On not getting the appeal of a pale, frigid boyfriend

Are there any other teen-angst-embracing Buffy-worshipping young-adult-literature-loving librarians out there having trouble swallowing the Twilight books? Is it just me? I mean, I know I'm not the only person with complaints; Bitch published a piece in its most recent issue comparing the series to abstinence porn. Which: heh. But I'm wondering if there are other people like me -- people for whom the books seem to be tailor-made -- who are having some difficulty choking down the kool-aid.

I just finished the third book, the one in which Bella, the human girl, basically begs Edward, her vampire boyfriend/stalker, to have sex with her, and he refuses in the name of protecting her virtue so that she can get into heaven when she dies. [If the thought of a vampire embracing Christianity confuses you, don't worry; in a later chapter, a werewolf quotes scripture. Stephenie Meyer, the author, is a devout Mormon housewife. So there's that.] It's also the book in which Edward hires his sister to both physically kidnap and "babysit" (his word) Bella while he is off attending to important bloodsucking business (swoon!), AND delivers this sweet little monologue to his rival for Bella's affections, sounding as if he were yelling at some dude who had borrowed and subsequently scratched his Hyundai:

"But if you ever bring her back damaged again -- and I don't care whose fault it is; I don't care if she merely trips, or if a meteor falls out of the sky and hits her in the head -- if you return her to me in less than the perfect condition that I left her in, you will be running with three legs. Do you understand that, mongrel?"

Niiiice.

I guess my main problem isn't necessarily with the politics of it all; they are pretty damn gross, but I've excused worse before (I'm looking at you, Jennifer Weiner and your ilk). My problem is that I'm just not seeing how this stuff translates into the grand, sweeping love story all the 13 year-olds are talking about. And you can imagine how this perturbs me, as I am usually quite amenable to what teenagers tell me to like. Joey and Pacey as fated partners on Dawson's Creek? Sure. Blair and Chuck as starcrossed soul-mates on Gossip Girl? Yesiree, I'll buy that. Veronica and Logan on Veronica Mars? I'll take two, please. And don't even get me started on Buffy and Angel. But this? From a high-school senior?

"I don't know..." His brow creased. "If it hurts you so much, how can it possibly be the right thing for you?"
"Edward, I know who I can't live without."
"But..."
I shook my head. "You don't understand. You may be brave enough or strong enough to live without me, if that's what's best. But I could never be that self-sacrificing. I have to be with you. It's the only way I can live."

I mean, I remember with humiliating detail the emotions I felt upon being dumped for the first of about 18 times by my high school boyfriend. I remember running into the house, flinging myself onto my bed, and sobbing hysterically to my mother as she tried to assure me there would be other deadbeat acne-vessels in my future, "Mom, I neeeeed him!" But dude, I'm pretty sure I wasn't actually prepared to become the undead in order to fulfill that need. Is all I'm saying.

And can we address the matter of the thesaurus? The one that Stephenie Meyer failed to consult before opening her laptop? Because, people, observe:

Page 439: "I leaned into him, ducking my head under his arm and cuddling into his side. It probably felt similar to snuggling with Michelangelo's David, except that this perfect marble creature wrapped his arms around me to pull me closer."
Page 17: "...the straight line of his nose, the sharp angle of his cheekbones, the smooth marble span of his forehead..."
Page 43: "There wasn't anything I'd experienced in my life that compared to the feeling of his cool lips, marble hard but always so gentle, moving with mine."
Page 187: "He held himself carefully so that I felt none of his weight, but I could feel the cool marble of his body press against mine."

WE GET IT. HE'S HARD. Move it along, all ye who are repressed.

I'm not going to lie to you: I will read the fourth book... A) because I see things through, B) because I'm still secretly hoping to See What The Big Deal Is, and C) because I'm promised hot [but safely marital] vampire on vampire action. Also because I like to have things to complain about. But I may have to donate a dollar to progressive causes supporting in-school condom distribution for every time Edward touches Bella with "ice fingers," just to make myself feel better.

Annual Holiday Wrap-up

6: Days spent at my parents' house in Indiana.

5: Hours of winter driving it took to get there, during which time we saw

10 (approximately): Vehicles overturned in the ditch alongside the highway. I freaked out, a whole lot, and spent the drive alternately concentrating intently on avoiding ice patches and shouting at Ira Glass for his accursed mumbling problem that renders me unable to achieve consistent radio volume control in my car.

0: Number of grandchildren my parents have to obsess over, aside from my offspring.

0: Consequently, number of times I had to get up with said offspring at the crack of dawn while at my parents' house.

2: Battery-operated noisemaker toys purchased for my child by my mother. Happily, this is down about 37 toys from last year's tally.

6: Pug-themed gifts I received for Christmas (1 pug-face mouse pad, 1 dish towel and pot holder set featuring pug graphics, 1 pair of pug-shaped ceramic salt and pepper shakers that kiss each other with magnet-mouths, and 3 2009 pug calendars of varying shapes and sizes).

1: Coveted immersion blender bestowed upon me by Santa Claus.

1: Entire season of "How I Met Your Mother" viewed on DVD from my perch on my parents' couch. Jen, I hope your husband is proud.

0: Surprise encounters with high school archenemies and/or ex-boyfriends and/or people who used to crush my self-esteem like a bug.

1.5: Hours it took, upon arriving at my parents' house, before I jumped off the wagon and ate meat. My mother has never met a vegetable she didn't refuse to cook. Mea culpa: I ate chicken wings. Ohhhhhhh, delicious chicken wings. You make cruel and senseless animal slaughter so very, very edible.

1: Case of heartburn, with which I paid for my transgressions. Eggplant, if I promise to be good, will you please take me back?

4: Movies I went to see, listed in descending order of awesomeness: Doubt (awesome!); The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (moderately awesome!); Marley and Me (if I was worried about looking uncool I would say "amusing" or "entertaining fluff" but if you're reading this you already recognize my profound uncoolness and, as such, I say: awesome with jennifer aniston-related reservations!); and Four Christmases (not remotely awesome, but the only thing playing in my hometown on December 23rd that wasn't about blowing shit up!).

1: Night away in a hotel with the husband, made possible by free babysitting from the aforementioned grandchild-obsessed parents.

44: Dollars we spent on our room at the South Bend Extended Stay. Because we're all about glamour.

4.5: Hours it took to drive back home to CollegeTown yesterday.

4: Hours of the drive filled with post-holiday exhaustion-fueled temper tantrums.

25: Approximate percent of my living room rug that is now covered with dried up pine needles. Merry Dead, Crispy Christmas, everyone!

2: Days until Laurie and her fetching husband come for our New Year's orgy of Wii.

A whole bunch: Buckets of luck and good fortune that rained down on me in the form of a lovely vacation in which no one puked their guts out or landed in the ER.

Your boss and an open bar

Yesterday I was delighted to attend the most pleasant and reasonable office holiday party I could ever have imagined. It was for the public library where I work very, very part-time. Hosted at a nearby hotel, the party was a buffet-style breakfast, held an hour before the library opened for the day. Staff sat at neat round tables and chatted happily while they ate boring but inoffensive food. The library director stood and said a few genuinely kind (and brief! actually brief!) words of appreciation before giving everyone a small gift (a holiday serving tray). People smiled at each other and talked about non-work-related topics. And then by 9:00 it was over, and everyone moved on with their days.

No one had to dress up. No one had to drag unwilling family members to attend. No one had to spend a precious weekend evening with their colleagues. No board members were there, expecting to be treated like royalty. And for that matter, no fundraisers were there to treat the board members like royalty anyway. No one stood up to make a speech about "hard times" before giving out insulting "bonus" checks that would have been better spent on a big-ass cake. No one received a bogus pin or plaque or letter of appreciation. No one handed out gift certificates for "respect" (not kidding. has happened.). No one cried. No one got drunk. There was no DJ. There were no souvenir photos.

We're leaving for a week of Christmas vacation in a couple of days. To get in the spirit, let's share tales of wretched holiday parties past, the ones against which you measure all others. I'll go first.

The year is, I think, 2001. I'm working for the Women's Nonprofit of Doom. The Board has just hired a new Executive Director whom everyone hates, and she's taken the entire staff out to the Cheesecake Factory for dinner. This new ED -- she's young. She has no experience, she's friends with someone on the Board, she walks around all day with lipstick on her teeth, her first act as ED was to print out a sign for her office door on copy paper bearing her full name, title, and clip art images of doves flying. She is openly loathed.

Gamely, she's decided that she's going to win over her new staff with a big jolly holiday celebration. To that end, she has assigned us all Secret Winter Pals (SWPs, for short). Secret Santas for the nondenominational social justice set. We all have to buy or make our SWP small presents (under $5) daily for the week leading up to the Cheesecake Factory party, then bring a $10 maximum gift for the big reveal at dinner.

I comply. I buy my SWP, the only male in the office, little toys, candy, treats. The gifts I receive in return from whoever has drawn my name are substantially larger. The soundtrack to a favorite movie on CD. A gift certificate to a local restaurant. Some schlocky new-age book about determining my emotional IQ. I am annoyed. This person is not following the rules, and now I feel stingy and lame.

At the end of the week, we go out for our big dinner. My SWP opens his final present from me, a cowboy hat. There is some intended meaning behind this gift which I have since forgotten, and he does not get the joke. It is awkward. Other people's exchanges are unremarkable, strained. Then it is my turn to open my gift. Which I do. And it is a $150 gift basket of Origins skin care products. It is from the new ED. Her eyes are desperate. The whole table is silent and horrified. I say something to the effect of, "Wow, this is amazing, I can't accept this." She is all "I know I went a little overboard, but I really want you to have it." The next person opens her gift, and it is another tiny trinket, as per the instructions. Everyone is so uncomfortable. Eventually the check comes, and the new ED tries to pay with her personal credit card. No one will allow it. Which of course leads to a staggeringly awful splitting-of-the-bill conversation with the waiter. The ED makes a "go team!" speech before we leave. No one makes eye contact.

Oh! And while all this is happening, the famously homophobic development officer is down at the other end of the table making homophobic remarks about her own newborn son, who is innocently reclining in his car seat, one tiny hand peeking out from under his blanket, a pinky extended. Which means that he is a gay baby. Happy holidays.

Now your turn. Any holiday party horror stories to share?

The purpose-driven meh

Oh, Obama. Couldn't you have waited until after you took office to break my heart?

In the spirit of the holidays, in the spirit of Yes We Can, in the spirit of change we are gonna try our damndest to believe in, I cannot allow myself to believe that our next president had anything to do with the selection of a homophobic antiwoman fundamentalist (I'm sorry, but if he's a moderate, I'm an anarchist lesbian separatist) who equates legal abortion with the Holocaust as his inauguration speaker. I just refuse. Fingers in my ears. Lalalalalalala.

Seriously, though. Somebody else decides this stuff. Right? RIGHT?

Go ask your father

Cletus the Former Fetus has two cherished favorite toys, as of late. Both are refrigerator magnets. One is in the shape of a pug dog; the other is one of those little garish red Swedish horses. The child totes them all over the house, guiding them on exciting adventures: A ride in the Little People school bus! A jump on the sofa! A journey up the stairs to the second floor!

But the most exciting adventure of all, of course, is giving her magnets a bath. Oh no, you're thinking, a step ahead of me already, not in the toilet! To that, friends, I reply: IF ONLY. Toilet water, pre-deposit anyway, is at least halfway clean. The bathtub, then? you ask. Oh no, a bath in the bathtub just will not do for imaginary friends meant to clutch coupons to your appliances. Refrigerator magnets, apparently, can only bathe in the filthy drippings that lay stagnant beneath the freshly-washed (or, more likely, yesterday-washed) dishes resting in our draining rack.

Now I have reprimanded the child for this behavior each and every time I witnessed it occurring, emptying the puddle into the sink with a hearty "Cletus, that's yucky water. Don't touch." "No, Cletus, no bath for the horsey." ""GET YOUR FINGERS OUT OF THERE, NOW." And as I assumed this particular offense was a non-negotiable no-no, I didn't feel it was necessary to obtain the input of the child's father when establishing this rule of law. Imagine my surprise, then, when I walked into the kitchen Sunday morning and overheard my husband pointedly saying to my daughter, who was at that very moment elbow-deep in greasy draining rack goodness, "Cletus, don't. Your mommy says you shouldn't do that."

In my head, I heard the sound of a needle scratching across a vinyl record. This was way beyond my longstanding fear of ending up the Mean Parent in the family; now all of a sudden I had become Mean Parent to my husband's Good Parent With No Regard For Hygiene.

I instantly took the opportunity to deliver a substantial thesis entitled "One Hundred And One Ways You Just Crossed The Line" with its supplement volume "Can We Get On The Same Page, Here?" to the offending party, then removed my child and her friends from their dip in filth and continued on with my day. I would have thought the matter squashed. Note, how I said would have thought. As in, I would have thought it squashed if I were not me, and if this were not my life.

But no, that evening we sat down to dinner, and Cletus the Former Fetus launched into what was probably her 25th ridiculous tantrum of the day. This one was over a fork. Namely, Cletus did not want to eat dinner using her fork, she wanted to eat dinner using my (completely identical in so many ways that I cannot even be sure that it wasn't precisely the same piece of cutlery) fork. And I said no. Repeatedly, and decisively. "No Cletus, use the fork you have in front of you." "Cletus, your fork is fine. If you keep fussing, you'll have to go sit in time-out." "Cletus, please eat your dinner." And then my head exploded.

I'm sorry, did I say my head exploded? What I meant to say was: and then, my husband looked up from his meal and said, absentmindedly, "Cletus, do you want to use daddy's fork?"

Even Cletus, at that moment, looked at her father with wide eyes, all "um, dad, for real? You sure about that? Because I was just doing all this for shits and grins; you may want to reconsider."

I don't ask for much in this life. Just a passable degree of authority over the passably non-filthy child in my passably non-filthy house. I'm wondering if, perhaps, that needed to have been stated more explicitly in the fine print of this contract.

Watch Thomas watch movie watch Elmo watch baseball?

I'll be honest: I'm having trouble coming up with things to post about these days. "Bitchy and complainy" is kind of my thing. When I'm immersed in one of my brief flirtations with NOT drowning in rage and angst, I run out of stuff to say. It's just that we're in the middle of this massive economic shitstorm, you know, and everybody's losing their jobs and their houses and their insurance, and I look around and I think, yeah, those bitches at Comcast cancelled my SOAPnet and my boiler is wonky and I can't find a job in my field within 100 miles of my town, but I have a healthy family and affordable mortgage payments and books to read and a warm dog on my lap and hot water on the stove for tea and it's Christmas, people. At least one of the adults in this family is employed. That's lucky right there.

I've got nothing to complain about. I mean, that doesn't mean I won't, but still.

Cletus the Former Fetus is off her rocker lately, I'm telling you. My mother-in-law, when she was visiting for Thanksgiving, dropped off a bunch of boxes of the husband's childhood treasures for us to cherish (read: store in the basement next to the bat droppings and dryer lint). From among these treasures, Cletus has chosen to prize and and champion the following: 2 (two) plastic dinosaurs, 1 (one) two-headed plastic dragon, 1 (one) Tupperware container filled with tiny rubber insect-like creatures, and 1 (one) homemade model of a cave, constructed from a plastic milk jug and paper mache. The cave is the thing, really. It's the setting for hours of adventures starring said dinosaurs and dragon, along with supporting characters Elmo-in-a-chicken-suit and Swedish-horse-magnet- stripped-from-the-fridge.

We suspect that Cletus may be watching a bit too much television at daycare. We suspect this because pretty much every evening she makes the following litany of requests:

Cletus: "Watch TV?"
Hypocritical parental figure who is mentally counting down the minutes to Gossip Girl: "No, Cletus. Let's read a book."
Cletus: "Watch Elmo?"
Parental figure: "No sweetie. Come here, let's play with your train."
Cletus: "Watch Dora watch toons watch movie watch tennis watch bowling watch football?"

The latter three, of course, being products of both the new Wii and my father's recent visit to our home during a Notre Dame football game which could not. be. turned. off. The only other real TV exposure Cletus gets in our house is from our stash of Tivo'd Sesame Street. The rest -- the Dora, the toons, the what have you -- is from daycare. Obviously, we aren't overly concerned or we'd be switching her to another site. Maybe that means we suck, who knows? But... she always comes home happy, toting some coloring project and, in the warmer months, covered in dirt from playing outside. She loves the daycare-provider and can't stop talking about the other kids. I guess I'm prepared to handle the downsides if the upsides fit the bill. Plus it doesn't hurt that I can cover the cost of a week's care with what I make in two hours of freelancing. Small towns, my friends.

We hosted a potluck for new faculty at my husband's work last night. I made two spinach lasagnas and only one got eaten. I had one of those self-chiding moments when I fret over my constant over-preparedness. Like: why, Melinda, do you always have to be early? Why, Melinda, do you always cover not only your bases, but everyone else's as well? When, Melinda, will you learn to be easy-breezy?

And then the feeling passed when I realized that I HATE when people are constantly late, I truly appreciate when people invite me over for dinner and have already completed the cooking when I arrive so I don't have to stand around all "what can I do?", and I've got a whole extra lasagna in my fridge, bitches!

That's what I mean when I say life's a-ok.

My name is Melinda and I am a Rock Bandaholic

This isn't even really a post. Because if I were to commit myself to composing actual content for this blog, it would mean putting down the Rock Band drumsticks for long enough to apply fingertips to computer keyboard. Which is just. not. happening.

Eleven days have passed since the beast was brought into our home. Eleven days wherein the husband and I rush through our dinner, pull out our oversized toy instruments, and have conversations that sound like this:

Me: I think I hear our child crying.
The husband: Just let me get through this guitar solo!

Me: Why have I not heard of Coheed and Cambria until now?
The husband: Because you've never rocked this hard before, that's why.

This past weekend, Laurie took the train from Chicago to visit us. She may have had expectations of seeing the sights. We don't know; we wouldn't let her leave the house. We put a microphone in her hand and made her sing lead in our touring band, Bitchass Pugdog. At one point late Saturday night, I believe her left eye teared up and became red and swollen from both The Tired and The Five Hours of Staring At A Television Screen. Rather than quit before conquering Iron Maiden's "Run To The Hills," she went and found her eyeglasses. Rock Band cares not for the weary.

I try to distract myself with useful tasks throughout the day, but all I can think about is how I have yet to master "Wanted Dead Or Alive" on Expert, no matter how many times I try.

I'm actually drumming with my left hand while I type this with my right.

Send help.

Extreme haiku: home edition

Old house, I love you.
You are stately and large and
besides that, you're mine.

But old house, I'm cold.
I have set the thermostat
to seventy-two.

Old house, it is not
seventy-two in here. It
is sixty. Why's that?

Old house, the boiler
is broken again. This is
the third time since June.

Old house, why can the
boiler not break on a Tues-
day, say? Why Friday?

My old house, you have
exhausted this warranty.
Soon, we have to pay.

Where are the repair
guys, old house? Soon it will be
the weekend. Meh.

Old house, did you hear?
We're in a recession. This
is no time for pranks.

Old house, I love you.
You are stately and large. Please
don't make me cut you.

Things I Am Currently Putting Off Until The Arbitrary Point In Time Known As "After The Holidays"

1. Potty-training my daughter. She shows interest in her potty chairs, insists upon "helping" me use the restroom, and sleeps with a paperback book called Potty Time!, yet still I resist. Diapers are expensive and destroy the planet one landfill at a time... but they sure do an excellent job of keeping my kid's pee off the carpet.

2. Taking away my daughter's pacifiers. A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine had to hide her just-turned-three year old's pacifiers after a dentist told her she was destroying the child's teeth and dooming her to a life of braces and headgear. As a mediocre author of Oprah's book club fare once wrote, I know this much is true. But the screaming. Ohhhh, the screaming. Can't I wait until she's driving?

3. Taking my daughter for her first visit to the dentist. See above.

4. Getting motivated; doing something with my life. A couple New Years Eves ago I resolved to start writing my great American novel. A couple New Years Eves ago, I most likely was drunk. But I've got all this time to waste now, sitting around waiting for old librarians to die so I can apply for their jobs. I should be using this time to write, create, do... something.

5. Painting my living room. I picked out the color and purchased everything but the paint. Why am I so terrified to make a change to my home? I need some therapy to deal with my Renters' Baggage.

6. Joining the Y. Yes, I have free access to the gym at the college where the husband works. Yes, I thought I was going to take advantage of that. Yes, I tried. No, I will not be returning while school is in session, due to the hoards of wee girls in halter tops and tights whose stomachs have never known the miracle of pregnancy. I like my self-esteem served piping hot, with a side of sweatpants. I'll be coughing up the 30 bucks a month, thanks.

7. Hiring someone to clean our gutters. Wait, I was supposed to do that before it snowed, right?

Anyone else have a similar list of tasks that will somehow magically become appealing once January rolls around?

Oh, the weather outside is weather

Happy belated Turkey Slaughter Day! I cooked my first-ever Thanksgiving feast for a crowd of in-laws, eight adults and three children all sleeping under my roof. The husband roasted the innocent bird, while I made mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, Corbett's Mom's Most Excellent Vegetarian Stuffing (tm), roasted brussels sprouts, pecan pie, apple pie, maple pumpkin pie, and three dozen whoopie pies. Do I get my grown-up card now?

Friday was my 32nd birthday. For my present, I got a Secretary of State!

I also got the gift of free babysitting from my mother- and father-in-law, who watched all three kids while the six grownups (the husband and I, the husband's brother and his wife, the husband's sister, and a German foreign exchange student) went out for a nice dinner. Then my sister-in-law gave me some paper made out of elephant dung and my husband gave me Rock Band for the new Wii. Who could possibly ask for anything more?

It snowed yesterday, and now our million-mile driveway is coated in ice. I do not understand all of you people who are all "Yay! It's snowing!" all over your Facebook status. Don't make me un-friend you! I could not be less pleased at the start of winter weather. I would think it was pretty if I didn't have to shovel it, walk through it, or try to force my dog to pee on it.

But I do love me some Christmas, I will say that. The husband and I purchased our first real Christmas tree on Saturday and decorated it with our mismatched array of ornaments. Or rather, I and my nephew decorated it, while my husband spent thirty minutes with his mother obsessively searching Rhapsody for a particular album of instrumental Swedish holiday music. You know, as you do.

As it turns out, our home is located across the street from owners of a ten-foot inflatable snowman. So there's only so much we can do, holiday spirit-wise, to compete with such grandeur. Maybe something from the animatronic reindeer family?

Welcome to December, friends.