotions, hand creams, and body washes.

30. Other things I spend too much money on: trashy magazines, snack food, gym memberships.

31. I used to be embarrassed about how much I love to watch movies, but now I feel much more comfortable calling it a legitimate hobby.

32. I'm afraid to like my job too much, because then what if I'm not good at it?

33. I spent two years working with victims of domestic violence...

34. Which led to my distrust of cops. Because the women who called our hotline with the scariest stories were the ones whose abusers were police officers - they knew what they could get away with. Plus, when my agency would give sensitivity trainings at police stations, the cops would laugh and pass notes.

35. I am not patriotic and I'm not proud to be an American. Fortunate (as far as privilege goes anyway), but not proud.

36. I consider myself a pacifist, but I'm still trying to figure out what that means. I wish I were more peaceful in more areas of my life.

37. I used to write poems, and I even won some money for one when I was a senior in college. But the last time I wrote one was six years ago.

38. My favorite poet is Sharon Olds. Sometimes I love her poems so much it hurts.

39. Sometimes I cry at movies not because they're sad, but because they're just so good. Like The Station Agent, and Capote.

40. My fondest wish is for my husband to send me a three-in-a-row dedication on David Allen Bouchet's Bedtime Magic radio show.

41. I really miss my friends in Boston. And I wish we had more friends in Chicago, without having to actually exert the effort of making them.

42. I also miss Anna's Taqueria and Lizzy's Homemade Ice Cream.

43. The hard thing about moving around is that I'm always missing someone or something, somewhere.

44. I am socially awkward at parties and overcompensate by trying to be too funny. I have friends who find this endearing and friends who tell me to shut up. I appreciate both approaches.

45. I like to sunburn, because I enjoy the post-burn peeling process.

46. I don't like the beach because it's boring. I prefer the woods, or a hilltop. Or the indoors.

47. Anybody can recite the lyrics to "Ice Ice Baby" or "Rapper's Delight", but I alone can perform Candyman's "Knockin' Boots" in its entirety.

48. I don't understand female republicans. It's like: they want to chain your uterus up and confine it to the kitchen where it can cook them dinner. And still you vote red.

49. Was that too judgmental?

50. Whatever. Hillary in 2008!

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Not quite cooking a bunny, but close

So this past weekend, the husband and I were walking down the street when I caught the eye of a woman who looked strangely familiar. We passed the woman and I swiveled my head around to have another look, only to find her doing the exact same thing. The woman squinted. "Melinda?" she asked.

I squinted back, then finally recognized her. "Sara?" I called out. We approached each other, smiling awkwardly. Sara and I went to high school together. We were what I would call acquaintance-friends: shared classes and activities, maintained similar friendships, never once spent time together outside of school. The last time I saw Sara was more than ten years ago, the summer before we both left for college. She noted this, saying, "Wow, I haven't seen you since high school!"

She handed me her business card and proposed that we get together sometime. I agreed, and we parted ways, leaving me with a pickle to consider. Yes, it would be fun to reconnect with someone from high school -- to hear her gossip, to get updates on folks I hadn't thought about for years. But a meeting with Sara would bring with it a very particular complication: Sara's last association with me was during a painful and rocky period, a time of self-doubt, self-absorption, and bad hair, a time we'll call -- The Summer in Which Melinda Lost Her Shit.

The Summer in Which Melinda Lost Her Shit started off rough. I had a job that I hated at the local Ben Franklin's, I suffered from a growing sense of terror over my impending departure for college, and my gay best friend - with whom I remained fruitlessly and pathetically in love - had temporarily abandoned me in favor of partying with the popular jock-boy with whom he was fruitlessly and pathetically in love. It was a right mess. And smack in the middle of the thickest part of that mess, I decided: eureka, a boyfriend! A boyfriend is what I need! And I'ma get me one, with or without his consent.

Enter Swimboy, a good friend of Sara's. Swimboy was a year my junior, some kind of for-real genius with appropriately awkward social tics, and a champion swimmer. We weren't friends, we never spoke, he was shorter than me, he didn't know I was alive, and to the best of my knowledge he had never dated anyone before, ever. He was perfect. I made him my project.

I became Scary Aggressor Girl. I asked him out to lunch, then to a movie. He seemed appropriately surprised by both invitations, responding with a half-whispered "um i um well i kind of have to well but um" to which I of course countered "Great! Pick you up at 7!" Our first date was at the Dairy Queen. I think our entire conversation consisted of chewing noises and me saying things like "I like cheeseburgers." We went to a movie, that one with Tom Hanks about a famous space shuttle, and I practically forced him to hold my hand. Then, after the show, I asked him out again. I think he was too afraid to say no.

And then, oh the poor guy. He just kept going on dates with me. We barely spoke on these dates, just watched movies and went for meals and occasionally engaged in half-assed makeout sessions of the closed-lip variety, yet still he kept showing up. I think he was just too nice to say no. I told people he was my boyfriend. In reality, though, I think I was more like his charity work.

Finally, at the end of the summer Swimboy cut me loose, breaking up with me during the sacred closing credits of my all-time favorite movie, Say Anything. Dumping me was his due, as I was going away to college in a few weeks and he wanted to be free to date people were not Need Personified. Still, I was devastated. In the little world inside my head, fairies danced and unicorns made taffy out of rainbows and he and I were in an actual relationship. And so I cried and said goodbye to Swimboy in highly dramatic fashion.

Then about a week later, a friend told me that she saw Swimboy riding his bike in the park with a little blonde girl named Michelle. This, my fake boyfriend who had already ended our non-relationship and was engaging in non-boring activities with someone who was not me, was more than my unstable heart could bear. I got drunk on Zimas and wine coolers with two girlfriends (one of whom was, as I remember, pregnant - go Indiana!) and called Swimboy every horrible name I could think of.

And then... oh, and then. Then came the shame. Then came the decision to go to the nearby drugstore and utilize the "Make your own greeting card" machine to design a memento for Swimboy. Friends, please know that I shudder each time I remember this card, each time I realize that it's an actual thing that I created and did and that might still exist as a testament to the Crazy. The card was decorated with a sunset scene, bearing a message of love and fondness on the front cover, something to the effect of "thanks for the sweet memories." But the inside? As I remember it, the inside was done up in tasteful shades of red and black, and said something utterly mortifying like "Hope you had a good laugh. SAY HI TO MICHELLE!!!" And yes, I put a stamp on that bad boy and yes, I mailed it. And oh. my. god.

I never heard from Swimboy again, although for months after I left for college my friends back home would send me reports every time I was brought up in conversation by Swimboy's new girlfriend. The reports were frequent. And it took me awhile to jump off the crazy-train: my freshman year saw me gradually disembarking. My husband, who I began dating at the end of that freshman year, might argue that I'm still on board. So you can see why I might be a bit hesitant to reconnect with Sara all these years later. Yes, it was a long time ago, and no, I'm no longer that girl, so needy and alone -- but I remember how bad it felt to be that girl, and I have a kind of sad fondness for her that's only slightly shadowed by embarrassment. And if Sara dared to mock her, well, I don't know if I could be trusted to back away from the greeting card machine.

Saturday, January 21, 2006

The triumphant return of the haiku

Part I: Last night

It is pouring rain,
and the puppy refuses
to relieve herself.

I am wet and cold;
the dog sniffs, looks indignant,
plants her paws and sits,

looks up at me as
if to say "Human, abort:
your mission will fail."

I know that poop is
imminent. I feel it to
my core: this is sure.

I know what going
back inside too early will
mean: poop on my floor.

I wait, shivering.
The dog eats leaves. After half
an hour, I give up.

Part II: This morning

Obedience class
Here, all pups are on display:
my dog takes a shit.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Crying over gay cowboys

It's awards season again, the most magical time of the year for film-obsessed freaks like myself. I'm pleased to report that last night saw me regain sole custody of the Golden Globes Goose, a traveling trophy that moves between my friend Laurie and myself based upon which one of us most accurately predicts each year's Globe winners. This year, Laurie was undone by my keen insights on made-for-tv movies, none of which I actually saw. I'm just that good.

A brief recap:

Most Awesome Things at the Golden Globes:
1. Gay cowboys
2. Kiefer Sutherland
3. Philip Seymour Hoffman

Least Awesome Things at the Golden Globes:
1. Drew Barrymore's nipples
2. Gwyneth Paltrow's fake English accent
3. The big red bow on the ass of Geena Davis' dress. Why do people DO that?

Honestly, one of the best parts of this year's show, for me, was getting to hear that gut-wrenching music from Brokeback Mountain played repeatedly as the movie won award after award. That slow, sad theme is a great example of how music can be seemlessly integrated as a central part of a picture: it beats you up a little bit, makes you stop in your tracks. Every time I hear the Brokeback music, it takes me back to how I felt when I was watching the movie -- woozy, and a little heartsick. It's gorgeous music for a gorgeous film.

Other movies that have done this for me?

How about last year's Hotel Rwanda? In that scene where the white tourists and expatriots are all evacuated, leaving the terrified Rwandans to fend for themselves? The song that plays over that scene is like a bullet to the heart.

Lost in Translation: I have a deep and abiding love for this entire movie, but one of my favorite scenes takes place in a karaoke bar, where Bill Murray takes the microphone for a wistful performance of Roxy Music's "More Than This." The song choice is out of left field and completely brilliant, and his delivery is perfect: part comic, part sweet, part sad, and totally in the moment.

The Road Home: This is a beautiful Chinese movie that came out in America a few years ago. You should Netflix it if you haven't seen it. It's a love story, one of those films with a simple arching storyline, and you can tell there's going to be some kind of dramatic closing scene accompanied by sweeping orchestra music, and you wait for it, fully prepared to withstand such blatantly manipulative tactics, thinking "There's no way I'm crying at THIS." And then the moment comes, and the music is all around you, and suddenly you're sobbing and snotting all over yourself. Just like your husband always knew you would.

Jerry Maguire: Ok, I'm not proud of it. But can you honestly tell me that you don't give a little sniffle for poor sweet pre-botox-freakdom Renee Zellweger every time "Secret Garden" comes on the radio? That song was such a big part of that movie, especially in that sad scene where she says to Jerry: "I"ve got this great guy, and he loves my kid. And he sure does like me a lot. And I can't live like that." Not that I have it memorized or anything. Shut up.

Say Anything: As if I even need to point this out to you, because it's pretty much a given that the "In Your Eyes" boombox scene is one of the finest moments in American cinematic history. Talk about perfect use of music in a movie. Do yourself a favor and go watch this one again. I guarantee you that it will be airing on TBS sometime this week. That and Steel Magnolias.

Any others that I'm missing?

Sunday, January 15, 2006

Young, hip, crazy, cool

There comes a time in every semi-suburban curmudgeonly late-twenty-something librarian's life when she is forced to take a look in the mirror and come face to face with just what she has become. Or so I've heard said. For me, that time was last night, standing outside of the vegetarian restaurant in the freezing cold. With the baby hippies.

The vegetarian restaurant was a recommendation from a good friend from Boston who grew up in Chicago. Although a carnivore herself, she swore by this restaurant's tasty fake-meat sandwiches and entrees, assuring us that we would like the food and feel healthy afterwards. Intrigued ("what is this 'healthy' of which you speak?"), we bundled up in our winter best and embarked upon a 45-minute train ride across the city.

When we arrived at the restaurant, it was filled to capacity. We gave our names to the girl in the tiny retro t-shirt and blunt-cut bangs, and she informed us that there would be about a 30-minute wait for a table. Determined to eat our weight in nutritious TVP, we retreated into the cold night to stand outside and wait. And wait. And wait. For about five minutes, this was fine. We examined the menu, an interesting mix of brown rice, tofu scrambles, and fake-meat hoagies served on five-grain rolls with swiss chard instead of lettuce. We examined our surroundings, an interesting mix of homeless people and stores selling dildos.

And then, we began to notice other things. Like the fact that no one seemed to be leaving the restaurant, and there appeared to be two waitresses, tops, serving the entire establishment. And the fact that we were growing increasingly surrounded by small groups of between 2 and 5 tiny little bite-sized hippies. Dull-eyed with flowing tresses, these teeny people were almost engulfed by their patchwork outfits and heavy coats. Now, I'm all for real-live hippies, the kind that went to Woodstock and practiced free love and fought the man by rolling in mud. But the baby hippies, the ones who buy their burlap dresses at the Gap? Not my bag. We listened as they talked about their philosophy degrees and favorite sources of organic produce. We heard them wax poetic about the health benefits of seitan between puffs on their cigarettes.

Suddenly, things that previously sounded fun ("ooh, cute, a fake cheeseburger!") became targets of my wrath ("we've got REAL meat in the freezer at home. I'm cold."). Tie-dyed college students went from being humorous ("Aw, look: that guy braided his beard") to being the banes of my existence (Me: "They probably live at home with their parents. GET A JOB!" The husband: "They're seventeen, Melinda." Me: "So? I'm cold.") This went on for 45 minutes. We watched as hippie after hippie got seated ahead of us. "There's probably a secret handshake," I said. My back started to hurt. My toes froze. I got the misery in my hip. Finally, I realized that we had been waiting in the freezing cold for almost an hour, to eat wheat gluten meat substitute with a room full of teenagers. "Let's leave," I said to the husband. "We are so old," he replied.

And so we left, walked down the street and into a nearby sushi restaurant, where we promptly realized that our knowledge of sushi extends to those little take-out lunch specials you can buy at Trader Joe's. Defeated, we pointed at two random items on the menu and hoped for the best. When the waitress brought what turned out to be five huge cone-shaped temaki rolls and placed them in front of my husband, I saw a brief flash of despondence cross his face. He stared at the platter for a few moments, then poked at it with his chopsticks. We looked at each other, waited a beat, and then burst into laughter so hard we nearly peed ourselves. He picked up one of the cones with two hands and bit into it like a juicy, bloody cheeseburger. We might not be young and hip enough for the vegans, and we might not be cultured enough for the Japanese. But so help us: we would be full.

Friday, January 13, 2006

Health is for the rich

As I posted previously, my husband took a fall over the holidays and as a result had to go to the emergency room to get five stitches in his chin. Yesterday, the hospital sent us a statement, informing us of the total amount that they would be charging our insurance provider for this little visit. Are you ready for this? One hour in the hospital, five pieces of thread sewn into a chin, one bandage and some salve = $922.00.

Yes, nine HUNDRED, as in 9-0-0, as in just shy of one thousand dollars. For stitches. Does anyone out there understand this, and if so, can you explain how this can possibly be justified? Is it the cost of the doctor's time? Because the doctor was with us for a total of ten minutes, tops, and two nurses came in to take my husband's vital signs and to clean and sterilize his chin. That's it -- the rest of the time we were alone in a little room, entertaining ourselves by trying to guess the contents of all the mysterious jars and bottles lining the shelves. Is it the cost of materials used in the procedure? Because I'm pretty sure I could have run down to Michael's Arts and Crafts for a $1.99 spool of thread and we could've done it up B.Y.O.T. style.

I mean, what happens to the people who are unlucky enough to be without medical insurance? If it costs that much for five measly stitches, what does it cost to repair a broken arm? To investigate chest pains? To treat a child with pneumonia? How do people get by? Seriously, can someone explain where these price tags come from? Somewhere, that shit has to be itemized. And unless Noah Wylie and George Clooney are sewing me up with spun gold on diamond needles, I don't believe the cost breakdown is going to be to my liking.

And while we're on the subject, here are some other price tags I don't understand: International air travel. College tuition. Library grad school tuition (like, hello, we're LIBRARIANS, where do you expect us to get that kind of money?). Movie tickets. Those big fat purses that make everyone who carries them look like bag ladies. Auto repair. Heat for my apartment. And boneless skinless chicken breasts at the grocery store. I'm not a wealthy lady; I just want to make a casserole.

Is this a test?

Part of my job as reference librarian is to fulfill purchase requests made by patrons who would like to see us add a particular title to the collection. My first two such requests were: Phyllis Schlafly and Grassroots Conservatism: A Woman's Crusade, and Women Who Make Our World Worse: and How Their Radical Feminist Assault is Ruining Our Schools, Families, Military, and Sports.

This does not bode well.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Why libraries should be feminist separatist utopias

I just returned from my aforementioned first-haircut-by-a-dude, and I am happy to report that it went swimmingly. My new friend Michael got the length just right, which is hard to do with a super short wanna-be-butch-lesbian haircut like mine. And he entertained me with just the right amount of stories and question-asking, without trying to be my pal. Although he did leave me reclined with my head tilted back into a sink full of soapy water for an extended period of time while he took a phone call, which was less than desirable. But he was alone in the salon, and there was some serious R.E.O. Speedwagon rockin out on the radio. I let it slide.

I am often pretty quick to judge what I perceive to be male invasion of job sectors that have been, or should be, dominated by women. I don't necessarily think this is the case with hairdressers. While a search I did online showed that only somewhere between 10 and 20 percent of hairdressers in the United States are men, it is not considered out of the ordinary to see a guy wielding scissors and a blow-dryer in the window of your local salon.

What sucks, though? Is when men enter a "women's field" and bring along the status quo with them. Take male librarians, for example. Less than 20% of all librarians are of the adam's-apply persuasion -- but why does it seem like all the library directors I know are men? And why do they get paid more than the female library directors? And why did the token guy in every single class I took in library school have to flap his gums SO FREAKING LOUDLY about how awesome his search results were and how much he loved anime and how his ultimate career goal was to move "up the chain of command" at Lexis Nexis? Why are the (largely) socially maladaptive minority of wool-sweater wearing dudes advancing more visibly than the small army of young women who are now navigating the field?

Let me assure you that this mini-tirade has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I have been training at one of my new jobs alongside a Male Librarian of the Pseudo-Bohemian Variety, who -- despite the fact that he is A) new and B) part-time -- flips his ponytail with disdain over the library's existing policies before offering his own "suggestions" for how better to handle the computer sign-up procedure, how better to compose the internet policy, how better to draw the boundaries of the library's service area, how better to drive his SUV to the recycling center to turn in his 37 empty individual-sized water bottles.

And you know what else has always bothered me? Men who coach women's sports. What is THAT about? Why are all these men running around the basketball court telling professional female athletes how to play women's basketball? There aren't any women coaching pro men's basketball. What about at the collegiate level? And women's gymnastics? What's up with Bela Karoli and all those little teeny girls? What does Bela Karoli know about twirling your 55-pound body around on a balance beam?

Somebody should write a petition, man. Send Bela Karoli off to teach the male librarians to do reader's advisory with the little old ladies who only want to read books that are "like Danielle Steele, but less raunchy," because so help me God the male librarians NEVER want to tackle that one. Neither do I, for that matter, but I do, because I am committed to spreading the joy of lifelong reading, and to equitable access to information and resources. And also, because they pay me.

Sunday, January 08, 2006

Mere moments before we drove her to the vet and robbed her of her reproductive choice

"Spay me if you must. But know this: my unborn puppies will haunt your dreams."

Saturday, January 07, 2006

Be gentle - it's my first time

Life in a new city brings with it a number of firsts. Here are a few of mine:

1. First time successfully giving directions to someone on the street.

I have a horrible sense of direction, and it takes me forever to get oriented in a new place. That's why I was especially thrilled last week when a small woman, heavily bundled in a down coat and stocking cap, approached me outside of my parking garage, holding out a slip of paper that bore an address I actually knew! "Can you help me get here?" she asked, pointing to the numbers on the page.

"Sure," I said happily, and proceeded to bestow upon this stranger the most excellent and finely-detailed directions one could ever imagine. I provided approximate distances, alternate turns, helpful hints about the subway stops involved. I worked myself into a frenzy of information, eyes bright with the joy of insider knowledge. The woman listened, quietly. Finally, I paused. "Are you getting all this?" I asked.

She blinked. "No, um, what I mean is-- can you help me get there? Like, with money. I'm broke."

2. First potential new friend.

Earlier this week, I had plans to put into motion Operation Stalk The Other Young Librarian At My Work. The operation had several initiatives and involved a slow but deliberate wooing revolving around our shared relative youth, our shared home turf (she lives in my neighborhood and we make the same slightly agonizing commute), and our shared point of reference as Hoosiers by birth (a fact I uncovered in my pre-stalking research). But before I could even unveil my plan of action, the Other Young Librarian approached ME to chat. We enjoyed some surface-level bonding over being new in town, being among the youngest librarians on staff, and being obsessive owners of small dogs. Tentative plans were made for a coffee double-date in the 'hood. And I will tell you that it took all of my emotional will and physical strength to keep myself from blurting out "there is no option for you but to BE MY FRIEND do you even KNOW how long I will stay on the couch if not coaxed off of it?"

3. First local haircut.

This has not happened yet, but is scheduled for Tuesday. For the past five years, the only person to approach my hair with scissors was Luisa, a fabulously foul-mouthed Portuguese-American Bostonian who owned a one-woman salon across the street from the seediest grocery store in town. She charged $20 for a haircut and always had available appointments, no matter what time of day or year. It was Luisa who helped me grow my hair out for my wedding, and then it was Luisa who chopped it all off again when I finally came to my senses about the rat's nest on my head. Now I am in Chicago, and there is no Luisa in sight. After calling a bunch of salons in my town, I found that the cheapest haircut I could get (short of Supercuts, which I considered) costs twice as much as Luisa charged. I booked an appointment for a trim with "Michael," and the receptionist assured me that I would "enjoy it very much." But here's the rub: I have never, ever, had a man cut my hair. Not once. How weird is that? It seems I've stumbled onto another first, albeit an unintended one.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Thursday, January 05, 2006

Another mother's pigs

I think enough time has passed that I can now share with you our sad sad news: Agnes and Mildred -- eaters of carrots, flingers of poop, and humpers of one another -- are no longer members of our family.

In Boston, the pigs lived very well. They were fed the best veggie treats. They were given out-of-cage playtime on a regular basis. They lived in a bright sunny room, right in the thick of all the action of the house. And then: disaster. A cross-country move and - worse - a dog. In Chicago, the pigs got a bum deal. They had to live in the dark, empty guest room, so as to prevent the puppy from ingesting their bedding, poop, or heads. They were rarely given out-of-cage playtime, as the husband and I weren't able to find much time in between bouts of frantically chasing the dog away from whatever poisonous substance she was trying to gobble. Carrots and kale were quickly thrown into their cage each day, instead of being lovingly hand-fed as in days of yore.

The final straw was Mildred's hideous skin infection , for which the husband and I were fully and completely to blame. We were horrified when we found the scaly bumps on her skin, and even more horrified when we realized how long the sores had probably been festering. This was no way for pets to live. Selfishly, we wanted to keep the pigs. They were our first family pets! They made adorable squeaking noises every time we opened the fridge! They tolerated our presence with only mild hostility! But also selfishly, we were not able (or willing?) to give them any decent amount of attention, what with the new city and the new puppy and the new jobs and all the new newness.

So we paid the five million dollars necessary for Mildred's treatment, and we nursed her back to health. The husband did some research and found an area shelter with a strict non-euthanization policy. They were very nice and promised not to separate the sisters. We gave them a farewell feast and nail-clipping, snapped them into their travel carriers, and bid them a tearful adieu:

So long, Mildred and Agnes. May the big city offer you all the carrots, orange slices, and empty cardboard tubes you could ever dream of. We will think of you whenever two creatures hump.

Sunday, January 01, 2006

This is what I get for defacing that nativity scene when I was 15

They say that when you've been bad all year, Santa Claus fills your Christmas stocking with lumps of coal. Apparently when you've been very very bad, like I and my husband obviously have been, he fills it with vomit. Lots and lots of vomit.

Two days before Christmas, on the morning earmarked for our departure for a week of Family Holiday Fun, the husband and I were awakened by the sound of a tiny beast retching. We flipped on the lights to find the puppy staring up at us, wide-eyed and pathetic, from a puddle of frothy upchuck. I balked -- I was supposed to have nine months of pregnancy and an infusion of Mom Hormones to prepare me for foul things like cleaning up another being's regurgitated meals. The husband balked -- remind him again why he married the woman with the trigger-happy gag reflexes and the freakish aversion to all body fluids? The puppy blinked her googly eyes and, to my complete and utter horror, licked hungrily at her messy lips. We cleaned up the puddle.

To our alarm, the retching continued. It continued through the two-hour morning drive to my parents' house and into the afternoon. It continued onto two dog beds, one living room carpet, and a couple of laps. Finally, we bit the bullet and called the vet, a nearby doc we found in the phone book who kindly agreed to see us 30 minutes before he closed his office for the holiday weekend.

The vet ordered up a couple of x-rays and came back to us with the following prognosis: "Looks like our turkey has been stuffed." Translation: the puppy ate a toy. There it was in the filmy picture, the vet pointed out -- a mass of cotton stuffing filling up the little dog belly. The greedy beast. As punishment for her insolence, the puppy would have to stay overnight and get pumped full of mineral oil to try and coax out the treat she had ingested. As punishment for our offering her the toy to begin with, the husband and I would have to roam the mean streets of northern Indiana selling liquor to minors in order to raise the money to pay for the vet visit.

We picked the puppy up the next morning, good as new. If by "new," of course, you mean "pooping out big chunks of chewed up toy". But she was well again, and happy. And no longer vomiting. And it was Christmas Eve. All was right with the world again.

Until about 11:30 that night, when the husband suddenly rose from bed, making a curious tight-lipped humming sound. Ignoring my queries of "what's wrong?" and "why are you singing?", he made a beeline for the bathroom and, finding it occupied, proceeded onward to the kitchen where he released the contents of his stomach, in dramatic fashion, into my mother's kitchen sink. I asked him if he swallowed a toy. He was not amused. I thought it was pretty funny myself -- until about three hours later, when I myself became sick to my stomach and, upon returning from ten minutes of absolute unpleasantness in the bathroom, heard the husband reach out from his own sick-drunk haze to ask me if I wanted some mineral oil.

And so it came to pass that Christmas day, the holiday I hold so dear, was spent lying motionless in bed, struck down by the flu. The dog feasted on treats and romped with extended family, while the husband and I nibbled on jello and fought over the blankets like children. When the bug finally passed the next day, we rose from our bed happily, confident that this fluke of a bad luck spell had passed, that now, NOW we could begin our luxurious family holiday in style. We loaded up the car, bid my family a bittersweet farewell ("merry christmas - sorry about the sink!"), and drove to Minnesota to visit with the husband's family, where we would nuzzle our niece and nephew, laugh merrily with siblings and siblings-in-law...

...and where the puppy would consume her weight in cat food and unidentified floor scrapings and commence AGAIN with the puking. And where the husband would rise early one morning to clean the pukey dog bed, get light-headed, and pass out on the kitchen floor, resulting in a trip to the emergency room and five stitches on his chin. And where my sweet niece, not wanting to miss out on any of the fun, would casually vomit her salad and stew onto her dinner plate, quickly noting afterward that she wasn't sick; she just didn't like the food.

Last night was New Year's Eve, and the husband and I had no plans. Not one idea, not one party to attend, nothing. On any other year, this might have depressed me or sent me scrambling to the phone to pull something together. But this year? We couldn't have been happier. Just me, my love, and my goblin-faced dog, in our home, all of us together, and not one of us puking. Happy New Year indeed.