Anything Said: March 2006

Monday, March 27, 2006

Who will save your soul?

Back in early college, I belonged to the campus Christian group for about a year. I was feeling pretty lost and vulnerable at the time, and the group preyed upon that. It ended up being a relatively miserable experience, full of judgment and guilt and manipulation. I finally hightailed it out of there by the beginning of my sophomore year, when the group started going off about saving gay people and masturbators from the err of their ways.

I held a lot of resentment and anger towards this group for a long time. I'm over it now, and thankfully have been able to start reclaiming religion, or at least the parts that work for me anyway, out from the hands of the Homophobe Patrol. But why am I telling you this now, you ask? Because, friends and readers, I think my college Christian group might not be finished with me yet. I think they may have plans for me, and I think these plans are being laid out before me through my most treasured of home entertainment fixtures. People, the fellowship has invaded my television.

First, last week I stumbled upon "The Way of the Master." This is Kirk Cameron's post-Growing Pains venture into TV. Because the path to righteousness was paved by Mike Seaver. On the episode I saw, Kirk Cameron and his less famous co-host set out to debunk "myths" about evolution. They did this in several ways. First, they read some stuff out of a science book and laughed at it. Then they held up some dinosaur bones and proclaimed them fake. And finally, the piece de resistance: they rocked it "man on the street" style, grabbing random folks around town and filming them while they bullied them with questions about the science of evolution. The interviewer would pepper each Random Joe with "factual" questions, asking them to explain how and why they believed evolution happened. If ever the interviewee would stumble or hedge in his/her knowledge, uttering a phrase like "I think," "I'm not sure," or "I don't know," the interviewer would echo their words back to them incredulously: "You mean you're telling me that you don't know for sure how we evolved from monkeys? And yet you are willing to believe it as fact?!?" Then the interviewee would be sent off on his/her way in shame. And Kirk Cameron and his co-host would pop back onto the screen to share some info (of the utterly factual variety, of course) about Creation. Which happened. Because Kirk Cameron is kin to no monkey!

The second time the fellowship reached out to me from my television, however, was much more enjoyable. Saturday evening, the husband and I were passed out on the couch with the dog. We love the nightlife; we love to boogie. I was flipping through the channels when I came to some Chicago-based Christian network, hidden way, way up in the double digits with the home shopping channels and the C-SPAN outlet that's always playing random author readings. There was a girl on the screen; she was singing on a stage, in front of an audience and three people seated at a table in a very American-Idol-judge-esque way. The girl was singing something about Jesus and casting her eyes upward earnestly. The three judges watched with rapt attention. I gasped in wonder. "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh. Is this Christian American Idol? IS THIS CHRISTIAN AMERICAN IDOL?"

The girl finished singing, and an icon appeared in the corner of the screen. It was a gold band encircling a picture of a singing woman, and it bore the words: Inspiration Sensation! My husband muttered, "Shit," and gave me a look that was all: is there any way I'm going to get out of watching this? And I was all: have you MET me? And he heaved a weary sigh and started counting the ways his life could have been different had he thought more carefully about that whole "till death do us part" bit.

Let me tell you: "Inspiration Sensation" was Awe. Some. It was just like American Idol except the judges weren't allowed to be mean, the contestants were excessively clothed, and the songs they performed were all about God. One girl named Sheeba sang an Indian-styled "Jesus Loves Me." Another girl sang a song about how the only thing that could make her "white as snow" was the "blood of Jesus." The Ryan Seacrest of the show was this pastor named Dan Willis, who was jacked up like he'd been snorting ritalin between takes and whose catch phrase - which he repeated before and after each contestant and each commercial break and each and every breath - was "You better TELL someone!!" The judges were uber-complimentary, commenting on each contestant's "passion" and "spirit," and only criticizing one girl who dared to make "His Eye is On The Sparrow" too "sultry."

The "Inspiration Sensation" kids were virginal and sincere, the kind of churchy folks that I find harmless and sweet but also, honestly, pretty funny in a "melinda's going to hell for laughing" kind of way. Kirk Cameron, though? Less sweet, less harmless, and funny in a "melinda feels fully justified in gufawing" kind of way. "The Way of the Master" is a perfect example of what was so awful about the Christian group at my college, of why it's incredibly hard for me to label myself a Christian even though I believe, quite strongly, in God. It's mean and superior, full of judgment and scare tactics and finger-pointing. It bullies people who are vulnerable, points a camera at their faces and calls them stupid in the name of a higher power that supposedly loves them.

Somebody needs to call Alan Thicke and Joanna Kerns and tell them to send Mike Seaver to his room without supper, stat. And while they're at it, they could also talk to Carol about that whole drinking and driving thing. Very disappointing.

Saturday, March 25, 2006

Freakish dreams I've endured over the past week include:

1. My husband announced to me that he would like to take another woman to "the dance." What dance? That, I cannot say. But apparently it was a big deal, because I was devastated at the thought of it. So devastated, in fact, that I decided to go out on a date with another man. And by "go out" I mean "rent a video and watch it on my parents' living room sofa." Which is what we did. The man was a very large African-American gentleman with a shaved head and an earring. I don't remember his name, or if I even knew his name in the dream. We snuggled up together on the couch under a blanket, and my parents periodically came into the room to ask us to show them our hands. They didn't want any hanky-panky in their house. I remember thinking, "My parents will never accept this man. My life is going to be very different from how I thought it would be."

2. I was back in high school, and I was in the school marching band. The band was getting ready for a concert which I had forgotten about. But when I went to get dressed and prepare for the show, I couldn't remember what instrument I was supposed to be playing. I asked around, and a girl who I guess was a friend handed me a flute. At least, in the dream I somehow knew it was a flute, even though it was black and pronged like a fork. I stuck one of the pointy ends of the instrument into my mouth and blew with all my might. An awful sound came out. I was terrified.

3. I was a contestant on "America's Next Top Model." We were having an elimination ceremony, and I was one of the final two girls standing in front of Tyra Banks, waiting for her to determine my fate. My competition was a drag queen. (I'm sure this has nothing to do with the fact that I went to see "Transamerica" the night before.) Tyra told us that she had not yet made her decision as to which of us she was going to send home, that she was going to give each of us one final shot at proving ourselves in a runway showdown. We had five minutes to get into our dresses, hair, and make-up. I ran off into some corridor that looked like a storage room, where a man in a mask handed me a big white poofy dress that looked like it came straight out of "Anne of Green Gables." I put it on while the man pulled my (mysteriously long) hair into a floppy bun with whispy tendrils falling around my face. When he was done, I looked in the mirror and promptly started to hyperventilate. I panted and wheezed and fell to the floor. The man in the mask called for help, and the drag queen ran in carrying a big bouquet of flowers and wearing a tiara.

Thoughts?

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Rock the vote

Today is midterm primary day in Illinois, where folks can vote for their faves in races for statewide office and Congress. Today is also the second day of Spring, which in Illinois apparently means that it is about 35 degrees below zero outside, windy and freezing. Campaign volunteers lined up along the sidewalks outside of polling places, heavily swaddled in winter gear, thrusting leaflets and postcards into my hands as I walked to work this morning.

I'm all for political activism, but could someone please explain the purpose of the election day picture postcard to me? I mean, it's election day, right? If I'm planning on voting, I've probably already made up my mind as to for whom. If I for some reason have not, the only thing that's going to decide it for me, one way or the other, is some seriously persuasive information. You've just handed me a square of cardboard with your candidate's picture on it, along with a catchy slogan. What does that do for me? Is it simply on the off chance that I am voting uninformed, and that perhaps the postcard will familiarize me with your candidate's name so that I recognize it ahead of the other faceless Joes on the ballot? And if that's the case, is that how we're deciding elections these days? I vote for the guy whose name I saw on a postcard an hour ago? Yikes.

Is it just me, or are there other people out there who are just DYING to get excited about a candidate for public office? I'm talking about a candidate who really gets it, who is brave and smart and unique, who has opinions about things, who I can support passionately, and who has a shot in hell at winning. It would be great if that person could be a woman, but right about now I'd settle for breathing.

Does anyone else remember the way it felt during the first few months of Howard Dean's presidential campaign? Before he got all red-faced and shouty and vilified by the press? Like him or hate him, you had to take notice: something was happening there. People were getting excited; people were getting mobilized. Dean was connecting with voters in a genuine way. I will admit, I was never a huge fan of the guy myself -- it was like, I liked him in theory, but wasn't sure what he could do for me in practice, you know? But despite my misgivings, I was super-psyched at how he fired people up, made them care about voting in the primaries, how he wasn't afraid to come off unpolished or brash. I loved seeing the little makeshift "Vote For Dean" storefront volunteer centers that seemed to spring up overnight all over my neighborhood outside of Boston. I loved how primetime primary debates became must-see tv.

But the thing was, Dean couldn't follow up the hype with results. I'm not saying that was all his fault; I do think the portrayal of him as a "loose cannon" by the media had its fair share to do with his ultimate lack of success. But still. Where is that candidate who is going to shake things up and then go on to kick The Man's ass and WIN? I want to get excited! I want to skip like a crazy person to the polling place and vote with my heart in my throat! Seriously, people. I voted for John Kerry and all that, but it was about as thrilling as a trip to CVS for paper towels and Sudafed. I voted for Nader in 2000 (in MASSACHUSETTS! It's not my fault!), but even that I did half-heartedly and with reservations. Where's the fire?

Don't forget: I do have a sweetheart, a main squeeze, the apple of my political eye, Hillary Rodham Clinton. Anyone who knows me knows that I love me some Hillary. If there's anyone I could get passionate about, anyone for whom I would drop all commitments and follow around like the pied piper, it's my Hillary. Even in spite of the unfortunate feathered poof she's currently sporting on top of that brilliant head of hers. But here's what I fear: when my Hillary runs for president (please oh please), the backlash is going to be so heavy, so pointed and seething, that she's going to water herself down even more than she already, I admit, has over the years. People hate her so much, small men driving Hummers are so intimidated by her sizable cahones, that it is going to be one ugly, misogynistic campaign trail. And that's just not something I want to deal with either, you know?

So where is she? Where is the fabulous political candidate of my dreams, the one whose liberal brilliance is such that it can't be denied, the one whose appeal is broad enough to attract swing voters yet focused enough to satisfy her base, the one who doesn't alienate people the way my beloved Hill somehow does, the one who won't need to play the sax on Arsenio Hall to get 18-year-olds to come to the polls? The one for whom I can cast a vote without having to throw an election-results-viewing party at which people leave in hysterical tears, as I did in 2004? Where is she? And who wants to help me coax her out to play?

Sunday, March 19, 2006

A picture says a thousand words when you are too inept to string together a sentence

It's Sunday, and I got nothin. Here's a photomontage of dogtitude, to hold down the fort until I have something to say:

From a month ago, with my Valentine's Day flowers. Ignore the Sandy-Duncan-esque appearance of her right eye, but do take note of the fixed determination in her left. What is this world, if not to be snacked upon?

Here's another oldie, this one from during the Olympics. We tried to make her growl at Bob Costas for the camera. She wasn't interested. Her loyalties, apparently, lie elsewhere.

And below are shots from this afternoon's walk through the [muddy, deserted, litter-encrusted] "forrest preserve" by our neighborhood. In the top photo, she has never looked more like a dog. In the bottom, she has never looked more alarmingly fat. I swear to God, we do not feed her cheeseburgers.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

And I don't do mosh pits either, in case you were wondering

You know how I've been complaining about how I haven't gone to see any good live music since I moved to Chicago? Well, last night the husband and I ventured out into the big... uh... neighboring suburb to see this great Austin-based musician play a show at a club. I had gone to hear the guy play when I was visiting my good friend in Texas back in November, and thought it would be fun to hear him again in my own new 'hood. So off we went, the husband and I, to frolic and be free and rock out with the other youngsters.

Except that I am prematurely old and curmudgeonly. And from the start of the evening to its earlier-than-expected conclusion, I found about 57 reasons to be generally displeased. Here are but a few:

First, when we walked in the door to the club, we were immediately enveloped in a cloud of thick white smoke. My friends who are still living in Boston, take note: do not take for granted the blissful freshness that is the Smoke-Free City. I will admit that having lived in Boston for a few years, I myself came to forget certain things that had once been old-hat to me -- like, you know, if you go out to a bar, you better be prepared to Febreeze yourself into infinity upon returning home afterwards. I had gotten so used to being able breathe clean air in pubs and restaurants that when we were faced with the sudden onslaught of secondhand smoke last night I felt totally caught off-guard, like I had died and been reborn a blinking babe in a World of Bleh.

I hate secondhand smoke. I just hate it. I realize that rings more than a little hypocritical, seeing as how I A) spent four years myself clogging up the lungs of innocents as a college social smoker, and B) am a self-proclaimed crazy liberal who supports freedom in lifestyle choices as a means of fighting The Man. But dude, Philip Morris IS The Man. And I haven't put a cigarette to these lips for years. And if it's not acceptable for me to sit next to you in a public place and spray an aerosol can of pine-scented air freshener at your face for five-minute intervals throughout the evening, or to point my ass at you and gently fart in your general direction over and over again in little puffs, then how is it ok for you to blow smoke from your Camel Lights directly over your shoulder and into my eyes all night long while I'm just trying to listen to the music FOR THE LOVE OF GOD?

But I digress. So the place was really fucking smoky, and it took us a little while to adjust to the lack of tasty, life-giving oxygen. As we were trying to do so, a group of fans of the musician we were there to see, Monte Montgomery, came barreling into the room and plopped down at the table next to us. One of them, an older-looking frizzy-haired gentleman wearing a trenchcoat, looked at us and yelled "WOOHOO! MONTE-ACS!!! Are You guys Monteacs?," pronouncing the term like "maniacs." He was, of course, Quirky Exuberant Fan Guy, he who is known to followers of independent and fringe-y folk music everywhere. You know Quirky Exuberant Fan Guy. He's the one who writes about 25 messages a day on the fan listserv you won't admit you subscribe to. He shows up to concerts with his face painted, wearing and selling homemade t-shirts bearing song lyrics. He has a cat named after an album title. At least once, he has brought either a photo of this cat or the cat itself to a concert. He is That Guy. And he was sitting next to me.

I gave him a small smile and said, in response to his query, "No, not really. We're just new fans." Exuberant Fan Guy laughed and exchanged knowing glances with his exuberant posse. "Well, YOU WILL BE!!" he exclaimed. Then he sat down, lit up a cigarette, and began playing air guitar.

A few minutes after this exchange, the opening act came on stage. He was a singer/"songwriter" with an acoustic guitar. He was wearing a leather beret that looked like foreskin. He played a couple of bland, unfamiliar songs that I took to be originals, interspersed with two covers of Sting songs, one cover of Aerosmith's "Sweet Emotion," and a cover of a Led Zeppelin song with which I was not familiar but which caused my husband to throw up his hands in disdain. For a couple of songs, he was accompanied on the bongos. And I think you all know how I feel about bongos.

By the time the guy we had come to see started his set, we were already grouchy and coughing up a lung, so it was hard to get into the music. Which, by the way, was still really good in spite of it all. And by "it all" I mean the fact of being sandwiched between Exuberant Fan Guy (who was now head-banging, stopping only long enough to scream affirming messages like "Good job, Monte!!!" between songs) and his distant cousin, She Who Goes Woooooooo!, on my other side. We left after about an hour, good music nonwithstanding.

I know what you're all thinking. You're thinking: this girl complains too much. She wanted a concert and she got a concert -- she's never satisfied. She's only happy when everyone does things the way SHE thinks they should be done, when the world revolves around HER needs and interests and preferences. And to you all, I say: you're absolutely right. And also: WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Sunday, March 12, 2006

Another one down

This past week was another "meh" week, an overworked haze marked by moments of brightness. Moments of brightness included:

Sunday night: Soundly trouncing Laurie in our annual long-distance Oscar prediction contest. Methinks a certain someone should spend a little less time doing foolish things like, I don't know, reading books and staring at monkeys, and more time watching DVDs and reading movie-nerd blogs.

Monday night: Going to dinner with the Other Young Librarian from my work. You may remember that I earmarked the Other Young Librarian for friendship early on in my tenure at my current place of employment, due to the fact that we A) live within five minutes of one another, and B) are the only professional librarians at our workplace without grandchildren. Since then, we have enjoyed a couple of group outings with husbands in tow. Monday night marked our first endeavor at a women-only social plan: dinner at a Mexican restaurant by my house. It was successful, I think: conversation between us is definitely still of the getting-to-know-you variety. It didn't feel all warm and comfy like it does with my girls in MA or my college friends -- it had a different kind of energy, the highly-charged kind, where you're searching through the conversation filler to find the parts where you connect, the parts where you make a spark.

Thursday night: Playing with the downstairs neighbors. Two weeks ago we had our downstairs neighbors, a young couple with a small yappy dog, over for dinner. It was a smashing success: the husband made a delicious meal and the four of us talked and laughed for hours. Last Thursday, they returned the favor, inviting us over to enjoy dinner, the "Project Runway" finale (which they Tivod for us when they learned that our cable package sadly does not include Bravo), and their new Playstation game that allows you to simulate being a heavy-metal guitarist. I performed "Iron Man," while my husband rocked a little "More Than a Feeling." And THEN, even after we slobbered all over their fancy electronics and mooched off their expanded cable, they invited us out again: this time on Saturday, for a dog-walk to the ice cream store. It's nice to be meeting people, talking to them, exchanging more than just "hello"s. It feels good. It feels normal. It feels better than being lonely.

But of course, it couldn't be all good. Otherwise it wouldn't have been a "meh" week. Moments of suckiness from this past week included:

Monday-Wednesday: Between two different jobs, I worked from 10-12 hours each day. I've got to do something about this schedule. There were so many crazies unleashed at both libraries, you'd think we were loaning out crack. On Monday, somebody took my clearly-marked orange from the staff lounge and ate it. And on Wednesday, someone in the public relations department asked me if I planned to go on to study library science once I "finished college."

Tuesday morning: While conducting a storytime at a local daycare (part of one of my jobs), I faced the ultimate challenge: a five-year-old girl, sitting dead-center in the front row of the group, making a full three-course meal out of her own snot. I'm not just talking about a little nose-picking here -- this was a calculated, many-pronged process. First, the girl would insert a finger into a nostril. Then, she would swirl it around a bit, thoughtfully. Next, the finger would reemerge, this time loaded with, well, some contents, which the girl would stretch and examine before popping it into her mouth. You don't have to thank me for these details: I share because I care. The whole situation was made 10 times worse because, of course, this girl was also attention-seeking, constantly wanting to verbally participate in the stories ("Why is that duck riding a bike?" "I have a baby sister, too!" "BLUE!! MY FAVORITE COLOR IS BLUE!!!!"). Which would normally be all cute and clever, except that when this girl raised her hand to speak she had the other one shoved up her nose, and my gag reflexes being the freakishly sensitive things that they are, this meant that I had to try to respond to her little outbursts without looking directly at her. It was just a mess. Literally.

Friday: I stayed home sick, with my second bad cold of the season. I couldn't breathe out of my nose, hear out of my ears, or eat anything that wasn't a cracker. And dogs just don't understand that stuff, you know? They still want you to take them outside, and play with them, and generally acknowledge their existence. Selfish bitches.

But now I'm (almost) better, and it's Sunday, and I'm going to do a blissful nothing all day. Unless the dog has other ideas...

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Songs to End The Slump

I've been in kind of a musical slump lately. Part of the reason, I think, is that we haven't really seen any concerts since we moved to Chicago. Boston was like the singer/songwriter capital of the world; we were constantly seeing shows by our favorite musicians -- sometimes in little folk venues or coffee shops, sometimes in bigger theaters, sometimes on subway platforms and random sidewalks. Being new in Chicago, we're still trying to eke out the scene for "our kind of music" in the windy city.

I think the other part of the reason I've been in a slump is all the time I've spent in the car, driving from one job to another, listening to the radio. Which is chock full of crap. If I hear that fucking Fallout Boy song "Sugar We're Going Down" one more time, somebody's getting beat down. Maybe Sugar. I don't know.

To bring myself out of my funk, I want to load up my Ipod with some no-fail favorites. Songs that will blow my mind, or make me do a seatbelt shimmy. I'm looking for suggestions. What are some of your all-time favorite songs, the ones that make your toes curl, the ones that make you feel something every time you hear them? The ones that make you happy?

To start off, here are mine: Melinda's Top Five Tunes To Play On Repeat

1. The Song: Once in a Lifetime
The Artist: Talking Heads
Why It Must Be Loved: This is my officially-crowned Favorite Song of All Time. When I went to the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame last year, I was excited to see it listed as one of the "500 Songs That Shaped Rock n' Roll." Because I love Talking Heads. And because this song is just so freakin' awesome. Every time I hear that swirly little opening section, with the perky little bass line bopping along underneath it, I get all happy and bouncy. And then David Byrne's vocals start: "And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack." And I get even happier and bouncier. And then the chorus kicks in, all breathless and rushed. And I love it, love it, love it. It's exuberant and sad and funny ("same as it ever was... hey, look where my hand was!"). Just the greatest.
Choice Snippet of Lyrics: "You may ask yourself, how do I work this?/You may ask yourself, where is that large automobile?"

2. The Song: Pride (In the Name of Love)
The Artist: U2
Why It Must Be Loved: The first thirty seconds of this song are why you must love it: the jangly guitar, then the drums getting louder and louder, and then the guitar again, only this time it's totally rocking out like nothing you've heard before, and then Bono swoops in to save the world and cure AIDS and do whatever else he's doing on this particular Thursday afternoon. That opening guitar riff and the sound of Bono wailing the chorus make me think of driving in breezy heat, windows rolled down, me and the people I love against the world.
Choice Snippet of Lyrics: "Early morning, April 4/ Shots rang out in the Memphis sky/ Free at last, they took your life/ They could not take your pride."

3. The Song: In Your Eyes
The Artist: Peter Gabriel
Why It Must Be Loved: For many reasons, really. Because it's the backdrop for the best scene in the best movie ever made. Because it combines just enough cheez with just enough 80s alterna-edge. Because Peter Gabriel is weird and cool, or at least he used to be, before he started recording music for "City of Angels" and whatever. And because on the day my husband proposed to me, he took the day off from work so that he could make heart-shaped ice cream cakes with raspberry sauce, then watched out the window of our apartment until he saw my car pull into the parking lot so that he could have this song playing on the record player when I walked in the door.
Choice Snippet of Lyrics: "I get so tired of working so hard for our survival/ I look to the time with you to keep me awake and alive."

4. The song: As
The Artist: Stevie Wonder
Why It Must Be Loved: I was so excited to read that Marigoldie loves this song, too. You always hear people talk about all these other Stevie Wonder songs, like "Overjoyed" and "Lately" and "I Just Called to Say I Love You," which are great and all, but they don't even come close to being as fun and funky and heartfelt and cool as "As." I defy you to listen to this and not do a little chair-boogie. What I love most about it is that it's a unique kind of love song, just as sweet and lovely as a ballad but completely uptempo and joyful. It's like a celebration. And a big celebration at that: the song's like 17 minutes long. The chorus just steamrolls over you like some kind of crazy church choir. Love it.
Choice Snippet of Lyrics: "Just as hate knows love's the cure/ You can rest your mind assure/ That I'll be loving you always."

5. The song: Magnolia Street
The artist: Catie Curtis
Why It Must Be Loved: Catie Curtis is a Massachusetts-based folksinger, and I have been stalking her for a number of years now. Like, actually kind of stalking her, online, at concerts, through a friend who babysits for one of her friends, you name it. She's beautiful and writes amazing songs, this one being the best of them all in my opinion. What makes this song so perfect is the harmony she creates between the sparseness of the arrangement and the intense detail of the lyrics. She captures this incredible picture of falling in love, making these little moments like getting lost on a fast-food strip or trying to take off a jacket while driving seem like the height of romance and magic. I wanted this song to be the first dance at my wedding reception. The husband was less enthusiastic. I think he's just jealous, what with the stalking and all.
Choice Snippet of Lyrics: "This is the ride I'm on/ This is the ride I want."

Ok. Now, your turn.

Sunday, March 05, 2006

Road rage lite

Last Thursday, upon arriving home after a particularly soul-sucking commute in rush-hour traffic, I told my husband that I could understand the impulse that drove people to use their cars as weapons. "It just makes you so angry, " I huffed, tearing off my coat and gloves. "All these cars on the road, and none of them moving, and you have no idea why. And then, with no warning, you're suddenly moving again. And then you're not. One of these days it's going to drive me into a murderous rage."

I am no stranger to road rage. It's not something I'm proud of; it's just something that is. Back in Boston, once I got over the initial mind-numbing fear of driving nonsensical streets filled with speeding SUVs, I adopted an "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" attitude toward life on the road. If someone cut me off on the highway, I flipped them off or sped to pass them on the other side. If someone blocked my lane trying to pull out across the flow of traffic, I laid on my horn and shook my head with forceful scorn.

So far in Chicago, my rage has been reserved mostly for the vague evil that is Highway Congestion, as opposed to being directed at individual drivers who have wronged me. Today, though, I was driving back into the city after spending the night at my parents' place in order to attend my cousin's [odd, fluorescent orange themed] wedding, and I found myself being nearly sideswiped at a toll booth. The driver of the offending car was a middle-aged man talking on his cell phone (of course), who was apparently so into his conversation that he forgot that pulling one's vehicle into a lane that is currently already occupied by another vehicle is generally an ill-advised move. He came within inches of hitting me and I swerved sharply to avoid an accident, almost running right into the concrete divider that separated one tolling lane from another.

After righting myself, I honked my horn with great gusto, my way of expressing the general sentiment: "Dude, no." This, however, was a bit too much for Mr. Cell Phone. Apparently, his preference is that utterances of displeasure over his driving style be submitted in writing rather than aired publicly on the road. Fully in line to pay his toll, and still talking on his cell phone, this guy actually put his car in park, opened the driver's side door, and proceeded to walk the hell over to my vehicle. Fortunately my doors were already firmly locked and there were about a million other cars around to witness the freakshow, so I didn't feel TOO alarmed for my personal safety. Especially when the guy leaned down to my window so that his face was level with mine, held his phone away from him, and uttered these uber-threatening words: "Um, so I made a mistake, right? You don't have to honk about it. God. So rude."

I looked around and saw a toll-booth attendant popping his head out of the booth window to shout at my new friend, who had promptly returned to his apparently riveting cell phone conversation. "Get back in your car, psycho," I yelled through my windshield, safe in my observance that he was indeed doing just that. The guy looked back over his shoulder and flipped me off before opening his car door and re-entering the vehicle.

Yes, I have known road rage in my day. But never before have I had someone interrupt their Sunday call to Aunt Janet for a little highway wordswap over proper honking etiquette. That's some serious Crazy, right there.

Friday, March 03, 2006

High 5 Meme, Belated Response Edition

About 5,000 years ago, my supafly new friend Madness tagged me for a cute li'l meme, which I read, enjoyed, and promptly forgot about. Today, as I'm faced with an empty afternoon and a near-crippling case of writer's block that has caused me to stare at a blank Blogger window for about 45 minutes now, I'm making a go of it. Let 'er rip:

What Were You Doing Ten Years Ago?

Ten years ago almost to the month, I began "dating" my husband. And by "dating" I mean randomly making out with him in a college dorm room full of drunk people. He had a girlfriend back home. She called once and left a message on the answering machine while I was sleeping over in his dorm-sized single bed. It was not a moment about which you wrote home to the folks. He ended up going back to her after a couple of months of relationship multi-tasking, and then ultimately coming back to me later on that year. The other girlfriend and I both knew about each other, and we ended up meeting a few years later over an awkwardly territorial passive-aggressive-girl-battle of a dinner. To this day, when we see her over the holidays from time to time (she and the husband have remained friends) I have to stifle a near-irrepressible urge to shout "I win! I win!"

What Were You Doing One Year Ago?

I actually had to go back and check the blog archives for this one. Looks like one year ago, the husband and I traveled to Chicago to try on the windy city for size. We must've liked it, 'cause here we are.

Five Snacks You Enjoy
- Salt and vinegar potato chips
- Chips and salsa and/or guacamole
- Cabot sharp white cheddar cheese. You have to drive all over God's green earth to get this stuff out here.
- Olives
- Trader Joes' Triple Ginger Snaps

Five Songs To Which You Know The Lyrics
(Please. 90% of my brain is made up of song lyrics. The other 10%? Reserved for playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Here are some choice nuggets of which I am particularly proud:)
- Moon River. One of my unabashed favorites of all time.
- Joni Mitchell's "Blue" album. Especially "All I Want" and "Carey."
- I Guess Things Happen That Way, by Johnny Cash.
- Ten Year Night, by Lucy Kaplansky. Both the song and the album. If you haven't heard it, you should; it will break your heart.
- The late 80's/early 90's comic-rap oeuvre, including "Baby Got Back," "The Humpty Dance," and "Knockin' Boots" by the Candyman.

Five Things You Would Do If You Were a Millionaire
- Buy a bigger house for my parents, cause I'm tired of sleeping on the damn living room floor when I visit.
- Fight The Man with monetary donations more substantial than the $40 checks we can currently afford to give. Also, quit (at least temporarily) my job and volunteer for my Hillary's reelection campaign.
- Travel, travel, travel. First on the list: Italy. Iceland. The Greek Islands. Russia. Alaska.
- See music, music, music. I would follow my favorites on the road. I would see Gillian Welch in every city she ever played. I would go to every U2 concert I could never afford before.
- Without guilt or trepidation, buy a Magic Bullet.

Five Bad Habits
- Wallowing and feeling sorry for myself for no good reason.
- Picking at my cuticles.
- Watching trashy tv just because it's on. (Not to be confused with watching trashy tv I wholeheartedly endorse and choose.)
- Grouching at the husband when his nose runs in public.
- Drinking milk from the carton. It just *tastes* better that way!

Five Folks I'm Tagging for This Beeotch
Hucpuc
Laurie
Laura
Erin
and Mrs. Pants. Yeah, you, Morally Suspect. It's never too late to get back on the horse. Unless you're too busy throwing veggies off your balcony or whatever it is you do when you're not updating me with new posts.