Goofus Musings

Up Next: Balloon Doggerel?

2008-06-30T06:43:00.002-04:00

In my Highlights days, I picked up an usual talent. It was a job requirement -- one I’m positive I’ll never have again, though words like “can’t” and “never” aren’t exactly Gallant-sanctioned.

At office events -- open houses and the like -- I twisted.

Not that sort of twisting, Chubby Checker. I’m talking about balloon twisting. Lots of dogs. A few rabbits. One or two snakes (my favorite, since snakes require no twisting at all). No swords, per H’lights policy.

I got pretty good. Someday, I might even try this:

A balloon Kathie Lee Gifford (right, next to the real Kathie Lee – left. Can you tell the difference?)

This twisterpiece was created by my Boston co-worker Naomi, on “The Today Show” a couple of weeks ago. How cool is that?

Daytime celeb-twisting may not be in my immediate future, but Naomi and her friend Sara have faith. The tagline on their directorial debut -- the film they discussed with K.L. -- is: “Once you can make a balloon dog, you can do anything.” Twisted: A Balloonamentary is showing in a few theaters, and it’s available on DVD.

The storyline follows eight balloon twisters who gripped their lives firmly, made a few turns, and ended up with Trojan horses, flying octopuses, and happily ever afters. See it!

On the morning of Naomi’s NBC appearance, my officemates and I camped between the glow of our iMacs and our one, impressively large TV. “I think she’s up next!” someone shouted. “After this carpet commercial!” We suffered several false alarms: the very short guy from “Will and Grace,” a K.L. monologue on Jamie Lynn Spears, and a live performance from Rihanna. With every not-Naomi event, our rancor grew. Some people went for more coffee; others checked their email. I began rhyming.

The following lyrics will only amuse if you know the Rihanna song “Umbrella.” Even then, maybe they won’t be funny -- I’m so out-of-practice with rhyming and writing that my “Goofus Muse” is looking for temp work. I am only hoping that Naomi and Sara’s philosophy of twisting applies to “moon” and “June.” Once you’ve got the basics, you’re set?

Rihanna's "Umbrella"
Rewritten for Only Children, Misanthropes, and People Who Don’t Like Getting Wet

By me

When it’s sunny out,
You can know without a doubt
You’re part of my very core
An’ I just can’t love you more
But now the sky is dark
I’m going to my car
My umbrella’s there –
Really wish that I could share
But, see -

Chorus:
When the clouds meet it means bad weather
And I just bought a brand-new sweater
Well, of course, I am your friend –
If it weren’t J. Crew, y'know I’d give in
Now that it’s raining more than ever
Can we stand farther from each other?
Would you please get your own umbrella
Go on an’ buy your own umbrella -ella –ella eh eh eh
You can afford your own umbrella -ella –ella eh eh eh
Go purchase a new umbrella –ella –ella eh eh eh eh

These cowgirl boots
TJ Maxx, yeah aren’t they cute?
Only $30.96
A pleather/cowhide mix
Really hate to see ‘em drip
On account of your mental slip
Weatherman predicted rain
Really, boo, where was your brain?

(Chorus)

You can go to CVS
Pay with cash or pay express
They’re on aisle 3
Near tha candy
You can try another store
But you’ll end up paying more
It don’t matta, see, because

(Chorus)

A poncho – ooh, baby, a poncho – one size fits all, one size fits all

Galoshes – ooh, baby, galoshes – try the mall, yeah try the mall...

Nice Work, If You Can Get It

2008-03-19T22:00:00.003-04:00

I just returned from my first business trip. Two words. First word, one syllable: sounds like “shoe” and “blue.” Second word, two syllables: sounds like God laughing.

Bon temps rouler...and rouler again. Isn’t it ironic?

Because I haven’t blogged in ages, I’ll go easy on you. I swear on an Emeril’s cookbook, I won’t use the word “closure” in this post. My second NOLA evacuation occurred over eight months ago. Purely voluntary, but entirely necessary. In my second year of graduate school, I dropped 17 pounds. Another year would’ve turned me into Calista Flockhart on heroin.

But I didn’t revisit Chocolate City to fatten my shriveled soul, nor OD on etouffe. I went for a conference. Also, because my company paid.

In lieu of Bourbon St. tonics, my co-worker/hotelmate and I binged on reality television. After long days of suits and extraversion, we wanted the sleaziest fare available. Think: glitz, innuendo, hosted by anyone from the ‘80s “TGIF” lineup. We hit gold, of the capped tooth variety, with (hold your breath) “Your Mama Don’t Dance.”

Co-eds in sequined spandex compete in tail shakin’. Their partners? I’m afraid Donny and Marie never had it this incestuous.

If only Bob Saget hosted -- the ick triumvirate would be complete. I guess “Steve” from “Melrose Place” will do.

My colleague and I got the biggest “ick” out of Eric and Brooke, a stepfather/daughter pair. As a devoted stepchild, I’m not one to question the difference between biological attachment and step-bonding. But you can’t deny, the nature/nurture debate becomes more interesting when family members are separated only by Lycra.

“Those people are the same age!” my co-worker insisted. “He adopted her for the show.”

“Shh!” I hissed. “They’re about to ‘Boogie Oogie Oogie.’”

My second-favorite trip experience is owed to Jacques-i-mo’s, where we dined on the last night of the conference. Jacques-i-mo’s has the best crawfish etouffe in the city. The restaurant’s namesake wears Hawaiian shorts and a chef’s top, always. He greeted us at the bar -- a location from which, judging by his breath and diction, he hadn’t strayed long.

“Where you ladies from?” he posed.

When we replied “Boston,” he shouted, “Yankees!” (Sorry, Murk.)

He then bought us a round of shots, followed by a glass of Pinot. When Jacques-i-mo drinks, you drink. Jacques-i-mo continues drinking while you order too much food and tip 85.5%.

Jacques-i-mo asked us where we work. I don’t intend to reveal that info on this blog, but I’ll share the chef’s rough translation: in art, or literature, or artsy literature, or literary art. “Huh,” he said. And promptly walked out the door.

“Where did he go?”

“I think we bored him.”

Ah well. Like a respectable, dull Yankee, I finished my wine and willed our server to appear.

Instead, Jacques-i-mo came back carrying three, square packages.

“Art!” he proclaimed.

His prizes were three gallery pieces -- sketches, he said, by a local artist friend. All garish but cheerful, like the chef’s pants. Something to remember the city by, Jacques-i-mo smiled. I assured him I wouldn’t forget.

Ode To Hall & Oates, 12/8

2007-12-15T11:26:00.000-05:00

‘Twas a night in December
And through Our Fair City,
The T was a’hummin’
With a Hall & Oates ditty.
“Watch out,” the crowd sang,
“The woman is wild!”
“She’ll chew you up faster
Than ol’ Sara smiled.”

Murk in his jacket
And I in Clinique
Through the Orpheum’s curtains
We stole a quick peek.
“I see him!” I squealed
To my cute blogger beau.
“That’s John Oates himself!
And he’s still got his ‘fro!”

Up three flights we shuffled
A nosebleed? Who cares!
With tissues in pocket,
We dashed to our chairs.

“Here’s a number,” Hall grinned,
“That you’ll know very well!
It’s a holiday hit,
Called ‘The First Noel.’”
The audience puzzled
Ah well, ‘tis the season...
A carol to start?
There must be a reason!
They’re saving ‘Maneater’ for tune #2
A full Christmas concert? No way! No can do.

Like sheep to two shepherds,
We followed along,
Then perked up our ears
For the duo’s next song.

The first chords swelled up
With a tambourine’s clatter
“This can’t be...,” I murmured.
“Something’s the matter.”
“This next one,” Hall laughed,
“Takes me back to my youth!”
Was he born singing “Rich Girl”?
Or would that be uncouth?
“Children, Go Where I Send Thee!”
Daryl chuckled with glee.
“Bathroom,” I whispered,
“That’s my cue to pee.”

In the aisles, eyes were wandering,
Wondering, too –
Could this be a dream? Was our dream coming true?
All eggnog and thistle,
And no “Private Eyes”?
Had they talked to their agent?
Was this really wise?

“Enough!” someone shouted. “Get on with the show!”
“No Santa! No Rudolph! No ‘dreaming of snow!’”

Hall glanced at Oates, with a grimace most dour.
“We’re saving your faves for the end of the hour.
Be patient!” he grumbled.
The crowd merely hissed:
“Your holiday music is not on our list.”

The bellows and sneers were too loud to deflect.
They triggered a sort of “Reverse Grinch Effect,”
The more protests rang
Off each woofer and tweeter
The more Christmas came,
With no sign of “Maneater.”

At last, Hall obliged,
But his cheer came too late.
For types “lean and hungry,”
We’d just have to wait.
Two encores, and then - the band drove out of sight
With nary “Maneater” to wrap up the night.

And it could be my heart
Is two sizes too small
But I’m holding a grudge
Against Srs. Oates and Hall.
They gave us our Christmas,
Like good little elves,
But the biggest, best present
They kept for themselves!

Not Another Pretty Face

2007-12-01T12:12:00.000-05:00

Zen Master/’80s queen Belinda Carlisle once informed us: “Heaven is a place on Earth.” This week, friends, I’ve located that fabled “place.” In a word: Facebook.

What other venue allows, nay, encourages your ninth grade bully to peacefully cohabitate with your office’s IT guy? Weddings, funerals, heaven, and Facebook. You can’t play Scrabble at weddings or funerals, and there’s no sheep-throwing in heaven. Yesterday I threw a sheep at myself on Facebook, just because I could.

I resisted adding my visage to the ‘Book for over a year, dismissing it as a virtual under-21 club. “Oh mah gaw, did you see what he wrote on her wall?” twittered the undergrads in my teaching assistantship. “Soooo funny.” Like any mature B.A.-holder, I did my social networking on Friendster. Sometimes MySpace. And the Times society pages, naturally.

My new co-workers quickly Botoxed the wrinkles in my Facebook faith. “It’s great networking!” they exclaimed. “And you can turn people into zombies!” I tried to protest, but my doubt muscles were paralyzed.

Who welcomed me into the pearly gates? Not my best friend from grade-school. Not the cheerful HR lady who passed around chocolate eyeballs at Halloween. One of my first “friend requests” came from: The Other Jesse (TOJ). Toto, we’re not in Friendster anymore.

To most of my high school classmates she was just Jessie. Short-for-Jessica Jessie. Also blonde, also diminutive. No mascara in her bangs.

It wasn’t like Heathers. She didn’t hide my geometry book, and I didn’t, well, kill her. I’m not sure we shared a class. She got asked to the prom in eighth grade. Some time after that, I stopped turning around when my name was called.

(Not to sound like your junior varsity softball coach, but: there’s no “I” in Jesse. It’s cute, yes, but unnecessary -- like those homes people knit for Kleenex boxes. It certainly isn’t the “girl” version of Jesse. English words don’t have gender. Stick that in your long, fancy cigarette, Pierre!)

TOJ’s “i” blinks at me from the Facebook homepage. So far, our Facebook friendship much resembles our high-school relationship. We’re each aware of the other. We get along fine. We have nothing to say. I hope someone brings Scrabble to my upcoming 10th reunion.

That is, if the Honor Code still discourages sheep throwing.

Here I Am, There I Went

2007-11-17T18:52:00.000-05:00

What's that noise?

Do you hear it?

It’s the sound of my keystrokes, echoing in an abandoned blog!

I plead no contest to your charges of blog negligence. Alas, there’s no detox resort for bloggers who’ve overindulged in less creative activities (e.g. reading perezhilton.com, shamelessly downloading the latest Britney, and, oh yeah, working). I can only promise to do better. I will. Do better. Honest, officer!

The past five weeks have flashed like a cheesy movie montage, set to the tune of Peaches and Herb. Mid-October, I flew from Boston to Washington, D.C., where I reunited (feels so good!) with three TFA buddies (“liberal Commie do-gooders,” as our Administration would call them). Last time I saw this trio, they were living together in a converted Arkansas brothel. “Remember the monkey sex room?” L. sighed wistfully. Ah, yes: a.k.a. the attic.

For our schmaltzy tourist activity, we chose the International Spy Museum. I gave up on becoming an international spy long ago -- specifically, when I ripped my purple stirrup pants while playing FBI agent in my neighbor’s yard. (Man, those were great pants!) After elbowing through the Museum, I believe I made the correct career move. Thanks to Jennifer Garner (and maybe 9/11) everyone’s cousin wants to engage in transcontinental espionage. There’s nothing glamorous about being wedged beneath another spy-wannabe’s armpit. Even if you’re carrying a lipstick pistol.

We squeezed through the last exhibit with several daylight hours left, so I sweet-talked my friends into purchasing a board game and hauling it to one of the city’s two million Starbucks cafes. I don’t recall the name of the game (A., maybe you can help?) but the gist was: player 1 reads a question (“What’s one risk you’d never take?”), players 2-4 answer the question (“Skydiving,” “Sushi buffet,” “Tapping my foot in a toilet stall”), and player MC-squared has to match each answer with the person who wrote it. I haven’t ordered so many caramel apple ciders, nor had so much fun, in a long time.

My former co-workers at Highlights furnished last weekend’s reunion. Mary flew from sunny CA to chilly MA, and we drove to chillier northeastern PA in the world’s ugliest rental car. I could post a photo or link to the model, but it’s more fun to give your imagination free reign. We christened the car Bananito, the Little Banana -- owed, of course, to its hue. Yep, bright yaller. Our coche’s license plate read Florida, and I can only guess that it was pre-owned by a blind retiree. The GPS didn’t work. The windshield wipers groaned like rusty dental tools. For the return trip, we changed Bananito’s name to Lemony Snicket.

I’ll let you in on a bit of classified information: I miss Honesdale. I miss ordering garlic eggplant take-out at “China Castle, may I help you?” I miss gulping cocktails from shot glasses at The Limerick. I miss Dave’s Super Duper, the strangely scented discount grocery. During my dysfunctional graduate school existence, I frequently pined for Honesdale, the way one might lust after a lost romance. But on this recent trip, I realized: like most ex-loves, my adored borough looks better from afar. As I stirred my teeny tiny SoCo-Cran at The Limerick, I couldn’t help wondering what Murky was up to. At the exploitative jukebox, I paid a dollar for “Ruby” by the Kaiser Chiefs -- one of Murky’s favorites. The clientele, who might’ve been good for ten more rounds, promptly left. See you in the a.m.!

So, I’ve now returned to my regularly scheduled reunion, already in progress. I’ve lived in Boston for over a month now, but I still can’t believe I’m here. The Prudential! The ducklings! The snow! The...boy (blush). I’ll always be a Southern gal at heart, but can I tell you something? This feels like home.

Ode To My First Day In A New Job, In A New City*

2007-10-08T09:10:00.000-04:00

I cannot go to work today
There’s too much Scrabulous to play,
Clothes to buy,
New ‘dos to try,
And bills I should pretend to pay.

Plus, I think my car won’t start
My brand-new shoes have come apart
See? My toe is poking through....
Work, today, I cannot do!

My favorite show comes on at 3,
And Netflix sent a DVD.
It’s obvious I have to stay!
The houseplant wilts when I’m away.

The server crashed, and--what?
What’s that you say?
You say today’s....Columbus Day?
As in....it’s a paid holiday?

Hm! I thought that’s what you said!
Goodbye, I’m going back to bed.

* apologies to the great Shel Silverstein

Shades of Dorian Gray

2007-09-11T20:35:00.000-04:00

“There is a big difference between 24 and 27.” – a former co-worker to me (age 24)

“Happy birthday! 18 is a big year!” – a florist to me on my birthday (age 27)

I’ve been waiting my whole life to turn 27. In my family, 27 is a magic number. My mother was 27 when she gave birth to me. 27 years separate two essential members of my immediate family. (I’ll let you guess which ones.) 27 is evenly divisible by 3, the universally accepted magic number. If you add 2 and 7, you get 9, which is also divisible by 3.

“Schoolhouse Rock” producers, take note: I’m a 27 year old seeking employment.

I have reached 27 at last. Let me shout it from the rooftop: I am 27! Not 18, as the florist guessed. Two people recently pegged me for 14. To be fair, one woman -- an elderly neighbor -- originally settled on 16, but as I smiled and trotted off, she shouted, “No! You look more like 14!” I’m sure she was hoping I’d turn around and proffer Girl Scout cookies. I didn’t. I haven’t been a Girl Scout since I was 7. I’m not 7 today; I’m 27. I am, too! Am, too! Mooooom, they’re picking on me!

Back in June 2005, close to the time I started this blog, my co-worker spoke of the maturity gap between ages 24 and 27. We’d been talking about my then 27 year old next-door neighbor, Ellie, who was about to get married. I said something like, “I can’t imagine being married now,” and my colleague replied, “You’re 24. There is a big difference between 24 and 27.”

Well, it’s too late to prove anyone wrong, but...I just don’t see it. 27 feels a lot like 24. Living with my parents may have something to do with it. The rooftop I’m warbling from is in Murfreesboro, and it covers my childhood bedroom. I left New Orleans over a month ago, sans degree. I’m finishing up my thesis from Tennessee, trying to move north again. The last time I moved from Tennessee to Massachusetts, I was 17. Starting school. College, not kindergarten, thanks.

Maybe if I look older, I’ll feel older. This theory propelled me to the Clinique counter on my birthday. “It’s my birthday, and I need make-up,” I exclaimed to a group of blondes in lab coats. The one who agreed to help wore a nametag that said “Tracy” with a shiny, pink star sticker. “Would you like product recommendations or a consultation,” Tracy-Star inquired. “How long is a consultation?” I asked. “About 45 minutes.” I signed up.

Imagine Dr. Faust selling his soul to Tammy Faye Bakker.

My make-up routine, when I remember it, usually takes 5 minutes. I slap on a cover-up. I make a fish-face and dot blush on my gills. I wiggle eyeliner on my lower lids--halfway across, because I heard somewhere that this makes eyes look bigger. Mascara and lip gloss, and I’m done.

“Do you exfoliate?” Tracy-Star demanded. When I said no, she remained silent but shook her head. “Moisturize?” Again, I admitted I didn’t. Tracy-Star’s Santa Claus Complex pulsed. I was getting nothing for Christmas, I could tell.

After properly exfoliating, moisturizing, and humiliating, Tracy-Star applied my cover-up. I’d purchased a new bottle of Clinique cover-up less than a month ago, but TS suggested a different shade. “You bought a winter shade,” she explained. “See how much better this summer shade looks?” I wanted to tell Tracy-Star that my pimples don’t distinguish between seasons, but this comment seemed immature. As a 27 year old, maybe I should differentiate between winter and summer cover-ups. To every season there is a cover-up, and a time to every purpose under heaven. Turn!

Blush and powder topped the cover-up. Concealer on my “trouble spots.” Then, Tracy-Star went for my eyes.

Like many starry ex-English majors, I believe eyes are windows to the soul. In Tracy-Star’s estimation, my windows had been sporting Venetian blinds. They needed velvet drapes. With tassels.

“Quick eye make-up do’s and don’ts,” TS said, whipping out several tiny brushes. “Don’t ever apply eyeliner to only your bottom lid. I don’t care who you are. It’ll make you look tired.” I should have cringed at my mistake, but, hey, I am often tired. Truth in advertising.

Armed with eyeliner, eye tint, and three shades of eye shadow, Tracy-Star proceeded to adorn my lids with what Gene Simmons would call “too much eye make-up.” Conveniently, she also recommended an eye make-up remover.

Of course, I bought all of it. The exfoliator. The moisturizer. The cover-up. The blusher. The powder. The eye shadow -- all three shades. I even purchased something called “mascara primer.” Tracy-Star billed it as “moisturizer for the eyelashes.” Her own lashes looked like daddy longlegs.

Not once did Tracy-Star ask my age, or try to conjecture it. At first, I found this strange. But as I gazed through moist lashes at my “after” face, I realized: at this counter, age really was “just a number.” Look older, look younger. Whatever. At heart, we are all one age. That age is: an age that requires make-up. Call it Clinique Zen.

“You look like Marilyn Manson,” my father said at dinner. I think we’ll all agree, Marilyn Manson is at least 27. Probably older. Therefore, I’ll deem my Clinique mission a success. I may toast myself with an adult beverage. If I’m carded, well, I give up.

Boston Triptych

2007-08-31T11:02:00.000-04:00

An unknown Southerner once said, “I’m bicoastal...if the Mississippi River counts as one of the coasts.” In keeping with my bicoastal lifestyle, I just returned from a week and a half in Boston. My main objective was to raid Murky’s apartment, though I also had a job interview. Here are the essential bits:

I. In Which I Avoid Fiona Apple Puns (Not Really)

On the evening of my arrival, Murky surprised me with Fiona Apple/Nickel Creek tickets. Monster! As sure as Mr. Words knows my serious devotion to Miss Apple, he realizes I cannot avoid a bad pun. He must have delighted in kicking off a Celebrity Death Match between my artistic muses. In this corner, the Cameron Crowe wannabe, sweating to construct the perfect anthropological metaphor for Fiona’s career metamorphosis between Tidal (1996) and Extraordinary Machine(2005). In this corner, a singsong voice chanting: “I wish her tunes were friendlier / And within my vocal reach / But if ‘soft and fuzzy’ were her style / She’d be Fiona Peach.”

I chose to forgive Murky, because he smelled great, and also because the tickets were VIP. After purchasing special, VIP Aquafina bottles in the VIP tent, we Very Importantly slid into two cushioned folding chairs near the stage. Nickel Creek played a solo set for the first 30 minutes, probably to distinguish themselves from Nickelback. “Nice Allison Krauss vibe, but when will they play ‘How You Remind Me’?” I inquired. Oops.

Fiona started with “Extraordinary Machine,” which I hadn’t heard before, but subsequently acquired and played roughly 154.5 times. “It sounds like a musical number!” I exclaimed to Murky. “Surly With A Fringe On Top!” Lest she morph into Shirley Jones, Miss A. continued with several deliciously dismal numbers from When the Pawn...: “A Mistake,” “Paper Bag,” and “Fast As You Can.” For the latter tune, she whipped out her signature, convulsive dance moves. She could adopt a Cuban style / Like they do in old Havana / But if she danced flamenco, well / We’d call her Miss Banana.

Darn you, Murky! You knew this would happen!

Toward the middle of her set, Fiona announced: “There’s a very special person in the audience tonight.” Being VIPs, Murky and I glanced at our seatmates. No Liz Phair. No Ani. “Because of this person, every morning for a year I brushed my teeth and thought ‘Today is going to be a great day!’” Now, Fiona sounded almost chipper. Curious, indeed. “She’s my third grade teacher Linda! On the count of three, can everyone say, ‘Thank you, Linda!!’?”

Murky and I obliged. I love Fiona Apple. But if you think I’m going to make a crack about her being “good at the core,” you are so wrong.

II. In Which I Ponder The Hair-Hat

Murky does not live in a bachelor pad. Item 1a of the Bachelor Regulations for Refrigeration and Preservation (BRRP) states: “Bachelor pad refrigeration unit must contain no less than six (6) cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon and no more than one (1) expired dairy product. Murky’s fridge has hummus. And in his shower, there’s a hair-hat.

The hair-hat came from Lowe’s, aisle 6: Female Roommate Essentials. Its intended purpose is to capture long, silky strands in the shower drain. But it’s much more fun as an air hockey puck. On Day 1 of my visit, I discovered that the hair-hat glides smoothly across water -- and if you kick it just so, it will ricochet off all four corners of the tub. Score!

Before Day 2, Murky ended my Olympics. “You know, sweets...it will only catch hair if it sits directly on the drain.” Hair-hat: 0. Jesse: -1.

As penance, I decided to rename the hair-hat. I pondered as I showered. “Hair-hat” was merely an affectionate nickname, drawn from the hattish shape of the product. A proper moniker should incorporate the fashion and function of the tool. Also, it should be a pun.

Lockjaw? Manetee (like a manatee, but...not)? I was forced to dry off before the final christening -- pruny fingers, be damned!

Your ideas are welcome.

III. In Which I Spot Many Different Whales, Or The Same Whale Many Times

The couple who whales together stays together, so Murky and I went on a whale watch. In preparation for the watch, Murky purchased sunscreen and Dramamine. I bought fish-shaped foods. “Goldfish crackers! Perfect!” The CVS clerk eyed me suspiciously. (You thought I’d say “gave me the fish eye,” but punning time is over, pal.)

Our boat left the harbor at 12:30. At 12:27, Murky and I exited the parking garage and started running. We’d given ourselves over an hour for the 20-minute drive, but this margin wasn’t wide enough to fit a parade. No matter how many times Murky hit the “detour” button on his GPS, we couldn’t escape the ethnic pride parade winding through his neighborhood. I’m not sure what ethnicity was being celebrated. Murky muttered many equal-opportunity epithets as we waited. I placated him with Swedish fish candies.

We made it, barely. Our vessel was a high-speed catamaran: S.S. I-Don’t-Recall. Who cares? It was fast! On board, I watched for whales, and Murky watched the little girl in front of us, whom he charged with uttering, “Daddy, I don’t feel well.” Murky insisted we remain upwind of this child. “She’ll blow any second,” he grumbled. “The chunks will spew backwards, because of the wind. I’ve seen it happen before.” Oh, really? “Was that when you took your other girlfriends whale watching?”

“Eat your Goldfish.”

Our first whale surfaced after about an hour of cruising. This whale was soon followed by a second whale, who looked a lot like the first whale. “If you’ll look to your right, Molson the Whale is swimming alongside her calf!,” our guide enthused. “Which one is Molson, and which is the calf?” I asked Murky. He shrugged.

Here’s a whale-watch truism, from one who knows: there’s only one whale. The sea floor houses an immense baggage carousel, on which the single whale circulates like a forgotten Samsonite. Molson, Moby-Dick...same whale.

If you don’t believe me, take me back to Boston. I’ll prove it.

Remembrance

2007-08-02T20:28:00.000-04:00

It’s undisputed fact that “Saturday Night Live” stopped being funny when I was in Osh Kosh. Even so, I’m amused by a sketch from a few years ago. The premise is “World’s Friendliest Credit Card Company” -- a line of credit suited for the “Bad credit? No credit?” bunch. One by one, the actors marvel at how little information was needed for credit approval. Horatio Sanz: “I just said my name, and I was APPROVED.” Jimmy Fallon: “I thought I was ordering pizza, but I was APPROVED.” Chris Kattan: “I don‘t know what I’s approved for, but I’s APPROVED.”

Admit it, you smiled. Just a little? No? Weren’t you ever in middle school? I’ve been chasing approval since around October 1993, when our junior high headmistress ordered the eighth grade girls to form a horizontal line in the auditorium. Once we’d shuffled into place, the eighth grade boys received their mission: choose one girl to be Homecoming Representative. As I recall, the headmistress delivered an obligatory schpiel about “good leadership” and “good values,” but my hormone-addled brain wasn’t fooled a bit. May the prettiest girl win. I remember her name, too -- and not because it’s my own.

I’m past the Clearasil stage (well, mostly), but once in a while I land in the Homecoming lineup. Early this year, I was introduced to a woman whose approval of me seemed imperative. She was, and is, the Very Important Person to one of my Very Important People. I’ll call her Mrs. B.

Weeks before our meeting, I bought a gift. Doesn’t everyone enjoy candy? Days before, I planned my outfit. Long-sleeved, V-necked lace top over a plain white cami, matched with black linen pants. Feminine but tasteful. No saggy bra straps.

I stood on her doorstep, with my Very Important Person, and fidgeted. My VIP told me not to worry, that Mrs. B. would love me. I nodded and mentally debated the thickness of my eyeliner. Too much?

And, of course, I wondered what I’d say. I’d heard stories about Mrs. B. from my VIP. About how she worked as a nurse and instructed patients to put blueberries on their cereal, for extra vitamins. About how she made my VIP take his vitamins when he was younger and, to his chagrin, eat fish. About how she liked Broadway musicals. “You like musicals,” my VIP said. Where were my seventy-six trombones when I needed them?

In the slo-mo seconds before Mr. and Mrs. B. answered the doorbell, I smoothed my pants (Why linen? Does linen ever travel well?) and said a prayer.

She hugged me before I got over the threshold.

“Come in, dear! So nice to finally meet you! Have a glass of wine!”

I accepted the hug, and the huge glass of white wine, with Sally Field gratitude. Mrs. B. barely knew a thing about me, but she liked me. She really liked me!

She served shrimp etouffee in a crock pot, with brown rice. Etouffee! “A crock pot makes everything easy,” she explained. “You should get one.”

She told stories, too. When my VIP attempted an abominable imitation of my Tennessee accent, Mrs. B. recounted a futile search for her husband’s “car keys.” Turns out, he wanted his favorite “khakis.” Guess Southerners aren’t the only folks who get lost in translation.

At the end of the night, we hugged again, and Mrs. B. exclaimed how nice I looked. I told her I’d appreciate the etouffee recipe. I wasn’t just grubbing for approval, either. I planned to price crock pots.

I dined with Mrs. B. and her family three times. The last time was in late May. Weeks earlier, she’d been diagnosed with a terminal illness. Remarkably, her demeanor hadn’t changed a bit. She smiled and gave me a big hug. She told funny stories. She made me feel APPROVED, just for showing up.

She passed away about two weeks ago. Though it sounds immature, I truly thought she’d live forever. No one gets “eternity” in this life, I know -- not my VIPs or their VIPs, or even me, for that matter. But if you build up enough credit, through laughter and warm hugs and dinner invitations, how can it possibly run out?

I was lucky enough to meet many of Mrs. B’s friends, and even more family, at her services. In a way, I think funerals turn people into middle schoolers. Nobody really knows what to say. Lots of tugging at hems, toying with hair, dabbing mascara. Somewhere in a lineup of cousins, though, I realized an important difference. In this group of suits and skirts, everyone was approved. Not only approved, but chosen. As far as I can tell, Mrs. B. made everyone feel special -- whether she’d known them for a few evenings, or for many years.

Sure as my monthly Visa bill, I know heaven welcomed her like she welcomed me. And everyone up there loves the accent.

Power of One

2007-07-09T10:18:00.000-04:00

Blogger's note: I wrote this post yesterday, while I was in a bad mood. I took it down later, because I thought it was a little too grouchy. Today I'll repost it, because it has a few good bits, and it took me a decent chunk of time to write! But you should know that: 1) sentiment/activity in this post has been exaggerated to make for better reading; 2) I wish nothing but the best for Paris Hilton and Marc Summers; 3) this week is the Murky Words-Goofus Musings Second Annual Southern Fried Roap Trip, so I really have nothing to complain about.

I promise I didn’t follow the Paris Hilton prison saga. Very closely. In the Winn Dixie checkout yesterday, I resisted buying People’s recap of “the Heiress’s Hoosegow Hijinks” (okay, that wasn’t the title, but catchy, no?). I may have dipped some recreational Paris via E! Online, just for kicks. It’s possible I stumbled into a synopsis of Paris’s Larry King interview. If so, I blinked over Paris’s admission of the “worst thing about jail.” Not the mystery meat. Not the fake designer jumpsuit. “I hate being alone,” the ex-con stated. “I’m an Aquarius. We’re social people.”

My Virgo mind can’t quite digest this. We’re recluses.

Seriously, lonerhood gets a bad rap -- no jail pun intended. (Yes, I made the word “lonerhood” up. Know why? No one was around to stop me!) Organizations have coalesced against racism and sexism, but who’s raising the issue of numberism?

The only children should be.

Or, at least, those of us who watched “Family Double Dare” in the ’80s.

Know what constituted a “family” on “Family Double Dare”? Four people. A mom, a dad, and two kids. As a child, I dreamed of competing on “Family Double Dare.” I fell asleep with visions of sliding through slime and goo. Marc Summers would adore me. I was pudgy and cute, and I could balance funnel-shaped objects atop my head. But, by Nickelodeon dictum, I wasn’t part of a “family.” It was just me and my folks -- like a sofa missing a leg. Tossed out.

(And don’t tell me “Family Double Dare” discriminated against large families. If anything, your built-in “second string” was an advantage.)

In song, two “can make a dream come true,” while ONE gets left at the altar, loses God and family, and eventually jumps off a tower (i.e. Gilbert O’Sullivan, “Alone Again (Naturally),” which makes Radiohead’s oeuvre look chipper). Note to Marvin Gaye and Tammy Terrell: “one” rhymes with “fun.” It may be true that “One can go out to a movie, lookin’ for a special treat,” while “two can make that single movie something really kinda sweet,” but try this logic: “Two can stage a thumb war over DVD remotes / One is free to replay all the love scenes from Hope Floats” (mmm, Harry!).

Consider all the literary figures who would’ve been better off as loners. One blind mouse would have left the farmer’s wife alone -- no peer pressure. If Jill had just retrieved the water by herself, nobody would have fallen. Boo Radley was probably interrupted in the middle of writing a civil rights manifesto. Mr. Rochester’s ex-wife could’ve started a boutique in her attic.

One is the luckiest number. Luckiest!

Yeah, I’m a little lonely this weekend.

Here’s what I did buy at Winn Dixie: ingredients for “Fettuccine with Sauteed Onions, Meatless Bacon, and Green Peas in Lemon Sauce” (Claire’s Classic American Vegetarian Cooking, Claire Criscuolo). In my 26 years as an “only,” I’ve discovered there are two guaranteed cures for loneliness -- baking cookies while listening to the Thriller album, and making spaghetti sauce while listening to The Ultimate Otis Redding. Somehow I’ve misplaced Thriller, so Otis and spaghetti it was! (Otis and cookies don’t match, silly.)

In retrospect, this recipe was a poor choice for a “single” gal. It called for a cup of dry white wine, which, as a solo chef, I didn’t have. I splurged on a bottle of Yellowtail, and, with no one around to share or advise, I saved all of it from “going bad.”

Two can clink their glasses, as they toast the love they share / One can drink the bottle, sitting in her underwear.

(Just kidding, older readers. I was dressed.)

Rhymish boozing? Boozy rhyming? Are these Virgo traits?

Briefly Noted

2007-07-01T10:56:00.000-04:00

This morning's headline on nytimes.com is:

Hong Kong Marks a Decade Since Handover

(Referring to HK's return by Britain to Chinese rule)

In my pre-caffeinated state, I read it as:

Hong Kong Marks a Decade Since Hangover

Well, drink up, then!

As a longtime journalist, my dad has a few good stories about headline flubs. My favorite is the fatal mix-up of "weds" and "wets," in reference to the nuptials of a public figure's daughter. "Gentleman Lawyer We..."

I'll leave it to your imagination. (Or Dad's comment!)

On an unrelated, but very important, "note"--happy 80th birthday to my granddad (who doesn't read this blog, I rather hope). He's the second best-looking octogenarian on the Internet. Take a look at his recent ad for Elliott's Hardware. Also click on "Departments" and "Hardware Plus."

Put Some Records On While I Sweat

2007-06-26T21:02:00.000-04:00

Be forewarned: this is a sequel post. I generally believe all sequels are bad ideas, except maybe Exodus. My least favorite sequel is Cheaper By the Dozen 2, which I saw with my 6-year-old cousin in a Tennessee theater. I’m not sure when Steve Martin transitioned from “Wild And Crazy Guy” to “Pained Yet Patient Father,” but the gods must’ve wept. I might have scored Samaritan points for taking my cousin to Cheaper By the Dozen 2, but she hated the movie more than I did. “Is it over now?” she punctuated each scene change. “Is it over now?”

No, this post has just begun. I’m plagiarizing Murky by giving you my Summertime Singalong. Like Mr. Words’ greatest hits, mine (mostly) evoke happy, humid memories. Because I’m lazy, though, I’ve selected only tunes with “summer” words in the titles. This originated as a playlist on my iPod, and I present it without shame or editing. Sort of like the director’s cut of Garfield: Tale of Two Kitties.

1. “Summertime,” DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince. Ah, nostalgia. Remember when summertime was meant to “sit back and unwind”? Remember when a rapper scored a Billboard hit without having to rhyme “bitches and ho’s” (“itches my nose...”)?

2. “Here Comes the Sun,” Peter Tosh. This tune makes the short list of Beatles hits suitable for reggae covers. “Eleanor Rigby,” not destined for ebony and ivory action. “Yellow Submarine”...well, maybe.

3. “In the Summertime,” Mungo Jerry. Thumbs up: Mungo immortalized T.S. Eliot with his feline name. Thumbs down: “If her daddy’s rich, take her out for a meal / If her daddy’s poor, just do what you feel.” Two thumbs up: my mom, hearing the aforementioned lyric, exclaimed, “Well, that’s not very nice!” I've been raised right.

4. “I Can See Clearly Now,” Jimmy Cliff. Overplayed, but still one of my sunshiny favorites. Could be swapped for sentiment with any version of Irving Berlin’s “Blue Skies.”

5. “Summer in the City,” The Lovin’ Spoonful. I wouldn’t be surprised if Geico and The Lovin’ Spoonful have a “special arrangement.” The chorus of car horns is always good for a nervous swerve. Wheee!

6. “Hot in Here,” Nelly. Debuted in 2002, during my first year of teaching in Hughes. It was pretty hot in my classroom, but I knew never to say, “It’s getting hot in here,” because, inevitably, I’d receive a chorus: “So, take off...” That's one more letter off R-E-C-E-S-S, kids.

7. “Steal My Sunshine,” Len. Also seen on Murky’s list, but I bet my recollection has a different spin. In 1999 I was nineteen, and my college friends and I sang this on an apple picking trip to Connecticut. Just like you, Murk?

8. “Hot Hot Hot,” random party tune/Chili‘s commercial. It’s on my playlist, but I’ve never listened in full. Fits the theme, but annoying as hay-ell.

9. “Sunny,” Boney M. Disco remix of a Stevie Wonder song which wasn’t great in the first place. Like that Garfield: The Movie sequel. (Oops, I did say “without shame,” didn’t I? Always a toss up between shame and honesty.)

10. “Heat Wave,” Martha Reeves and Vandellas. In the 1980s, I had a “Best of the Girl Groups” cassette, and this was the first song on the B side. Mom and I took turns being Martha Reeves or the Vandellas. We also did a great version of the Shangri-Las’ “Leader of the Pack.”

11. “Summer’s Day,” Yo La Tengo. Included purely for hipster cred, and to counterbalance...

12. “Summer Girls,” LFO. I can’t tell you how much I love this song, because you’ll never read my blog again. Would it help if I make a smart Cole Porter reference? This ditty reminds me of Cole’s “You’re the Top,” with its joyfully inane rhyming. Cole says: “You’re the pearl that the divers fetch up / Milton Berle, and tomato ketchup.” LFO chants: “There was a good man named Paul Revere / I feel much better, baby, when you’re near.” Okay, (sigh), you’re right...Cole is rolling. How about: “Let you off the hook, like my man Mr. Limpet / Think about that summer, and I bug ‘cause I miss it”? Now Don Knotts is rolling, too...

13. “Summertime Blues,” The Beach Boys. Relatively upbeat for its grim subject matter, which is “the dawn of summer employment.” Age 12, you spend every summer watching “Tom and Jerry’s.” Age 15, you spend every summer scooping Ben and Jerry’s. And you’re still too young to vote!

14. “Blister in the Sun,” Violent Femmes. Talking to my friend Jessica on the phone a few days ago, she said, “[Husband] and I went to a club last week, and they were playing the song that goes “Doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo do, dum da dum da dum, chh chh! Chh chh!” Immediately I answered, “Blister in the Sun”-- maybe ‘cause I’m that good, but more likely because I went to Wellesley. (Femmes in a cappella is my specialty.)

15. “No Rain,” Blind Melon. All I can do is read a book to stay awake. When that doesn’t work, I think about Chuck E. Cheese’s middle name.

16. “Summertime,” Janis Joplin. We come full circle! I think most folks would call this the quintessential version of the quintessential summer song. My apologies to the Gershwins for confusing their musical with a high school sex romp, several posts ago. Ira and George had enough sense not to pen a sequel...

Ode To Graffiti I Spotted Yesterday

2007-06-19T18:37:00.000-04:00

When I see most graffiti displayed,
I think, “Words should be said and not sprayed.”
For I’m sure if my trashcan could talk,
It wouldn’t yell, “CHRISTOPHER RAWKS!”
And I doubt that most bathroom stalls care
Whether “JENNA WUZ HERE” or wuz there.
Surely exit ramps think thoughts more clever
Than “BILLY + DEBBIE 4-EVA.”
(If they don’t, well, they’ve still got more class
Than the average road underpass.)

But here’s an exception to note -
One stop sign had reason to gloat.
Its message rang both strong and true,
As a spray-written missive should do.
‘Neath STOP, an extra command
In lettering rendered by hand -
No four-letter-studded design,
Just one simple phrase: "HAMMER TIME."

Summertime Mr. E.

2007-06-10T14:23:00.000-04:00

Man, it’s hot here. “How hot is it?” you ask. It is so hot that all I want to do is lie in bed and ponder Great Eternal Questions. Questions such as: What does the E. in Chuck E. Cheese stand for?

This mystical conundrum has never bothered me before. It started knocking on my mental chamber around 10:00 this morning, when I awoke from another long, sweaty sleep. I’ve spent most of this weekend in bed -- either sleeping, or reading Dennis Lehane’s Mystic River. Today, I’m bookmarked at the chapter where Jimmy frantically phones his wife and youngest daughter at Chuck E. Cheese. His eldest daughter has gone missing in the local park. I feel for the guy. Really, I do. But it’s too hot to follow him through the blood-stained underbrush. At 10:10 a.m., I bid Jimmy a good Sunday and flopped onto the cooler part of my pillow. And I began wondering.

Edgar. Eddie. Eduardo. Maybe he’s Hispanic! Eugene. Ephram. It could be a family name. I reluctantly peeled myself from the top sheet and switched on my computer. Logged onto Instant Messenger. Eric would know. Hey, maybe Chuck’s middle name is Eric!

No, he wasn’t sure. Damn. He did direct me to this Web site, where racially diverse, animated people once pondered the same question. Apparently, a smattering of Yahoo users voted for their favorite answer. The winner: “The name ‘Chuck E. Cheese’ was designed to make a person’s mouth smile when they said it. So it was just a name that was created, and didn’t necessarily stand for anything in particular.” Gee, thanks, fallencupid79. For nuttin’.

“Didn’t necessarily stand for anything in particular.” There’s less waffling in our current Administration. If you’re so sure, fallencupid79, why not just say, “Didn’t stand for anything”? Why not say, “The E. is meaningless”? Because you don’t know, and it’s past your curfew.

I don’t buy Grease Lightning’s answer, either. He says it’s “another way of saying ‘Chucky’ Cheese.” If that’s correct, then why doesn’t a certain Mouse go by “Mick E.”? “Mick” is a way hipper name than “Mickey,” if you ask me. If Mick Jagger had been a Mickey, I bet the Stones wouldn’t have made it past the Maypole County Talent Show. Chuck E. is a genuine Chuck, make no mistake.

In my day, nobody bothered ciphering Chuck E. Cheese’s middle initial, because Chuck E. didn’t exist. When I was a mouseling, Chuck E.'s was Showbiz Pizza. According to trusty Wikipedia, Showbiz became Chuck E.’s in 1992, for reasons as mysterious as Chuck’s middle moniker.

My last visit to Chuck E. Cheese was in 1998, for a Wellesley Newsie’s birthday party. After several rounds of Skee Ball, we partygoers adjourned to the Celebration Room, for Munch’s Make Believe Band. As the eponymous purple monster plinked his keyboard, and the predictably mustachioed Italian pizza chef grinned over his drums, Chuck E. himself appeared in the flesh (or fur, as it were). He shook our hands. He sang “Happy Birthday.” He danced...a little too close, for me. In later years, I witnessed the same grooves at packed nightclubs on Beale Street. This Chuck E. was probably too young to enter nightclubs without a fake ID. But he was old enough to fully appreciate a throng of college-aged girls in party hats.

As we filed past the cash register on our way out, I heard Chuck E. whisper to a waiter, “That was awesome.”

Wikipedia notes that Munch’s Make Believe Band replaced the Pizza Time Players in the early ‘90s, around the time Showbiz became Chuck E.’s. For the Players’ performances, lead vocals alternated between Dolli Dimples (a hippo), Harmony Howlette (presumably, a dog), and various other animatronic females. When Chuck E. took over, though, he usurped the mic and received his own, special stage.

Looks like E. stands for Ego.

“It’s just like in Dreamgirls, where Beyonce crowds out Jennifer Hudson,” I typed to Eric. “I bet the hippo was too fat to be a lead singer. What a croc!”

I waited for my E. to concur, but...nothing. Probably he’d wandered off to stand in front of his air conditioner. “Hey! You’re not listening to me!” I typed. “Fine!” And I slammed the animatronic door.

Psychologists have cited the correlation between hot weather and irritability. That’s one mystery, at least, with empirical support.

Deuces Wild

2007-06-05T15:51:00.000-04:00

One sultry evening about a year ago, two Boston gentlemen asked two Wellesley alumnae to cite the “craziest thing you did together in college.” These gentlemen know who they are, so they’ll remain unnamed. Suffice to say, they’re post-college acquaintances of the Wellesley alums -- who happened to be me and my friend W.

W. and I looked at each other. We paused. “Do we tell them about the bottle of wine and the deserted orgo lab...and the TA and the safety shower?” This wasn’t what we were thinking. Wellesley doesn’t have TA’s. Our pause was far too virginal to be pregnant. Or, more accurately, it was an unplanned pregnancy.

“Well,” I started. “Junior year at the News office...” The gentlemen leaned in. “We stayed up really late...” Two miso spoons hovered in midair. “And caught the final Gore/Bush election results,” I said. “...or lack thereof,” W. concluded.

Two bowls of miso were finished without further interrogation. By the time our eel rolls arrived, Sox scores had been fully rehashed.

It’s not that W. and I were complete prudes in school. We did not need rescuing by a Julia Roberts “free spirit,” thank you. Truth was, W. and I didn’t become close buddies until after graduation, via a spontaneous email exchange. We were crazy enough in college, but we weren’t crazy together.

Like, once I stood on the roof of my dorm with my friend Joolie, while she smoked pot. Or it might have been a cigarette. Unfiltered.

That night at the News office was intense! NPR until 6 a.m.!

Fine. There wasn’t much typical teenage craziness for me in college. Maybe that is why, as a five-year reunion treat, I decided to join W. in nudie gambling at the Beau Rivage Casino.

The Beau Rivage is not in Massachusetts. Instead of reuniting with fellow alums for stuffed olives and acronym-dropping (“I just got my MBA from SUNY...”) in Wellesley, W. and I met here last week. W.’s five-year isn’t until ‘08, so I suppose this wasn’t technically a reunion at all. The mechanics aren’t important. Do you want the story or not?

On Monday morning, we packed Diet Cokes and my CD collection, and we Google Mapped for Natchez, Mississippi. There’s plenty of gambling in the Quarter, but the drive up Canal Street affords little time for singing Elton John’s Greatest Hits. Meandering through Louisiana, we perfected the falsetto on “Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road.” Before we reached the Gulf, I mentally choreographed Kiki Dee’s portion of “Don’t Go Breakin’ My Heart.” Oh, honey, if I get restless...

Quick detour in Kentwood, Louisiana, birthplace of the former Mrs. Federline. I don’t know about W., but I crossed my fingers for a shrine. Candles surrounded by Mickey Mouse ears, copies of Crossroads, and upscale wigs. At the very least, a slew of Britney-named buildings. A wedding chapel? A taxidermist? No luck. Not even a “Home Of...” sign. “Britney wasn’t lying,” I told W. “They really are ’country people.’” We had to appease ourselves with the idea that maybe Britney cruised past this very same Suds ’n’ Duds. On her father’s lap, natch’rally.

We pulled over for a beach stroll on the Natchez outskirts. It began tamely enough. W. waded in to her ankles. I examined shells along the tidemark. “The water’s really warm,” W. exclaimed. “Wish we’d brought our bathing suits!”

If we’d been in a Porgy’s type movie, this is where the “bow chicka bow” music would’ve kicked in.

Nobody else was around. Not nearby, anyway. A few towels sprawled further down the shore. Some people-specks played way out in the water. “It’ll look like we’re wearing bikinis,” W. reasoned. “I’ll do it if you will.”

Redneck siblings’ famous last exchange.

We left our clothes in a heap on the sand. I watched the heap like a lighthouse. In Porgy’s, a couple of frat brothers would’ve snatched it up in seconds. (It’s a Wonderful Life...Porgy’s...same difference.) In reality, our biggest liability was W.’s camera, buried beneath my jeans. We also pondered the penalty for an indecent exposure arrest. Did Mississippi have mandatory Swimwear Education for booked Gulf offenders? We’d face that risk.

Lady Luck protected us on the beach -- which, of course, means that she abandoned us at the casino. We didn’t do much to entertain Luck’s ladylike sensibilities. Our sandy, wet underclothes remained in the car, as we hit up the slots. I bet a Mindy’s cheesecake that Damon Runyon didn’t gamble in wet undies, either.

We weren’t crazy enough to play any machine worth more than a dollar, so neither of us lost much money. I got a 50-cent voucher on double bonus poker, but I kept it as a souvenir. “We smell like trash,” W. noted at one point. “We are trash, baby!” I replied.

On the ride home, we got milkshakes from Sonic and switched to Billy Joel’s Greatest Hits. “You may be right,” I sang. “I may be craaaazy.” It’s a subjective matter, really. And, as Billy suggests, you’re bound to find lunacy if you go looking for it. Even five years late.

Games People Play

2007-05-16T00:08:00.000-04:00

I’ve given in to the Other Woman.

She’s not the new roommate, thank you. I’ve heard SWF is shorter than I am. No doubt I could de la Hoya her in seconds. My real nemesis has purple twisty horns and carries a spear. This delicate Southern white gal ain’t gonna mess with that. Plus, her cup size is, frankly, quite a bit larger.

Eric didn’t reveal his World of Warcraft tendencies until a couple of months after we met. I guess by that time he’d seen the look of luv and knew I wasn‘t going anywhere. Or, more likely, he’d correctly deduced that my nerdishness outstrips his, by far. He gave me a perfunctory explanation of the game -- something about multiplayer quests and character alliances and skilled professions. To be honest, I wasn’t paying much attention. Probably “The Bachelor” was on.

As I now realize, I gave the Druid an advantage from the start. Keep your boyfriend close and his mail armor-wearing, blue-skinned vixen closer. Over the ensuing weeks, I got only a few glimpses of Druid (hereafter known as “her”). I could tell when Eric was with her, though, because he wouldn’t answer my instant messages. “How was your day, sweets?” I typed. Three minutes later, no answer. Four, no answer. Five...“You’re with her, aren’t you?”

First, I got restless. Then, moody. Before I hit desperation, I knew I had to act. If I couldn’t beat this virtual hussy, I’d join in.

(Quick aside: in Eric’s defense, and just so this big-boobed computrix hobby doesn’t sound too pervy, I should mention that Warcraft players typically create several feathered-and-festooned characters. Eric insists that he spends far more time with his male Rogue than with her. I‘m not so sure.)

No studly Dwarves or Orcs for me. I missed the Myst wagon as a kid -- too busy trotting along the Oregon Trail. If I was going to revisit my latent gaming obsession, I’d have to reach around science fantasy. My choice grew clearer with every bat of her shapeshifting lashes. It was time for some Sims.

My love affair with all things Sim began around ‘94. SimCity had emerged five years earlier, the first in a long-and-prosperous line of “God games.” With SimCity, players don’t merely aim for the “next level,” they create it. The goal of SimCity is to design the perfect urban environment -- one where pollution and crime are low, tax revenue is high, and happy citizens can’t wait to set up picket fences. In a thriving city, Sim residents routinely lavish the player/Mayor with parades and honorary statues. Mismanaged cities devolve into virtual ghost towns.

Well, Ray Nagin, I wasn’t. My Sim citizens loved me. They threw flowers at my feet. They built a majestic Llama Dome in my name. In fact, I got kind of bored with their accolades. My mind turned to more “real-world” matters, such as acne and junior prom. I set a horde of hairy-legged aliens on my metropolis, then I quit. (Kind of like when Nagin left town during the hurricane, but maybe more excusable.)

A battle against Druid encroachment simply can’t be won in the City. I’m takin’ it to the ‘burbs.

The Sims was released in 2000, when I was a junior in college. Like SimCity, The Sims is a God game -- but if SimCity’s gods are power-hungry Zeus figures, The Sims is more about nurturing, wise Athenas. In The Sims, players attempt to construct peaceful suburban domiciles, not teeming urban empires. After creating and outfitting a Sim character, and endowing him or her with personality qualities, the player plunks the Sim down in a home. Rampant consumerism follows, as the player selects from a large variety of household accoutrements. At minimum, a well-adjusted Sim requires a bed, a toilet, a hygiene source (bath or shower), a food source (stove, microwave, fridge, toaster oven), and a means of social contact (the trusty telephone). The more money Sims earn, through player-selected occupations, the more luxuries they can afford. Home gym? Tiki bar? Yes, please.

The Sims live in a material world, but I’m not much of a material girl. It’s not the acquisition of stuff that drew me to this game. It’s the drama. Like shunned girlfriends, Sims can get jealous. They can also fall in love, marry, host hot tub parties, and set the kitchen on fire. My latest Sim creation has lured zero guests into her hot tub. She has, however, torched the kitchen three times.

Her name is Signthiya Freud. Instead of purple horns, she has Kool Aid-blue hair. She also has extremely toned abs, displayed in a cropped t-shirt, and a noteworthy chest. Bring it, Druid. Bring it!

Befitting my Sim’s moniker, my first purchase for her home was a large, heart-shaped vibrating bed. If I was going to fashion a computerized alter ego, I figured I’d go all out. At my direction, Signthiya invited a neighboring husband-wife duo over to view the bed. You know, just to observe it. Once they arrived, though, she felt suddenly nervous and ordered pizza instead.

God games are unfortunately limited by the psyches of those in charge.

Signthiya’s current conquest is James McIddish, one of the bachelor brothers who lives across the street. James is a computer hacker by profession, and he seems like a nice enough guy. He tells a lot of jokes, and Signthiya always laughs. His ideas about love are pretty conservative, though. Since she’s a romantic at heart, Sigthiya has proposed marriage more than once. Most recently, she proposed right after the toilet overflowed, while vigorously mopping. “Happy disaster,” she (er, I) thought.

James was not impressed. Small negative signs flashed above his head, indicating major annoyance. After he left, Signthiya called the plumber.

Despite some setbacks, I’m confident in Signthiya’s ability to match the Druid, shimmy for shimmy. They may never be bosom buddies (pun only partially intended), but, at the very least, they can swap dance moves. With a typed “dance” command, Eric’s creature breaks into a Britney-style club groove. Signthiya prefers waggling her arms over her head (think House of Pain, “Jump Around”). When these ladies meet, there’s bound to be a party.

Ode To My Boyfriend's New Female Roommate

2007-05-08T16:55:00.000-04:00

Before you walk upon the rug,
I hope you’ll wipe your feet.
Before you cook, I hope you’ll ask:
“What would you like to eat?”
Before you go to work each day,
I hope you’ll check the lights.
Before you dump your laundry in,
Take your darks from his whites.
Before you watch a DVD,
You’ll see the volume’s low?
Before you split the bills, I hope
You’ll figure what you owe.

Before you sign the lease, I hope
You’ll take this with some salt:
I hope you’re quiet, clean, sincere, and gen’rous to a fault.
But one more wish, permit me, and I will not ask for more --
Those “before” and “after” photos?
...hope you look like the “before.”

A Challenge To Mims (And Others)

2007-04-09T14:21:00.000-04:00

My classmate is tired because she spent all night running MANOVA analyses on pathology data. You’re not because you didn’t. That’s the basic logic behind Mims’ one-hit wo-, I mean, breakout hit “This Is Why I’m Hot.” Already, you can tell something is a tad amiss.

“I’m hot ‘cause I’m fly / You ain’t ‘cause you not.“ Obviously, Mims didn’t pay any attention to that ludicrous Calculus I lesson, either. You remember it -- sponsored by the Colorado Tourism Bureau. “It always snows in Colorado. Sally lives in Colorado. Has Sally seen snow?” Yes, she has. She has, okay? She probably goes skiing in March with her father, the wealthy mitten manufacturer. Meanwhile, we Tennessee kids clutch our Trapper Keepers to our chests, buffering against early spring tornadoes.

But sometimes it snows in Tennessee. Just because we don’t live in Colorado, where it always snows, doesn’t mean we’ve never seen snow. We’re hot, too! Or cold, whatever.

Rob Harvilla at The Village Voice sees my point. In this article, forwarded to me by the delectable Mr. Words, he offers “a graphical dissertation on the number one song in America.” Actually, Harvilla supports Mims’ reasoning, and maybe he should, given the massive radio play of “This Is Why I’m Hot.” If popularity implies veracity -- if, as V.I. Lenin said, “Quantity has a quality all its own” -- then little Sally will never see a tornado. Beyotch.

It’s fine for Mims to proclaim “I could sell a mil sayin’ nothin’ on a track,” but let’s see him put his closed mouth where other people’s money is. If you’re so hot, Mims, can you get a degree sayin’ nothin’ in a thesis? There’s my challenge.

Okay, I realize a master’s degree doesn’t demand recognition like, say, a gat. Your next album will be prominently displayed at Virgin Megastores nationwide, while my thesis will sit on a shelf above the psychology administrative copy machine. But think of the turf wars you’d win with Master P. “You call yourself ‘Master,’ but where’s your thesis? Look over there, above the copy machine. Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

In the event that Mims cannot write my thesis, I’d like to enlist the deductive skills of these musicians, as expressed in their hit songs:

John Mayer, “Waiting on the World to Change.” In this tune, Mayer indirectly reveals that his childhood home never contained dirty dishes. Old Mrs. Mayer never announced, “Somebody better wash these dishes! They won’t just wash themselves!” Ah, but if you wait long enough… I’m happy to wait for my thesis to finish. In the meantime, I’ll be over here playing Sims.

Bonnie Raitt, “I Can’t Make You Love Me (If You Don’t).” You can’t make a coffeemaker make orange juice, because it makes coffee. This is sort of a no-brainer to me, but Ms. Raitt’s song is a staple in lite rock‘s oeuvre. (It’s also on more than one of my mopey, high school “unrequited love” mixes.) Extrapolating from this song, a strong sense of ethnic identity protects self-esteem against ethnic discrimination because it does. Or it doesn’t because it doesn’t. Funny how Bonnie Raitt begins to sound like Mims.

The Beach Boys, “California Girls.” This song begins with a solid thesis: “I wish they all could be California girls.” Brian Wilson et al then proceed to list the virtues of girls from every state but California. East Coast girls have fashion sense. Southern girls have cute accents (howdy do!). Midwestern girls are strangely comforting. Northern girls are great kissers. Hawaiian girls look good in bikinis. California girls…? What’s left? Know how to apply sunblock? Have a strong sense of ethnic identity?

Anyway, they don’t live in Colorado, so they’ve sure never seen snow. That is, perhaps, why they’re hot.

Strange Enterprise

2007-03-27T21:18:00.000-04:00

Two truths and a lie.

Since my last post, I have:

A. Totaled my car.
B. Gone brunette.
C. Purchased 48 Goo Goo Clusters.

Hint: I’m a horrible liar.

Yep, all true. The subject of this post, however, is D -- none of the above. Instead, I’d like to discuss fact and fiction, and the difference between. And “Star Trek.”

(Alright, a quick note on the Goo Goo Clusters. I bought them at Sam’s for Eric and his folks, whom I visited just last week. “Goo” stands for “Grand Ole Opry,” and 48 is the number of lives you’ll need if you intend to subsist on Goo Goo Clusters. They’re not entirely wholesome, but they’re very sweet -- which makes them an acceptable food for bringing home to parents.)

On the return flight from Boston to New Orleans, I sat next to a large, middle-aged guy who fit either Britons’ stereotype of Americans or Americans’ stereotype of Texans. He had a big belt buckle, and he clearly wanted to chat. “If I start snoring, just push me,” he instructed our row during take-off. “That’s what my wife does.” When I smiled politely, he added, “I only got four hours of sleep last night.” The obvious reply would be, “Ah! What kept you up?” But I chose: “Ah! You deserve a rest!” Translation, I hoped, being: “Ah! I won’t bother (i.e. ‘talk to’) you!” Then, I got very interested in my book.

See, I didn’t inherit my mother’s gene for befriending strangers. If you put my mom on an airplane with two seatmates, by the time the drink cart rolls through, they’ll be on each others’ emergency donor lists. That's even if her seatmates don’t speak English.

I’m more inclined toward Anne Lamott’s philosophy of airline travel. In Traveling Mercies, she says, “My idea of everything going smoothly on an airplane is a) that I do not die in a slow-motion fiery crash or get stabbed to death by terrorists and b) that none of the other passengers try to talk to me.” That’s me -- come fly the misanthropic skies!

Tex tilted back his chair, but instead of closing his eyes, he peered at my novel. “Is that science fiction?” I was on my second read of The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. I hesitated, partly in grim realization that my invisible fencing had been scaled, but also out of literary snobbery. In hindsight, I’m not sure why I rejected Tex’s labeling. Several of my favorite people read, or write, science fiction. And it’s not as if The Time Traveler’s Wife is inspiring graduate English seminars. A banner across the book’s cover proclaims: “One of People’s top ten books of the year!” Paris Hilton says, four stars!

“Sort of,” I offered. My iPod cried from its captivity within my carry-on, wedged obediently and irretrievably beneath the seat in front of me. Cursed FAA regulations.

“We’re sitting here today because of science fiction,” Tex confided. Uh oh. Danger, Captain Kirk. You, sir, may be sitting in 11E because of science fiction. I’m sitting in 11F because my spring break ended, and my boyfriend had to go back to work. If science fiction did this, I’m switching to Harlequins.

Tex continued, “The first oral vaccines were based on ‘Star Trek.’ Dr. McCoy prevented disease without using any needles. Pretty soon we were lining up for smallpox juice.”

I am not making this up.

“Really? I didn’t know that,” I mused. It seemed rude not to add something else, so I searched my mental bank for vaguely Trekky trivia. I remembered my godmother mentioning a crush on Data when I was seven -- something about his “piercing yellow eyes” -- but I couldn’t make it fit. Tex wasn’t offended. “And why do you own a cell phone, you think?” Apparently, “roadside emergencies” wasn’t the clear choice. “I don’t know…” “ ‘Star Trek’! Cell phones were pattered after their communication devices.”

I started to wonder whether I’d secretly been cast in some sort of “Truman Show” reality series. In a few minutes, would Tex announce the upcoming release of a “Star Trek” movie? “And you can get your tickets quickly and easily on Fandango! The web site is…”

In ode to my psychology training, I also considered whether Tex had high-functioning autism. Could he spontaneously recite chunks of “Star Trek” dialogue? List the title and original release date of each episode? “What year did the first ‘Star Trek’ episode air?” I tested.

Tex paused. “Hmmm. I’m not sure. Must have been 1963 or ’64.” Not to be bested by a brown-haired girl in cowboy boots, he laughed: “Why, you weren’t even a glint in your parents’ imagination then!”

That was it. Time to dock Good Ship Small Talk. Mission’s over. Tex hadn’t intended any harm, but his tone suggested Yoda tickling a baby Ewok. I know I look young, but I’m no first-year Hufflepuff. Also, um, despite the fact I’m in my mid-twenties, I get creeped out by references to my conception. My parents shook hands and presto, okay?

Suddenly, I felt very tired.

“I need a little nap,” I smiled. And faster than you can say, “Beam me up,” I was asleep.

Just now, I fact-checked Tex by Googling “Star Trek technology.” Nobody lies on the Internet, right? According to this San Francisco Chronicle article, my seatmate wasn’t sailing too far from Earth. “Star Trek” may not have inspired all of modern medicine, but it predicted a good bit: MRIs, non-invasive scanning for disease, and, yes, needle-free vaccinations. As of 2004, the article’s publication date, “many of the high-tech instruments simulated on the ‘Star Trek’ set are a reality, used to treat patients in hospitals and clinics around the world.”

Sorry I scoffed at you, Tex. Please don’t vaporize me.

Freud and Annie Lennox claimed there’s a thin line between love and hate. Maybe the division between solid ground and celestial fluff isn’t so well-defined, either.

How fortunate that certain 20th century scientists watched more “Star Trek” than “Dukes of Hazzard.”

Though I’m 95% certain we’d have Goo Goo Clusters in either case.

Ode To DST

2007-03-11T13:37:00.000-04:00

Have you seen my little lost hour?
Somehow she’s wandered away.
I dined with her yesterday evening,
But woke up without her today.
It could be she’s knitting a sweater,
Or writing a short piece of verse.
She’ll slip from your grasp, if you let her -
Her discipline’s rather the worse.
She’s often spied watching “Top Model,”
Or playing around on the ‘net
It’s her inclination to dawdle,
But she’s really a valuable pet.
In a pinch, she can bake a lasagna,
Scrub the bathroom with nary a rest.
Unsuspecting, she’ll sneak up upon ya
My inbox is her favorite nest.
If you find her, please tell her I’m sorry -
My word choice was careless, I see.
When I mentioned, “I’ve been known to kill time,”
I never considered she’d flee.

Ode to Creme Brulee A Deux

2007-03-06T20:04:00.000-05:00

It takes four eggs for crème brulee
Four Es, the whole dessert to say.
Four tines required to taste this treat
One fork, that is, alone to eat.
But I prefer brulee for two -
The double E; the single “u.”
True, the “i” is quick to miss
That’s why dessert ends with a kiss!

Shake It, NOLA

2007-02-23T22:00:00.000-05:00

I had one objective during Mardi Gras. Care to guess?

“Drink yourself into a stupor,” you say. Hush! Don’t you know my parents read this blog? You’re wrong, anyway. Halloween ended my quest for the Holy Grail of Drunkenness -- that one drink suspended mystically between “buzzed” and “incoherent.” Fortunately, Gennifer Flowers witnessed only the happy start to my journey. Excalibur was within my grasp at the third vodka-tonic. Kinghood didn’t drift into hara-kiri until much later in the evening, as I slugged from someone else’s Abita. Overdue apologies to the owner of that beverage. Had the words from my mouth matched the thoughts in my head, I would’ve apologized and offered to pay. Rest assured, your Abita did not stay with me for long.

Guess again.

“Get beads?” A worthy goal, but no. I’m still sifting through beads from Mardi Gras '06. Seems anti-patriotic to throw them out. Not only did I fail to gather more than four strands -- I did not see a single parade. Blame Highlights. Had Mary and I not met as editorial interns, no one would’ve visited me at Mardi Gras. (Sniffle.) Like Gallant, I would have clapped politely for Orpheus and Zeus, before slurping a crawfish milkshake and nodding off to the Land of Dreamy Dreams.

Gallant maps the parade schedule and collects commemorative cups from each float. Goofus spends each evening dancing in the Quarter, then sleeps through the following afternoon.

We did drink, a little.

Give up?

“Spend quality time with a good friend.” Well, that’s nice. I hadn’t seen Mary since June, so bonding was definitely in order. By “bonding,” of course I mean “hiding behind Mary, as a man with gold teeth proffers packets of ‘extra-large’ Trojans.” True friends are a blessing. Tall friends (or friends taller than oneself) are far more practical on Bourbon Street. How lucky that Mary is both.

The dancing was fun, too. On Monday night, we took a taxi to d.b.a., where the Fessters were playing. None of the band members looked anything like this, so I can’t tell you where the name came from. In fact, it took a (sober) Tuesday trip to Google to discern “Fesster.” Most of the night, Mary and I called this group the ‘Fessors -- as in Pro-. This was after discarding Westerns and Dressers.

“Make a fashion statement.” Ah, close! I wore my cowgirl boots to Bourbon, and I quickly gained the friendship of a gray-haired Texan who introduced himself as George. George was with his wife. “My best friend!” he exclaimed. “We’ve been married for 20 years, and every night I tap her on the butt and say, ‘I love you.’” True love amongst the neon stripper signs...who’da thunk? George was also wearing boots. “Ostrich or cowhide?” he asked me, gesturing to my toes. Unsure of the correct answer, I ventured my most accurate: “TJ Maxx!”

Hint: think “fashion statement.” Think Halloween.

Wear the pink wig! Right! And I did! I wore on the day of Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday, while Mary and I strolled around the Quarter. This time, no one asked me to sing, though I bet I could’ve managed a few chords of “Jambalaya.” Way too many distractions. People dressed as bears, and (many) people barely dressed. One guy sporting an appropriately placed sign reading: “Nowhere near Anna Nicole.” (RIP, Anna. Hopefully she would’ve appreciated the attention.) Also: the Three Little Pigs, Elvises, clowns, cheerleaders, pirates, monarchs, devils, deities, drag queens, and two tomato plants. At one intersection, a guy dressed as Santa Claus bumped into a Jesus carrying a giant cross. They kindly posed for photos. I got a picture of some Snorks. Always liked that cartoon.

Didn’t snap too many photos of myself, though. At least, not in the Quarter. My real Mardi Gras objective was to get a Christmas card pic. I missed sending cards in December, so I was going to mail some out this week. Sorry, everyone. Maybe the wig will reappear at Easter. Pink is good for bunnies, right?

Love Poetry For Modern Times

2007-02-14T09:01:00.000-05:00

Roses are red
Like so much NASA blushing
If you choose to drive 900 miles for me, please leave the diaper at home -
I quite prefer flushing.

Roses are red
Like the herring, Iraq
If you fail to find WMDs and fall into a quagmire of sectarian chaos
I got your back.

Roses are red
Like Anna’s lips used to be
In a line-up of baby daddies, all after my fame and fortune
I pick you, #3.

Roses are red
Like spilt Mugwort blood
If you want to avoid typecasting by stripping in a play about bestiality
Your name I won’t mud.

Roses are red
Like most Southern states
As we consider the future of the presidency, my love for you outnumbers
‘08 candidates.

Happy Valentine’s Day to all! Verse dedicated to W. (not that one), with whom even the proverbial nights are better. And to The Artist Currently Known As E-Squared -- if you said goodbye to me tonight, there would still be bad poetry left to write.

Taking Reality To The Dogs

2007-01-27T13:38:00.000-05:00

Snowflake is a bad dog. In disregard of her name, she does not drift or glide or settle gracefully onto people’s knees. Snowflake skitters around like a possessed dust mop, baring her icicle teeth at anything in the way. Judi, the female half of Snowflake’s ownership, is often in the way. Judi sleeps on Snowflake’s side of the bed, occupies Snowflake’s cushion on the couch, and -- worst of all -- cuddles up to Snowflake’s male owner, Malcom. Malcom also happens to be Judi’s husband. Small detail (one might say, snowflake-sized). Judi’s hands show the consequence of Snowflake’s wrath. They are completely gnawed. Most unattractive for national television! Most unbecoming for caressing Malcom! Snowflake wears a jeweled collar.

“Dog Whisperer” is my new Friday-night staple. At 7 p.m. (8 p.m. Eastern), journal articles get pushed under the couch, gray hoodie is pulled on, and Cesar Millan has my attention. Cesar is the eponymous Whisperer -- the guy who melts Snowflake’s icy, cold heart. Only, Cesar doesn’t call Snowflake a “bad dog.” He doesn’t call Judi and Malcom bad owners either, though clearly they’ve given Snowflake several ill-deserved liberties. Cesar instructs Judi and Malcom on how to stare down their alpha female. (That’s National Geographic Channel lingo. In FOX terms, how to “out-bitch their bitch.”) “You must be the pack leader,” Cesar is fond of saying. Judi and Malcom, both thin and 70ish, do not look like pack leaders. They look like the sort of grandparents who own garden gnomes. This doesn’t bother Cesar. On his show, anyone can be a pack leader.

It’s reality television, the way most of us want reality to be -- gentle, not harsh. When Cesar punishes Snowflake, he firmly picks her up by the back of the neck. “I’m not hurting her,” he assures Judi and Malcom. “This is the way her mother would discipline her.” On “Dog Whisperer,” dogs are treated like, well, dogs. They’re treated the way dogs should be treated. Loved, not coddled. Held in check, not abused. Secondary to humans, but not second-rate animals.

Simon Cowell, take note.

Critics of “American Idol” have accused its judges of treating contestants like dogs. These naysayers should be invited to spend time with Cesar. “Dog Whisperer” fans know that Cowell and colleagues don’t give canine handling to their pop-star hopefuls. It’s much, much worse.

I have watched “American Idol” since its second season, but I try to skip the auditions segment. For “Idol” producers, auditions are the freak show that precedes the talent show. It’s evident to anyone who tunes in -- the point isn’t so much to “find a winner” as to ridicule America’s losers. The fat, the freckled, the too short or tall, kids whose ears stick out or eyes bulge, preps, stoners, jocks, drama queens. Picture middle school, where the in-crowd is a trio of clever multi-millionaires. Audience of thousands, of course.

This season, the locker-stuffing is particularly hard core. Cowell called one teen a “bush baby,” in reference to the kid’s lemur-sized peepers. Zing! Next up: a tubby guy with a lisp. “I think you’re wearing Randy’s pants,” Cowell snickered, elbowing fellow judge Randy Jackson. Zap! See you fifth period!

Well, middle school is “reality,” too. And nobody forces the outcasts onto our small screens. They’re “asking for it.” That seems to be the argument of Cowell, and of FOX. Recently, they received support from an unlikely source: the equivalent of getting a go-ahead from the school principal. Psychologist Jennifer Crocker, respected among my higher-ups for her research on social stigma and self-esteem, defends Cowell in this Newsweek interview. Though she concedes that his criticisms are sometimes “harsh,” she speculates that “most of the contestants probably rebound fairly quickly.” It’s namby-pamby Paula Abdul who’s the cold-hearted snake, Crocker states. “Simon is more supportive of people because he is willing to tell them the truth.”

So, take your pink slips and go back to class, kids! No problems here!

I came across this Newsweek interview while reading an article by Crocker and Connie Wolfe (2001) in Psychological Review. For once, the non-academic literature was harder to digest. In the Psychological Review piece, Crocker and Wolfe postulate a model for self-esteem, based on “contingencies of self-worth.” The idea is that people feel good about themselves for various reasons -- they’re popular, or good at math, or crackerjack on the basketball court, etc. Self-esteem is only “contingent” on feedback in these areas. If you tell me I’m lousy at tetherball, I’m likely to shrug it off. Sports ability is (thankfully) not central to my self-concept. But if you diss this post, well, we’ll need to have words.

Self-esteem isn’t exactly the Paula Abdul of psychological endowments. Usually, it can withstand an attack. For people with healthy self-esteem, insult to a contingency provokes a dismissal of the feedback source (“Eff you, Simon!”), redoubling the validity of the contingency (“I really can sing!”), or providing an excuse for failure (“I was nervous!”). Self-esteem is “resilient,” Crocker explains in Newsweek. “I really do think you can construe the criticism as a gift.”

A gift. Hmmm. Public flogging! Just what I always wanted!

I’ll give this to Jennifer Crocker -- she has been out of grad school for awhile, so she has no reason to procrastinate with hours of reality tv. Maybe she hasn’t actually seen the “Idol” episodes on which she theorizes. Perhaps she’s engrossed in SPSS while Cowell and friends systematically tear down every contingency these teenagers might hold dear. Because it isn’t just the singing that gets scorned. Contestants with acceptable levels of self-worth might recover from assaults on their vocalizing. (Let’s not think about those who are less sure of themselves.) But “American Idol” goes for the jugular, if it sticks out in an unattractive way. Or the pigeon toes. Or the zebra-pattern shirt. No contingency is safe, and America gets to watch as squared young shoulders slump lower...and lower. Please, Dr. Crocker, switch to National Geographic. I’ll meet you there.

Who Dat?

2007-01-21T21:00:00.000-05:00

It could have been a great showdown.

If the Saints had marched in, Super Bowl XLI might’ve hailed Battle of the Blogs I: New England vs. NOLA. I blame the snow. Cold, white stuff is foreign matter here, and it makes us stop and look. It’s cruel to take our football while our heads are turned. Who are you, Chicago? Lucy from Peanuts?

It’s okay, Drew and Reggie. I was distracted, too. Football hasn’t held my attention since Super Bowl XXXVIII -- and I only focused on that game when someone at our Honesdale party yelled, “Woah! Is that her boob?”

But this time, I cared. Nevermind I don’t know a fullback from a backpack. NOLA needed me. If you haven’t noticed, things have been rough in my city lately. N’Awliners are becoming experts at uniting against -- against crime, bureaucratic neglect, stormy weather. The Saints provided a good “for.” Next year, gentlemen.

In the meantime, I’ll throw my “who dat” to the Patriots, since my may-un favors them. Who dat! The full version of this NOLA war cry, according to Wikipedia, is “Who dat? Who dat say they gonna beat dem Saints?” Apparently, the chant originated “in minstrel shows and vaudeville acts of the late 1800s and early 1900s,” though Wikipedia adds that it was “adopted by New Orleans public schools in the 1960s.” Er, let’s keep that last bit of information on the down-low, shall we?

“What’s the New England football catchphrase?” I asked Murky on IM this afternoon. He couldn’t come up with any, so I hospitably typed a few. “WICKED GOOD,” I offered. No smiling emoticons. If silence is stony, M. Words was Plymouth Rock. “HAVAAD YAAHD!” What about that? Click and Clack would have chuckled. “LOBSTA LOBSTA!!” I cheered. Finally, a response. “Not bad.” Granted, LOBSTA is more Maine than Boston, but it’s fun to say.

So, here in the fourth quarter of the Patriots vs. Colts game, I shake my gold and black beads and yell “LOBSTA LOBSTA!” Just don't tell Peyton.

Ode To First Day Of School No. 18

2007-01-16T18:06:00.000-05:00

In first grade I got brand-new Crayons;
In second, I wore a new blouse.
Third: a recorder to play on,
Or to squeak, as it were, like a mouse.
The first day of fourth grade meant stencils
To write cursive letters in fifth.
Slap bracelets made great utensils
For trading with neighbors in sixth.
Seventh and eighth were “between” years,
Stuck in the middle school pits,
New looks of scorning from seniors
And, thanks to the hormones, new zits.
High school turned quickly to college
With new buildings to find my way ‘round -
Lost in a new sea of knowledge
If it weren’t for the News, I’d have drowned.
My eighteenth full year as a student
Has started with nary a quirk
But newness? Well...maybe it’s prudent
To look for a new line of work.

Close Encounters Of The Short Kind

2007-01-13T22:06:00.000-05:00

If the gods are good (and by “gods,” I mean university administration), by the end of this semester I will have my master’s degree in developmental psychology. Test my knowledge today: give me the name of any celebrity, and I will tell you the names of his or her children. Kate Hudson? Please, you can do better. Ryder -- named after a Black Crowes song. Reese Witherspoon? Two kids, Ava and Deacon. Ricki Lake? Throwing down the gauntlet, eh? Milo. Same as Liv Tyler’s kid. And if you think I looked this all up on people.com, you are so wrong. (Although I’ll admit to checking the spelling on Ricki’s name. I had “Rikki” first.)

So, I procrastinate a bit. Today I abandoned my thesis for a somewhat noble cause. More noble than memorizing Tara Reid’s “True Hollywood Story.” (Tara has no children that I know of, though she has repeatedly proven herself well equipped for feeding.) I took advantage of the pre-apocalyptic January heat and went for a walk. My destination was the gym, where I could kill at least 30 minutes jogging/fact-checking US Weekly. Julia Roberts is expanding Hazel and Finn’s nursery -- be prepared.

When the 4-year-old started running at me, I did what any Piagetian-trained scholar would do. I stepped aside. This one-kid stampede occurred one block away from campus, in full daylight, with an eyewitness parent watching from a nearby porch. I figured if the kid wanted to mug me, she would have chosen a more clandestine set-up. And if she wanted to chat -- say, to quiz me on Vygotskian theory -- she would have approached more calmly, perhaps sneering slightly. Children like to exercise for no reason, right? They also avoid naps. Fools.

But this child charted my movement and changed her course. She halted inches in front of my kneecaps. “Who are you?” she exclaimed. The emphasis was on “are,” as in “What’s your purpose on this planet?” Had she stressed “you,” I probably wouldn’t have gotten so flustered. “Who are you?” is a question posed by big-eyed, fuzzy creatures in storybooks throughout history. It is usually followed by the statement, “You’re not my mother!,” at which point the inquisition stops. “Who are you?” stopped me.

I’m not sure why I didn’t just give my name. It seemed irrelevant, I guess. Maybe I’ve spent too much time in school, and I expect every piece of information to have “background/significance” and “future implications.” I forget that when I was a kid, I wedged a peanut halfway up my nose simply because I could.

At first, I deflected. “What nice pink shoes you have!” I said. My tone was high enough to bust canine eardrums. Parent On The Porch did not look up from her magazine. “And pink socks too! Wow!”

Tell me, Mr. Piaget, if toddlers are egocentric, why don’t they soak up compliments? My three-foot supplicant didn’t so much as smile. “Who are you?” she demanded, toying with my keys.

“I’m...walking.” Well, this was true. It didn’t take an advanced degree to see that I was walking. For my next act of scholastic greatness, I will describe self-obvious activities! I am...sitting at my computer! I am...typing words! Hold your applause!

The child sighed. The sigh can scientifically be described as a “Not Another Dumb Adult” sigh. “Who are you?” she shrugged. She knew who I was. None of her kind.

“I am...a person...who walks,” I stuttered.

Then I demonstrated by walking away.

Attachment theorist John Bowlby might have been shamed by this act. But Bowlby doesn’t know jack about the Jolie-Pitts, does he?

'07 from T-N

2007-01-06T22:03:00.000-05:00

Our James Bond year is off to a good start. This morning, I bingoed in Scrabble. The word was P-A-N-C-A-K-E-S. 20 points as a stand-alone, plus an extra 50 for playing all seven of my letters. How could I do such a thing to my own mother? Well, she should know better than to leave the 5-point K vulnerable. Trounce and trounce A-L-I-K-E.

The next Scrabble challenge is yours, Murky. To reference a “three-toed sloth,” I only have A-Is for you. I was fortunate to spend my waning ’06 days in Boston, flitting from sushi to the New England Aquarium (zut a lors!), mostly on Mr. Words’ dime. Not only did he wait patiently while I gawked at the short bigeye, he happily viewed my top-ten favorite comedy, The Three Amigos (Los Tres Friends, if you prefer Spanish subtitles). Would you say I have a plethora of reasons to be grateful?

Resolutions . . . not so many. This year, I propose switching Thanksgiving Day with New Year’s Day. Think about it. Resolutions are revolutions, and revolutions take planning. Washington didn’t ice-skate across the Delaware. I need two weeks’ notice to change my sheets, at least two months to change my life. But I can be thankful in two seconds: Mom, Dad, Murky, Scrabble, W. and HTS, Ro-tel and DVDs, PDAs and charm bracelets. Thank you, thank you.

Last year, I resolved to do one (1) thing that nobody expected of me and one (1) thing I’d always wanted to do. If only I’d taken Behavioral Assessment at the start of ’06, instead of at the end. According to Pavlov et al., behavior change requires careful operationalizing of goals. Since I held few expectations in January ’06, I’m not sure how I envisioned the “one (1) thing nobody expected of me.” Driving blind into the California desert crossed my thoughts, but this would’ve been in violation of resolution #2. I’ve always wanted to cook twice-baked potatoes, but you’d expect that, wouldn’t you? I gave up.

Truth, I’d just as soon not make resolutions at all. If the idea is to alter my life for the better, then wouldn’t it be a solution, not a resolution? Re-solving has little appeal. When you come up with the definitive answer, let me know.

For now, I’m content to take a recent piece of advice and “resolution” from day to day, not year to year. Tomorrow I will tell my parents how glad I am to have begun 2007 in a cozy house in Tennessee. I’ll thank Murky for making the last week of ’06 one of the best. And I’ll play S-Y-R-U-P on a triple-word. 30 points.

Put Some Records On While I Pour

2006-12-15T19:24:00.000-05:00

Multiple-choice time.

Where have I been all month?

A) Bringing sexy back
B) Recording A Very Goofus Christmas
C) Finals
D) Eh. *shrug*

The correct answer is C. The correct answer is always C. You might have picked D, but that’s not very nice, is it?

If you’re good at these little quizzes, you noticed that A and C are mutually exclusive. In the past two weeks, I have taken six exams and written a couple of papers, but I have not changed out of this hoodie. Well, you don’t see Santa varying up his attire, do you? Some call it poor personal habits, I call it holiday spirit.

Or maybe I’m channeling a historic alter ego. Today I received this quiz from a friend, pegging me as a doppelganger for Charles VI.

To wit:

"In 1405 you stopped bathing, shaving or changing your clothes."

This also sounds like me:

"The following months saw you suffer an exorcism, beg your friends to kill you, go into hyperactive fits of gaiety, run through your rooms to the point of exhaustion, hide from imaginary assassins, claim your name was Georges, deny that you were King and fail to recognize your family.” (emphasis mine)

I promise I haven’t forgotten about you, Mom. I just stopped answering my phone for awhile.

Glad tidings: the semester has ended at last, which means I have time for family, blogging, and answer B. Though I haven’t yet recorded a holiday album, I’ve compiled my favorite Christmas songs in an iTunes mix. The current track count is 42. You could say I’m slightly carol-happy.

In a previous post, I declared that the world’s population can be divided into People Who Like Billy Joel and People Who Don’t. This was a poorly researched conclusion lacking empirical support, so I take it back. After spending several hours on Yahoo! Music, I’ve surmised a more appropriate labeling system for our planet’s denizens: People Who Have Recorded a Christmas Album and People Who Haven’t. The first category includes Hanson, Rosie O’Donnell, .38 Special, the Judds, SheDAISY, Regis Philbin, Barney, and about a billion others. Second category: Marilyn Manson, Engelbert Humperdinck, and me. Take your pick.

Given the rustiness of my blogging skills, I’m devoting this post to another Top 5. Top 5 Christmas Carol Covers. It’s seasonal and alliterative, and, of course, up for debate. Last year, HTS sent me her unopened gift copy of Diana Krall’s Christmas Songs. “I don’t think so. Merry Christmas.” Conversely, I’m not likely to deck the halls with Sufjan Stevens’ Songs For Christmas Singalong, now featured on Murky’s sidebar. I guess one person’s “Jingle Bell Rock” is another’s “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.”

The list (in random order):

1. “Blue Christmas,” Heart. Elvis has the quintessential version of this song, but his is more lip-curl than red, puffy eyes. Nancy Wilson’s rendition goes perfect in a smoky, crowded bar with tear-diluted eggnog. It’s a tad country-western and, apropos, bluesy. When Nancy rounds into the final chorus, telling you how “you’ll be doin’ alright with your Christmas of white,” you can tell her self-pity has really compounded (as self-pity tends to do). Good for belting in the shower, too.

2. “Sleigh Ride,” Leroy Anderson. Because it’s still the “most wonderful time of the year,” even if you’re sobbing in a bar. Plenty of songsters have provided cheery vocals to this tune (Ella Fitzgerald, Natalie Cole, um, Debbie Gibson?), but this orchestral version is my favorite. You’d have to be some Scroogey Grinch hybrid not to smile at the clip-clop-clip-clop-clip-clop-WApsssh. Whip it good.

3. “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” Zooey Deschanel and Leon Redbone. Once upon a Christmas, one of my very best friends performed an extremely seductive version of this song in a high-school auditorium. Really, that version is my top 5. But since streaming webcam hadn’t been invented at that time, and I don’t have phone numbers for any middle-school boys who might’ve snuck in tape recorders, I’ll have to go with Deschanel and Redbone. I’ve long been a fan of Leon Redbone’s self-consciously smarmy tone, and Zooey D.’s voice has a coy-but-not-cute quality that makes it perfect for this tune.

4. “Winter Wonderland,” Harry Connick Jr. You knew I wasn’t going to leave Harry out. Again, this is a no-vocals rendition -- just as well, since I never can remember whether we “perspire” or “conspire” as we dream by the fire. You’ll find this version on the When Harry Met Sally soundtrack, in your stocking if you’re lucky.

5. “Christmas Don’t Be Late,” Alvin and the Chipmunks. Okay, as far as I know there’s only one version of this song. (If Regis Philbin has covered it, please don’t tell me.) This one is classic. How can it be Christmas without Simon, Theodore, and Alvin, Alvin, ALVIN? The Chipmunks are evergreen. And I still want a hula hoop.

Delta Wedding

2006-11-15T19:36:00.000-05:00

Sometimes if I’m at a party with a lot of non-Southerners (“Yankees,” as my father liberally groups them) I will try to charm everyone with my cotton picking story. I don’t mean “cotton pickin’,” as in “That was the worst cotton pickin’ hay ride Ah’ve ever been on.” This was actual harvesting of the cotton crop, performed by a 4-year-old me in Memphis. I was on the most literal form of field trip -- the destination being a cotton field not far from my preschool. “Cheap labor,” I tell the Calis and N’Yawkers. “One of the teachers needed a sofa cushion.”

Well, that part isn’t true, but I have photos to prove the picking.

And now Eric has picked cotton, too.

Past school age, road trips replace field trips. Usually there isn’t a smelly Greyhound bus or a paper bag full of jelly sandwiches, but that doesn’t lessen the excitement. At least, not for me. I anticipated last weekend’s Murky-Goofus road trip for months, starting the day I received an invitation to my friend Zarabeth’s Memphis wedding. “We can drive there through Mississippi!” I exclaimed to Murky. “We can eat fried pickles!”

Fried pickles aren’t a staple of the South, any more than toddler labor. Nor is it true that Southerners walk around saying “Howdy do,” as Eric has suggested too many times. It all makes for good chatter, though. And I did intend to follow through with the grub.

We found a Mississippi cotton crop before we located fried pickles. In fact, we missed the pickles altogether. The Jackson, MS Shoney’s held promise as a purveyor of numerous fried items, but it had a different plan for artery-clogging: burgers (this should be a link to Murky’s photo of his Grizzly Burger, but I bet he hasn’t posted yet). Wedding fare was barbecue, slaw, and chips. We shared a bag of boiled peanuts on Sunday night’s return trip, which might have rang Southern if we’d dipped the peanuts in our Diet Cokes. Didn’t happen.

We did see the ducks. The Peabody Ducks are my favorite Southern phenomena. “So much better than your Make Way For Ducklings,” I informed Eric. Twice every day (at noon and 5 p.m.) the Peabody Ducks depart Duck Palace at the top of the Peabody Hotel in Memphis and prance (not waddle) into an elevator. Reaching the hotel lobby, they walk single-file up a red carpet laid specially for them, then hop one-by-one into the main fountain. “The Make Way For Ducklings ducks just stop traffic,” Murky conceded.

True, but all ducks quack the same. And as we discovered, nearly all weddings -- no matter the geographic region -- will play Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” for the groom/mother-of-groom dance. Other relevant cultural bridges: bad pay-per-view (Saturday night, not porn but a B- M. Night Sha-whatever movie); Mexican food (Sunday afternoon); and low-pressure tires (Sunday night, spotted and fixed in a flourish of gender-typed testosterone).

It is also universally difficult to dance to “Working For The Weekend,” and we attempted many eras’ worth of bad moves before skulking back to our table at the reception. Our musical choice for the car was Mississippi blues, punctuated by Delta talk radio and a Grisham novel (The Last Juror). Ira Glass got an hour too, mainly because Eric can do a spot-on impersonation.

Murky did not acquire a Southern accent on this trip. Don’t even ask him to try one -- you’ll either be misled or appalled, depending on your state of residence. He’ll never be a card-carrying Dixie boy, though cotton-carrying perhaps.

That doesn’t mean he can’t bond with Hank Williams Jr. On the last few miles of our trip, Eric dialed up Hank‘s “If Heaven Ain’t a Lot Like Dixie.” If heaven ain’t a lot like Dixie, I don’t wanna go / If heaven ain’t a lot like Dixie, I’d just as soon stay home / If they don’t have a Grand Ole Opry, like they do in Tennessee / Just send me to hell or New York City, it’s all the same to me.

A Rebel he’s not, but equating the Big Apple with the fiery pit sounds about right to my Boston beau. Cotton pickin’ truth.

Ode To The NOLA Mosquito

2006-11-01T18:42:00.000-05:00

The New Orleans mosquito
Has a very strong libido.
Its Northern kin
Will settle in
When summer is finito.
Mosquitos here stay out to bite
Each autumn day and winter night!
Their curfew bell falls on deaf ears
(Assuming a mosquito hears).
“Bon temps,” it seems, just never end
There’s always one more second wind.

Why this is so, I cannot say -
Perhaps mosquitos like beignets.
Or the lowly bug aspires
To imitate our famed vampires
In any case, I wish they’d quit
With this whole blood-sucking bit
Let me be, NOLA mosquito --
Try a Bourbon Street mojito.

One Night Only

2006-10-31T00:14:00.000-05:00

“This is my break-up diamond.” The Fifi’s clerk waved her hand, and we all turned around. But she wasn’t flashing a square-cut on her finger. The gemstone she referenced spread from right under her neck to her braline. In blue ink. Judging from the size of the rock, it had been a serious break-up -- not one of these “it’s not you; it’s me” quickie splits. Another clerk nodded, and my friend and I smiled politely. “Oh, don’t mind us,” the other clerk sighed. “We’re just tattoo-gossiping.”

Tattoo-gossiping? “Impressive,” J. said, when we‘d escaped with our treats. “You don’t make up a phrase for something you do just once.”

Certainly if a “picture speaks a thousand words,” then the employees at Fifi’s have a lot to discuss.

J. and I weren’t there to eavesdrop, though. We were hunting Halloween costumes. Fifi’s is one of the Quarter’s most upscale accessory boutiques. (Don’t say “costume shop.” It isn’t Party City.) It specializes in wigs, in every color and style, with a specific $40+ price range. I selected a cheap-yet-classy model -- a flipped-out pink bob called The Gidget. The guy who fitted me (spiked hair, metal choker) said I should sweep the bangs over and spray them to the side. “You’ll look adorable.”

I bought fake eyelashes too -- in pink -- and wore it all to dinner Saturday night. Well, why not? J. was just visiting for the weekend, from Chicago, so we couldn’t wait for the 31st to play dress-up. And we needed to vamp for Gennifer.

Gennifer Flowers doesn’t have any visible tattoos or unusual piercings but, I must admit, I anticipated her performance as a spectacle. A freak-a-leak show. NOLA has seen many Lady Marmalades, but Gennifer tops them all. There’s no pun intended there, and if you think I’m bad, you would’ve needed earplugs and rattlesnakes at Gennifer‘s gig. The line-up requires little imagination, Harlequin or otherwise. A tune about “Long John the Dentist” who “takes away your pain, baby” segued into an ode to a sailor named Dickie. Ahoy.

J. and I clapped, and I twirled my hair in a Gidgety way. “Where are you all from?” Gennifer asked a table of khaki-and-collared men. “D.C.? They chased me out of there a long time ago, honey.” The men guffawed; the pianist (Mimi) riffed . . . bada bing! Gennifer launched into “Our Love is Here to Stay” by the Gershwins.

But oh my dear / Our love is here to stay / Not for a year / Forever and a day.

This song reminds me of my parents, because they love it. Sometimes they dance to it in the kitchen, when Ella is singing, or Steve Tyrell. Dad frequently gets a little weepy. It’s about enduring romance -- the kind that outlasts the Rockies and Gibraltar, and probably skin art. Ironic, coming from one of Bill’s mistresses. And maybe a bit sad. Except, Gennifer sang it well. You could tell she’d performed it many times before, at other clubs and cities. She sang it like anyone might serenade a loved one. Sort of soft, not too much fancy inflection. I think she believed it, which makes me happy. If break-up diamonds can be permanent, love should get the same treatment.

“And where are you from?” Uh oh. “Tennessee.” “Why don’t you ladies come onstage?”

If I’d known about my summons from Gennifer ahead of time -- if I’d had a DeLorean -- I would not have consumed so many vodka-tonics at the start of the show. The alternative hairstyle had granted me sufficient gumption for back-up singing. I didn’t really need the liquor. Especially not in heels.

“How about some Aretha?”

I did my best “Natural Woman” in synthetic hair. Even picked out an older fellow in the front row for my “YOU make me feel” gestures. Because a kiss on the lips might be quite continental, but only a microphone pays the rental. Or, if you prefer, Halloween comes but once a year, pumpkin.

Holding Pattern, Part II

2006-10-21T16:53:00.000-04:00

If you wonder whether we’re winning the “War on Terror,” I encourage you to hit a buffet line. It doesn’t have to be an American buffet line, either. Try the Asian Super Buffet in Kenner, LA. Like its scattered, covered, smothered Caucasian friends, the Asian Super Buffet encourages patrons to help themselves with “All You Care To Eat.” Enemy powers have been at work, but, once again, the forces of Good (that’s us, right?) have triumphed. “Care To” is not the American Way. We are a “Can” people. If we believe, we can achieve. If we build it, someone will come. And if we are presented with five separate vats of dumplings (shrimp, pork, shrimp and pork, vegetable, unidentified cheese), we will eat every last blessed one. Because we can.

Buffets are good places for people who don’t like waiting. At the Asian Super Buffet, you can begin loading your plate just as soon as you reach the table. Chopstick use is optional. I gave up my affair with wooden utensils long ago, after starting a small fire in our dishwasher at Hughes. (Note: wooden chopsticks, like silk kimonos, must be hand washed.) My dinner companions all enjoyed some measure of chopstick skill, but as a proud American I refused to feel shamed by my dinnerware selection. Humiliation came later, after I had doused my egg roll with soy sauce. “What did you just put on that egg roll?” Qi’s friend Ching demanded. “....soy sauce,” I squeaked, spearing my third dumpling. Ching sighed, shook his head, and sadly disemboweled his giant king crab.

I hadn’t planned on joining Qi, Ching, and my classmates Tara and Jill for dinner last night -- unlike the buffet, my mood wasn’t Super. Midterms won’t be over until the end of October, and the waiting isn’t sitting well with my psyche. My post-Boston Zen lasted about two weeks, despite the spiritual post-it notes I’ve arranged around my apartment (e.g. “Dear Jesse, Please take yourself less seriously. Love, God.”) If the Brussats were here, they’d be more disappointed than Ching.

But it was Qi’s 25th birthday, and she’d been plugging the Asian Super Buffet for months. She calls it the “Chinese Buffet.” Asia is a pretty big continent to tackle in a single buffet, and I guess the Asian Super Buffet fare is more Chinese than anything else. I can’t imagine, though, that spinach casserole is a Chinese food, or even an Asian food. I also questioned the cultural relevance of pizza, soft-serve ice cream, banana pudding, and macaroons. Appetite is universal, anyhow. We all left with slight stomachaches.

Qi ate the most, though she weighed less than any of us at the table -- less than anyone at the Super Asian Buffet. She managed four plates, to everyone else’s two. “I’m hungry,” she offered. And no one said “Gosh, where do you put it?” or “I wish I had your metabolism,” or other one-liners aimed to punish thin, hungry people. For Qi, what she “could” eat was what she “cared to” eat. She wanted us to care, too. “The crab legs are so good,” she exclaimed. “Have you tried the lo mien?”

The happy combination of “can” and “care” still eludes me, mostly. I wait (for graduation, for visits with friends, for dinner) because I can, not because I care to. But maybe the answer to my “real question” lies in a can/care combo (with Biggie Won Tons and Diet Coke). If waiting isn’t just a task I can do -- if it’s done with care -- then it isn’t a spiritual grind after all. Maybe the translation of “experiencing” is “waiting with care.”

That isn’t what my fortune cookie said, but it’s worth a fork-stab.

Holding Pattern, Part I

2006-10-15T16:34:00.000-04:00

“No man should know his destiny!” * -- Doc Brown

* unless his destiny involves getting shot by terrorists or hit by a bus, in which case a few clues are OK

Last Saturday night I caught the last half-hour of Back to the Future on TBS. Yesterday I rented The Lake House. The asterisked addendum is my take-home message, courtesy of Christopher and Keanu. Artistic parallels stop there. Nothing from The Lake House is quotable, or perhaps it’s all quotable, depending on your perspective. I’m sure I’ve often implored people to “Wait. Wait. Wait for me,” though I’ve never told anyone to “Make like a tree, and . . . get lost.” The former line becomes a mantra for Sandra Bullock, who clearly never bothered viewing the BTTF trilogy, else she’d have slapped a friendly caveat in Keanu’s mailbox post haste. (What is it with Keanu and public transit, anyway?) The latter quotation is from Biff, who can wash my car any day.

I really don’t like waiting -- for buses, flux capacitors, or destiny -- so, I’m not sure I can get behind this movie review. (Also, I think playing chess with a dog might be kind of fun, depending on the breed.)

I will grant you this, Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat: waiting is inevitable. I’ve waited for small things: pizza; the season premiere of “Grey’s Anatomy;” dry nail polish; cocktail hour. And bigger things: wisdom; love; the new Christopher Guest film. Some things I’ve waited for, you’ve waited for: birthdays; dental appointments; comets. But waiting can be lonely, and it brings no guarantees. Waiting is a gamble.

“The Gambler” is not the love theme from The Lake House. Sandra and Keanu don’t waste screen time knowing when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em. Holding ‘em is the default bet. When her leading man doesn’t appear at a coffeeshop, Sandra waits at the eponymous House. Eventually, one of the star-cross’d couple -- I don’t remember which -- resolves to wait two years for the other. Where’s the DeLorean when you need it?

Here’s my real question (attn: Brussats): even if we recognize that waiting is a valuable spiritual activity, shouldn’t we stop waiting at some point? After all, waiting can’t exist without not-waiting. When it comes to the capital-Ls -- Life, Love, Lakefront Property -- when should the waiting end?

I hate to stop on this pseudo-Carrie Bradshaw note, but I have midterm studying that simply won’t wait. Allow me to continue this post later . . . (insert Sandra’s plea).

Piiiiiiiigs Innnnnnn Spaaaaaace

2006-10-11T08:46:00.000-04:00

After repeated requests, Murky Words has finally provided a Pigs in Space clip for me. I think Brian, Kelly, and M. Co. will particularly appreciate: pirates, Muppets, John Cleese! Manah manah.

Brief Missive To Popeye

2006-10-08T11:44:00.000-04:00

I do not contest
That you “yare” what you “yare,”
Nor the praise that your leafy friend merits.
But what pain you’d have spared
For the salad-impaired
If you’d motioned us all
To eat carrots.

A Touch Of BoMA

2006-10-03T21:40:00.000-04:00

Top 5 Songs That Aren’t In A New Hit Musical But Should Be

1. “Sometimes When We Touch,” Dan Hill
2. “I Would Do Anything For Love,” Meatloaf
3. “All My Life,” Linda Ronstadt, feat. Aaron Neville
4. “At This Moment,” Billy Vera
5. “We’ve Got Tonight,” Bob Seger

Imagine the set-up for #5. Time: 2 a.m., the present. Place: the Wayne Hotel bar; Honesdale, PA. Characters: Bartender, age 40ish; blonde in waitress uniform, age mid to late 30s; heavily hair-gelled male of indiscriminate (but definitely older) age. Stage opens to Bartender passing a bourbon and soda to Hair Gel. Waitress hunches over a pile of maraschino cherry stems several stools down. Hair Gel rustles the ice in his drink, looks at his watch, looks at Waitress, and gives an exaggerated “What the hell?” shrug to the audience. He grunts off of his stool. He taps Waitress on the arm. He says, “I know it’s late. I know you’re weary.” Bartender pulls a high-hat cymbal stand from beneath the seltzer hoses. Lights fade.

None of my Top 5 Songs are in the new musical High Fidelity, which premiered in Boston last weekend. But the musical High Fidelity, like Nick Hornby’s book and the John Cusack movie, has a bunch of bad song-themed Top 5 lists. My favorite: Top 5 Worst Duets. I don’t recall if “All My Life” made the cut, but #1 was “Anything with Peabo Bryson. That man is a duet whore. He’ll sing with anyone.”

Eric isn’t a big fan of musicals, but he knows I am, so he landed us both on the mezzanine of the Colonial Theatre for High Fidelity’s debut. I think he enjoyed himself enough. He chuckled at the Peabo line.

Eric also dislikes “We’ve Got Tonight.” When he tells me this, as I am warbling to him on the phone, I switch to Paula Abdul/MC Skat Cat “Opposites Attract.” This seems to work. “Oh, for god’s sake,” he grumbles. “Go back to Bob.” (In the musical version, he would announce: "I would do anything for love...but I won't do that.)

We’re not really opposites, me and Murky. We’re both a little nuts about music mixes. We both sing in the car. And though I “go to bed early,” I wouldn’t exactly say he “parties all night.” He mostly plays Warcraft. (I’ve recently reconnected with The Sims -- to be addressed in a later post.)

Also, we both enjoy “Mystery Science Theater 3000,”another important staple of my Boston visit. Thanks to Netflix, Eric and I devoted much of Sunday afternoon to cohabitating in a La-Z-Boy while the mad scientists and the robots dissected The Touch of Satan. I won’t attempt to reconstruct the D-movie plot -- as with all MST3K victims, the plot is essential only in its sheer awfulness. (Memorable line, delivered by the possessed farmgirl to her unsuspecting paramour by the pond: “This is where the fish lives.” As pick-up lines go, it seems as effective as “I know it’s late. I know you’re weary.” Note to Bob: it helps if you’ve got Satan on your side.)

Probably, I like MST3K for the same reason I like the Seger tune. “We’ve Got Tonight” and the MST3K movies are both overblown, overdramatic, self-important. Not unlike yours truly. This may come as a shock -- brace yourself -- but I’m occasionally guilty of taking myself too seriously. Ex: two weeks ago, when I called Eric threatening to kill myself by consuming large amounts of packaged spinach. I meant to be darkly humorous, but Eric didn’t laugh. Suicide jokes, generally not all that funny. Nor cracks about child-killing epidemics. Oops.

If God forgives me the e coli joke, it’s likely He or She will still require me to watch a playback of my life. On the Big Screen, I’ll be strutting and fretting. God will have the bucket of popcorn and the one-liners. “What do you get when you fall from grace / You get enough germs to catch pneumonia...”

It’s true that Murky “takes it easy,” while I “get obsessed.” Thank goodness. Somewhere in the middle of all my BoMA theatergoing, Seger singing, and cinema viewing, I realized I was really having fun. Not self-deprecating fun, or tongue-in-cheek. Just an excellent time. And although the honesty might be too much, I hope there’s more to come.

What Would Pavlov Do?

2006-09-24T20:46:00.000-04:00

Because I have completed some of the reading for tomorrow’s Behavioral Assessment and Intervention class, I know that you’re punishing me. Sitemeter indicates the blog is averaging 9 hits per day -- 3 from my parents; 3 from my unconditionally supportive (or procrastinatory?) friends in Boston; and 3 from someone in New Orleans (who could that be?). I desire readership (the reinforcer), and when I post something halfway amusing, or juicy and self-revelatory, I am positively reinforced by increased Sitemeter hits. You’re positively reinforced too -- I hope you are, anyway -- when the post is decent. So, you keep checking the blog (the behavior under analysis).

As I haven’t finished all of the reading for my class, I cannot post anything thoughtful or rhyming. If you’re reading this post you’re receiving punishment, because this is merely my shameless attempt to study for a Behavioral Assessment and Intervention exam. Punishment begets punishment, alas.

But you should know that I’m going to Boston for a long weekend on Friday, and I promise an insightful (or heavily rhyming) post after I return. My Boston post is contingent on you continuing to read my blog (behavior). Please don’t let me down.

Unfortunately, the Boston post will probably come at least a week after I return to New Orleans, and reinforcement contingency dictates that your blog-reading (behavior) cannot be increased unless the reinforcer (my Boston post) is presented immediately following the desired behavior (blog-reading). Bugger.

Maybe we should all stick with Freud instead.

Elegy For My Emoticons

2006-09-08T13:14:00.000-04:00

It seems I’ve o’erstepped my bounds
In making cyber smiles and frowns.
As habits go, this one needs quelling,
Lest punctuation starts rebelling.
The colon groans, then gently sighs,
“Do quit using me for eyes.
I stand for lists, objects in rows,
Not atop a hyphen nose.”
Parentheses, they cannot speak -
Too horrified and incomplete.
The left one smirks; the right one glowers,
Forced apart by unseen powers.
Letter P retracts its tongue,
“My -oor heart, -ositively stung!”
And D, alas, finds nothing funny
Its -emeanor’s -outless less-than-sunny.
Letter O is not in shock;
X desires the chance to talk.
B’s opti-wear will soon be shed,
“Contact lenses, please, instead?”
Yes, yes, my dears, I’m quite aware,
The S likes -traight, not wavy hair.
Emoticons, I’ve listened well!
But, tell me . . . might I LOL?

My Very Excited Mother Just Served Us Nine...?

2006-08-24T19:57:00.000-04:00

You know what they say: there are no small parts, only small planets.

Only apparently there aren’t. Small planets, I mean. Small parts? They exist. I never believed that fuzzy theater b.s., though I’m not about to disillusion the kid playing Boy Among the Dead #3 in Our Town. I had a small part in my high-school production of West Side Story. One of the Jets’ girlfriends -- not Riff’s. My name was either Patsy or Annette, depending on which source you consulted. The script said Patsy, but our director (whom I still love) consistently referred to me as Annette. “No, no, Annette. Cheat left during the dance at the gym, not right!”

My best friends Hillary and Jessica also had small parts. They were Fernando and Conchita, members of the Sharks gang. During the dance at the gym, they could have danced together -- since Hillary was a boy; Jessica was a girl; and they were both of the appropriate Bernsteinian cult. But our director paired them with other kids. I don’t remember which pseudo-Latina wound up as Hillary’s partner, but Jessica cha-chaed with a middle schooler named Chad, who compensated for his runty height with a voice that might have raised Tony from the dead. “She said cheat LEFT,” Chad hollered. “Not RIGHT.”

There may have been confusion about my character’s name, but at least nobody mixed up my gender. “You’re a GIRL, Hillary,” Chad reminded us. “So you walk with the GIRLS.” But no, Hillary wasn’t a girl. Or Fernando wasn’t. “I’m actually a boy,” Hillary said, patting Chad’s head, which reached her taped chest.

If I were Hillary, I would have protested the random gender assignment, just after I stabbed Chad with a rose corsage. Hillary really did buy into the “small parts” adage, though. After gently correcting Chad, she got right back into character, eyeing me suspiciously across the dance floor. Not only had she memorized the “dance at the gym,” she knew the choreography for the entire show -- from Tony’s opening number through the “Somewhere” farewell sequence. She performed “Cool” as we stood in line for shepherd’s pie at the cafeteria. “Hey, that’s my number,” I protested. “Chill yourself out, peach,” she sneered. “Or I’ll cut you.”

Pluto would do well to take a lesson from Hillary. True, it was not dropped from the Big Nine due to its size. What did they knife Pluto for again? Something about how it interferes with Neptune’s orbit. Were I Pluto, I would tell astronomers to stick it to Uranus. What kind of a name is Uranus? Our middle-school English teacher chose to change Uranus’s name during her Greek mythology unit. After quieting yet another chorus of guffaws, she started calling Uranus by his Roman name, Caelus. I think if Uranus’s title can be altered that quickly, he doesn’t deserve to be a planet. Pluto is a beloved Disney pet, for pete’s sake. Would you shoot a dog?

Obviously, the astronomers pay as much attention to me as Hillary did to Chad. Never mind. To Pluto, I say: keep doing your galactic dance. There’s a place for you. Somewhere.

Ode To My Nokia Cell Phone

2006-08-20T20:54:00.000-04:00

You cannot take pictures
Of me at the zoo.
You cannot play music
Or Spiderman 2.
You do not fit nicely
In chic Fendi purses.
You don’t record movies
Or cite Shakespeare verses.
You’re not decked in pinstripe
Or covered in “bling.”
You do not play Britney
Or Snoop when you ring.
Sometimes you dial “6”
When I press number “4.”
Sometimes I get voicemail
You choose to ignore.
It pains me to say it,
But, Nokia, well,
If phones were all mansions
You’d be more like a cell.

But wait just one minute --
Don’t quit on me yet.
We both have done things
That I know we regret.
You’ve heard me sob loudly,
Laugh like a buffoon
And repeatedly murder
The “Happy Birthday” tune.
So, let’s stay together
To reach out and touch
I can’t quit you, Nokia:
You just know too much.

Dr. Living Room, I Presume?

2006-08-15T20:55:00.000-04:00

Scalpel?

Cotton swabs?

Butterfly needle?

Gauze? No, the extra-long roll. That’s the one.

Thanks for humoring me. I’m wearing my scrubs again.

No, no -- my quarterlife crisis has not directed me to medical school. This outfit was an early birthday gift. No, not from a doctor. But his sister is a doctor. Let me explain. Stat.

From ages 3 to 19, I wanted to be a doctor. Between ages 3 and 6, I also hoped to be a professional bride, ballerina and cheerleader, but I soon learned to answer “doctor” when adults inquired about my career goals. “Doctor” meant “smart,” “noble,” and, I was told, “reasonably well-paid.” My other vocational choices ensured really pretty dresses, but they didn’t seem to elicit the same satisfactory feedback. “You can be a doctor and a bride,” my mother promised. Nope, too much work. What, and give up my hair salon?

In high school I gravitated to the humanities, but, like most teenage girls, I concentrated on the “man” part. Boys, boys, boys . . . unrequited, requited. Whatever. September 10, 1997. I’m 17, and I need some touchy-feely love and a Modern European research paper topic. Funny how things don‘t change.

Here’s what ruined my MD: Organismal Biology, 2000-2001. It sounded cool in the course catalogue, but the Venn Diagram displaying “sounds cool” and “ends successfully” doesn’t overlap a whole lot, as I’ve discovered (other examples: buying leather pants, bonging five beers at once, etc.).

So, now I’m a former English major who watches “Grey’s Anatomy.” As of last week, I can ogle McDreamy in my scrubs. Again, I’ll thank Eric. (Though if you think I’m going to become one of those sonnet-reciting, “what light through yonder…” former English majors in l-u-v, you are so totally wrong. I’m way more “one fish / two fish” than “how do I love thee / let me count the ways.” You know this.)

After snatching a passing grade from Bio (barely), I swore off prokaryotes and eukaryotes (who should be named “conkaryotes.” I mean, come on.). I did not, however, defer my dream of owning medical scrubs. They just looked so sexy-yet-comfortable. And they said “intelligent” in a way that Juicy Couture did not.

Unfortunately, psychologists don’t get to wear scrubs. There’s little chance your neuroses will splatter all over my Gap shirt. Fate forced me to 1) marry a doctor or 2) seduce a fellow blogger whose sister is a doctor. I’m sure there were other options, but they didn’t immediately occur to me.

Eric presented me with these scrubs, along with two collections of New York Times crossword puzzles, for my 2-6. Thank you, Murky (and Murky’s older sis). I’ve found that scrubs are the perfect attire for working crossword puzzles around the house. They’re also excellent as dancewear. How did George Clooney avoid turning his OR into a discotheque? Last night I had the best intentions of preparing this eggplant salad from Epicurious, but once I turned on the radio . . . paging Dr. Groove. I fell instant victim to Steve Miller Band’s “The Joker,” with dance moves that should not be resuscitated. Ever. In the words of Jackson Browne: “Doctor, my eyes!”

Florence Nightingale, I ain’t. Nor Katherine Heigl. But if your psyche needs TLC, I will happily Macarena until you feel better.

Criminey! Look Ma, No Mapquest!

2006-08-12T16:33:00.000-04:00

Sorry for the extended absence, but I’m in love.

Don’t choke on your fish oil pills, Eric . . . it’s not you. I’ve fallen for a woman. Wait: it gets steamier. I don’t know her name.

I’m not certain what she looks like, either. Sometimes I imagine a short, mid-30s blonde librarian, like Shirley Jones in The Music Man. Other days I think she’s older, bookish, bespectacled -- Donna Reed sans Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life. (Also a librarian, actually.)

I picture her as well-read, with a comprehensive knowledge of Faulkner’s Mississippi backroads, Irving’s New England byways, and Nicole Richie’s Cali freeways.

But maybe she’s not a reader. Maybe she’s never ventured beyond “The Amazing Race” on CBS. In which case, she’s not really my type.

It hardly matters. I’m a smitten kitten.

Where Madame GPS System goes, I will follow.

GPS arrived in New Orleans several months before Eric. When Eric asked how GPS and I met, well, I lied. I value honesty in relationships, but I’m a bigger fan of not looking stupid. “I bought it awhile back,” I said. “I was tired of getting lost all the time.” Eric nodded. “How much did it cost?” Hmmm. “500 bucks,” I said, silently praying that Eric would not insist on Googling GPS systems when we got back to my apartment. “Not too bad,” he shrugged. “Ready to get sno cones?”

Here’s the sordid truth: I did not buy GPS for myself. It was a gift from my mother. I wasn’t terribly concerned about my busted internal compass, but Mom had grown a bit weary of fielding frantic calls from the highway, e.g. “Mapquest told me to turn left on Madison Avenue, but now I’m at Millard Fillmore Drive, and I think I’m getting on the interstate! Can you search online for the nearest gas station, or possibly arrange a squad-car escort?”

Yes, I’m 26 years old (nearly), and I still phone home for help. That’s not the embarrassing part. When Mom lovingly introduced me to GPS, I smiled, expressed gratitude, and, after Mater Familias turned her back, shoved the system in my glove compartment. See, I was sure GPS was a nice gal and all, but I wasn’t exactly ready for a relationship. I had issues. “Cold feet,” some say. Specifically, I was scared to drive farther than Winn Dixie.

That’s why I made Eric do all the driving when he visited last week.

(I’m not going to say much more about Eric’s trip to NOLA. If you’re one of my four or five friends who reads this blog, then I’ve probably given you most of the Goofus Musings/Murky Words Rendezvous details, anyhow. If you don’t know me, you don’t care. And if you know me but you aren’t my friend: hey, who are you?)

Unfortunately, Mr. Words couldn’t play chauffeur forever. He left on Tuesday; the American Psychological Association convention started in the Quarter on Thursday; and by Friday I was composing flowery apologies to GPS. “Sorry I’ve neglected you for so long. Don’t hate me.”

GPS flickered. She sighed. She said: “Please drive the highlighted route.” And we were off.

Our affair has not been without potholes. “Recalculating” is GPS’s code for “You messed up, babe.” On a particularly bad stretch, GPS advised me to “make the first available U-turn.” I have lost my temper with her, as Eric can attest. I have cursed her. She, however, has not once raised her voice. And she’s always guided me home.

That’s the best thing. As long as I have GPS, I can get home again.

I’ve heard people compare a good romance to the feeling of “coming home.” I guess the idea is that “home” isn’t a street name -- not Bourbon or Basin or Tchoupitoulas. It isn’t about knowing where you are. Or even who you are. “Home” is just another way of saying “you’re okay.” You can eat the whole sno cone, then show off your wild-cherry red tongue. You can sing Dr. Seuss’s Whoville Christmas song in the middle of Jackson Square, completely sober, and count on a chorus. You can unleash your goofiest, dorkiest self, and not feel particularly goofy or dorky.

Dorothy got it right: there’s no place like home. I might start calling GPS “Dorothy.” How does Dot feel about driving in Boston, I wonder?

This I Believe (And Then I'll Stop): One More F-Word

2006-07-11T20:01:00.000-04:00

Do you know what a jar of Ty Ling Sweet ‘n’ Sour Sauce looks like when it’s dropped from a grocery cart at Winn Dixie? Caterpillar guts. You can take this on faith -- you don’t have to smash condiment jars or caterpillars. I’ve done both, but I didn’t mean to.

Okay, I guess I meant to smash the caterpillars, but I was only six or seven, and I was trying to scare my next-door neighbor, Daniel. “Want to see something gross?” I said. At six or seven, I appreciated rhetorical questions but not, apparently, God’s smaller creatures (i.e. Daniel; caterpillars).

I like to believe I would’ve stopped squashing bugs, even if my parents hadn’t given me the PETA book for my eighth birthday. I read PETA cover-to-cover on a road trip, in the backseat of our Volvo (want to guess my family’s political leanings? Do you like these rhetorical questions?). When we pit-stopped at McDonald’s, I ordered a Happy Meal minus the hamburger. I’ve been quasi-vegetarian ever since.

So, I envisioned the Ty Ling with Morningstar fake chicken, not real chicken, or pork, or beef, or caterpillars. But the jar rolled straight off the top of my cart, through one of the holes designed for babies’ legs. Maybe if America didn’t have an obesity epidemic, these holes wouldn’t be so big, and Ty Ling would be safe in my fridge. Can I blame chunky babies for my accident? Don’t answer.

In case you think I’m soulless baby-phobe insect smusher, I’ll attest to my deep capacity for guilt: I ‘fessed up to the Sauce crime right away. “I smashed a jar on Aisle 4,” I told an official-looking person at the front of the store. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for it.” See? I’m not so bad. I don’t deserve to be reincarnated as a caterpillar or a jar of Ty Ling. Right? Again, please don’t answer.

And don’t tell me “honesty is the best policy.” Policy is “you break; you buy.” Honesty is more of a suggestion, with no guarantees. “Excuse me, this ticket says ‘No cameras or video-taping equipment allowed,’ and I just wanted to tell you that I brought my Kodak. So I’m not really sure what to do.” Although this happened nearly ten years ago, I still recall the security guard’s bemused gaze. “Hey, this kid brought a camera! And she’s showing it to me!” If you want photos of the Indigo Girls’ 1995 Nashville performance, ask the Ryman security personnel.

Add “jaded“ to “soulless et. al.” That’s why I decided to post today: because the Winn Dixie official didn’t mock my truth-telling, or, in fact, ask me to pay for the Ty Ling. “Don’t worry,” he said; “We’ll clean that right up.” Was he kidding? I could’ve asked rhetorically, but I attempted mature gratitude instead. “No, thank you,” he replied. “Some people just walk away, and the stuff sits there for 20, 30 minutes.” Thank me?

It was all I could do not to weep: for the caterpillars, the busted jar, all number of sins. No, no -- thank you.

As an amendment to a previous post, then - forgiveness is another f-word that never loses its potency. Add that to the list. And if you’re making a grocery list, shop Winn Dixie.

Ode to My Crawfish Etouffe

2006-07-03T18:37:00.000-04:00

O spicy crawfish etouffe!
Such fun to eat -
So tough to say.
Gumbo is not quite so willful
For it lacks the extra syll’ble.
Then, the choice of “cray” and “craw”
Which one to pick? Let’s call a draw.
For, after all, they are both fishes
Which makes them equally delicious.

I'm Teflon, You're Glue

2006-06-30T15:38:00.000-04:00

Having recently been referred to as a “pot” by Mr. Words, I feel my only recourse is to post. It’s Friday, and I have a few free hours. Old wives say that watched pots don’t boil, but I hope to prove that refreshed blogs do, eventually, produce updated material. See how un-potlike I am? Also, I am not round or black (er, Culinary-American), and when I get all steamed up, I rarely shout, “Tip me over and pour me out.”

In fact, when I get all steamed up, I usually don’t know what to do with myself (see a much earlier post). Fortunately, I don’t get steamed up often.

Wednesday, though, was one of those days. No toe stubbing, coffee spilling, or minor traffic violations. The source of my angst was somewhat more consequential but not very interesting. So, I won’t describe it. I’ll just say, in modern lingo: I was pissed.

If I had been a character on “Friends” (where it sometimes isn’t “your day, your month, your year,” etc.), I would have stormed through my rent-controlled apartment, flung myself into a designer armchair, and launched a clever diatribe punctuated by Phoebe’s kooky one-liners and a laugh track.

Scientists call this a “counterfactual.” If I had wings, I’d fly back to Boston and inform Murky I’m neither pot nor kettle. Salad shooter, maybe.

I did fling myself onto the couch, but without Monica around to straighten the throw pillows, I wasn’t sure what to do next. Can a tantrum exist without an audience? Is it like the proverbial lone tree falling in the woods? I sat up, adjusted the cushions, and, as an afterthought, applied an apologetic coating of Febreeze. It’s not the couch’s fault, after all.

At my desk, I found support from Mr. Rogers. Coincidentally (or not), his office-calendar wisdom for June 28 was: “We all have angry and even violent feelings within us, but most of us learn, as we grow, how to express those feelings in ways that don’t hurt either others or ourselves.” Do we translate drinking half a bottle of Southern Comfort as “hurting ourselves”? We do, don’t we. Drat.

Okay, Fred. I’m not going to assault my brain cells or my mild-mannered landlord, but what’s your suggestion? What’s the neighborly way? I flipped to August 18: “Find the simplest truthful answers.” Fine. I emailed Murky (who shall henceforth be known as Eric, because that is his name). What Eric lacks in knowledge of kitchen equipment, he counterbalances with a mental Rolodex of mood music. “When you get time, could you recommend a few ‘angry mood’ downloads?” I wrote. Eric’s simplest truthful answer: “Are you kidding? Where to begin?”

I think it’s no use creating a rubric for “anger music,” though one could certainly brainstorm applicable criteria: Angsty Scream (yes/no, duration); Screechy Guitar Riff (yes/no, duration); Tempo (fast, super fast, roadrunner). Already, there are problems --for me, Fiona Apple is top-quality anger music (“Get Gone,” #1 on my Top 25 Most Played), but her angst is of the slowly seething variety. No kicking in the bass. If Tolstoy had been a DJ, maybe he would’ve claimed “happy” compilations are all alike, but every “anger mix” is unique.

Another counterfactual. Just call me a temperamental Cuisinart.

At Eric’s recommendation, I downloaded a bit of Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Stone Temple Pilots. I searched for a song called “Push It” by Garbage, but Ms. Manson apparently isn’t permitting the Yahooligans to rock for free. Instead, I acquired Salt ‘n’ Pepa’s “Push It,” which I subsequently played at least five times. Around the tenth repetition of “Oooh, baby baby,” I felt my mood improve.

Still, for good measure, I punched a pillow until my hand turned red. Simplest answers, quoth Fred. And why construct an elaborate receptacle to trap anger when you can use...a pot?

Baby, One Last Time

2006-06-17T16:58:00.000-04:00

Today I pause the “This I Believe” series (or maybe just end it entirely) to honor the passing of a dear friend. Some called her “overprotected.” Some “crazy.” Some “lucky.” To me, she was always stronger than yesterday. From the bottom of my broken heart, Britney, I’ll miss you.

Hold up a minute -- don’t direct your browser to E! Online yet. Britney hasn’t exactly gone to the Great Dance-Off in the Sky. If her bellybutton ring seems a bit tarnished, it’s not because the pearly gates have poor disco lighting.

And, okay, Britney’s not exactly my friend either. I like to think we’re connected in the Kevin Bacon sense. That’s my prerogative. Britney provided the soundtrack for my first and only karaoke performance, circa 2002. In a Houston, TX sushi buffet/dance lounge, my TFA roommate Danielle and I delighted eel-lovers and pedophiles alike with “Oops....I Did It Again.” We didn’t shut the place down, though federal health inspectors might have appreciated the favor. The two-for-one crab roll special distracted our audience, as did the sake.

And -- not to get too literal, but -- we did have a tough act to follow. Our “opening number” could’ve been mistaken for a young 50 Cent, had he been young or black. He’d mastered the bling-bling, and the lingo (sort of). “Are you ready, bitches?” Before anyone could go for plate refills, Fitty cued “Tainted Love,” that Soft Cell classic beloved in elevators and C-grade strip clubs nationwide. It was the “extended version” with the “baby, baby....where did our love go?” Supremes riff. Fitty locked eyes with the front row. “Don’t you want me?” He hoisted a folding chair to the stage. “Don’t you want me no more?”

Any chance Danielle and I had of convincing the audience we “weren’t that innocent” fizzled as Fitty took his seat. No, I mean he really “took” his seat. The “burnin’ burnin’ yearnin’ feeling inside” was perhaps biologically akin to heartache, but anatomically....Fitty had another body part in mind.

To lose all his senses, well, that was just so typically him.

In 2002, I was almost 22. Danielle was 24. Britney was 21. That’s in chronological years. In experience, where seduction was concerned....one of us belonged in a younger generation. It wasn’t Danielle. “Oops....I Did It Again” practically demands a well-orchestrated wardrobe malfunction. I went for the camp counselor version. “Oops....I did it again / I played with your heart (hands over heart) / Got lost (hands over eyes, searching the terrain) in the game (hands arranging fictional chess pieces).” The deejay Handi Wiped Fitty’s chair. The audience drifted into an all-you-can-eat coma.

How times have changed. Britney and I aren’t girls anymore. We are, in fact, women. Only, Britney has eagerly compiled the Greatest Hits of womanhood -- career, husband, baby, second pregnancy. I’m content with the single track. (How’s that for metaphor? I’m addicted to you, but I know that you’re toxic!). Instead of decrying Brit’s exposed thongs, the tabloids now focus on her visible stretch marks. Or on her missing car seat. Or on K-Fed, who doubtless preferred “Cops” to “The Mickey Mouse Club.”

Britney’s latest oeuvre is not an album or a fragrance, but sad poetry. “Silly patterns that we follow / You pull me in / I’m being swallowed.” Oh, Britney. Bring back the routine with the snake? Please?

Then last week Matt Lauer made Britney cry.

I refuse to watch this journalism tidbit. I prefer to remember the old Britney. The “made you believe / We’re more than just friends” Britney. Mystery was always Britney’s hook. Was she a rule-following Catholic schoolgirl or a behind-the-bleachers cheerleader? “Hit me, baby, one more time” or “Don’t go knockin’ on my door”? “Slave 4 U” or “Cry Me a River”? (Actually, “Cry Me a River” was Justin, but who started those tears?).

Sometimes she ran; sometimes she hid. But she never pleaded for respect on national television. Not until now. The end of an era. I wrote a song about it. Wanna hear it? Here it goes:

The Day That Britney Cried
(to the tune of “American Pie”)

A long, long time ago
I can still remember
How her music used to make me sweat
‘Cause I knew if I had my chance
I’d tempt the boys with modern dance
Or, maybe, just bust club moves I’d regret

But time’s grim march, it made me dour
Like one too many happy hours
Bad news kept a’comin’
Like Bun 2 in the oven.

I can’t remember tears I shed
When she said “I do” to her K-Fed
But, oh, the existential dread
The day that Britney cried.

So, bye bye, those skirts up to her thigh
Once seducing, now producing offspring with Shar’s throw-off guy
And my spirits sank low, although the ratings went high
The day that Britney cried.

Did you write those songs ‘bout lust,
And did you have surgeons build your bust
Like the tabloids said you did?
Are you all done with rock ‘n’ roll
Has marriage taken such great toll
And can you teach me how to shimmy on a pole?

Well, I know you’re not in love with him
He doesn’t rap like Eminem
Call Justin for some back-up
Here -- I’ll help you pack up

I was a lonely post-pubescent doe
With furniture from Rooms-to-Go
But I knew someone’d stopped the show
The day that Britney cried.

So, bye bye to that gleam in your eye
That “come hither” now has withered, and we all wonder why.
The ‘razzi was dismissed, but now the fans are left dry
The day that Britney cried.

This I Believe: Bad Words

2006-06-01T15:18:00.000-04:00

“There is a question I want to ask you. It’s really embarrassing.”

My mind immediately went to sex.

Not that I’m so desperate and hormonal. Mr. Coffee, Mr. Clean, and the guy on the Quaker Oats box can vouch for my remarkable composure of late. Qi and I weren’t watching anything sexy, either - just a “Top Chef” marathon on Bravo. (Yes, Sigmund, you can whisper about carrots and cucumbers and whipped cream, but at least “Top Chef” lays off the hot tubs and “fantasy suites.”)

Sex made sense as our topic du jour because of Qi’s planned pregnancy, the execution of which may hinge on her summer in China. Her plane was due to leave on Friday. T minus three months and counting...

How to: Hit His Hot Spots; Make Him Melt; Sizzle in the Sheets; Fire Up a Fabulous, Frisky Fiesta. I paged through my mental file of Cosmo alliterations, but nothing translated to standard English, let alone Chinese.

“What I want to know is...how bad a word is fuck?”

Is that all? Well, shit.

I mean, drat.

If you want to know the truth, “drat” is generally my expletive of choice. I’m exceptionally sensitive to scolding, and I haven’t yet recovered from the time my mother chastised me for saying “crap.” I was about eleven. “I’m so disappointed,” Mom sighed. She might as well have called the Gestapo.

But also, I don’t believe in placing value judgments on words. You don’t see the mathematicians singling out numbers. “It’s okay to add 5 to 5, but if you square it, you’re going to hell.” Phooey to that.

“Well...it’s up there on the list of Bad Words. I wouldn’t say it in front of my parents.”

Is that true? Isn’t that a perk of adulthood: license to toss out “flipping,” and “fricking,” and “freaking,” and just go totally effing real with Mom and Dad? Some of our professors use the F word. Which is, I assume, why Qi asked.

On screen, a bleached-blonde twentysomething threw shallots in a pan of hot oil, splashing his hands. “Oh, *bleep*!!”

“What I mean is, it’s worse than ‘damn’ and ‘shit.’”

I didn’t add: “and infinitely more satisfying.” Such punch, with the hard “f” and “ck” sandwiching the guttural “u.” So versatile, too. Obviously, I’m not the first person to notice -- was it Chekhov who employed variations of F for a page of single-word dialogue? In I Am Charlotte Simmons, Tom Wolfe refers to “fuck patois.” You look so f-cking great. Fan-f-cking-tastic! We shouldn’t stand here another f-cking minute. F-ck it -- let’s go to the f-cking club and get f-cked up!”

I respect overkill. I think we’ll agree that the F word, like any word, has diminishing returns. Let’s give credit, though: what other Bad Words retain flavor past adolescence? Without its taboo status, the S word isn’t worth crap. (Sorry, Mom.) Don’t even start with “hell” and “biznitch.” “Top Chef” doesn’t bother censoring them. Fuck is the Extra sugar-free gum of swear words. It lasts an extra effing long time.

Now I’m going to wash my mouth out with soap.

This I Believe: Marriage, Spicy Fries

2006-05-17T14:09:00.000-04:00

I believe I’ll mate and procreate eventually. I’m doing it to spite China.

Qi and I discussed many things on our Monday walk to the gym: Ryan Seacrest; shoes.com; the definition of “casserole” (“You put a bunch of stuff in a dish and bake it,” I said, prompting Julia Child to do a posthumous 360). But after awhile our conversation lapsed. Qi toed the dirt with her Adidas Outrunner. “Um, so, when you go visit your family and friends...will anyone try to find a boyfriend for you?” Before I could think of a response (i.e. a clever version of “no”), she continued: “Because if you were in China, you know, at your age, people would think that you do not want a boyfriend.”

That’s why I’m proud to be an American. U-S-A!

Okay, history shows I’m just a smidge worried about this marriage/kids deal. If you were to tap the diary archives, you’d see the same Bridget Jones announcement every two months or so: I will die fat and alone. But in honor of our swingin’ single forefathers, today I proclaim: no, I will not die fat and alone. Maybe fat. But not alone. Take that, communism!

Yesterday, in celebration of this resolution, I ordered the popcorn shrimp/spicy fries combo at Popeye’s Chicken and Biscuits. I did it for democracy, and to test my second pillar of culinary nostalgia. 1) Spaghetti-Os. 2) Spicy fries.

One day in 1987 or ’88, my mother and I declared ourselves spicy fry connoisseurs. Tops’ fries were the best. Unfortunately, no one knows about Tops -- not even the people who worked there. Tops was about the size of a C-grade Sno Cone shack. It crouched apologetically in the parking lot of a Murfreesboro strip mall. So ashamed was Tops of its dinky façade that it changed identities at least 10 times before ‘90. One day, an insurance agency. Next, a Mexican restaurant. Then, bail bonds. If Tops were a Tulane psychology student, it would self-diagnose with an Axis II personality disorder. “Did you order a burger or a burrito, or fire and water protection?” Mom and I got the fries. Every time.

For some, the key question is: curly or straight? We just cared about the seasoning. The perfect spicy fry isn’t too spicy. It doesn’t seek to overpower your burger and Coke. It’s agreeable to ketchup, but it can also stand alone. The ideal spicy fry appreciates subtlety. What’s the in coating? Paprika? White pepper? Cumin? Tops won’t tell. Tops can’t tell, actually. I’m pretty sure the building has been razed. Look for a massive grease spot and unsigned promissory notes.

Here’s the sad(der) truth: even if Tops had survived the 20th century, I would‘ve abandoned it. The spicy fry ritual ceased around 1991, when I hit puberty. “Hit” is the right verb, because I quickly -- and, I might add, unoriginally -- collected all the painful marks of adolescence. Acne. Self-consciousness. Eating pathology. Next, on a very special episode of... Oy.

And I might have skipped yesterday’s Popeye’s outing, had it not been for Qi. Apparently, China spends so much time fretting over its terminally single quarterlifers, it has no chance to worry about arterial sclerosis. “Junk food! We need junk food!” she exclaimed, after spotting Popeye’s on our Magazine St. shopping trip last week. “Er, I really don’t think we have time...” I could feel the Frialator fumes oozing into my clothes. Specifically, my jeans. More pointedly, the back pocket area. Qi looked disappointed. “Okay,” she said. Another mental box ticked off. Spinster: check. Joyless carrot-eater: check. Alright, alright. “Let’s go on Tuesday?” I suggested. Qi had a Tues. appointment with the eye doc (contact lenses), also on Magazine. O beautiful for spacious thighs. (God, I’m sorry. Bad puns know no nationality.)

I’ve never been to a Popeye’s. I’m guessing Qi hasn’t, either. I’d further suppose that this particular Popeye’s Chicken and Biscuits has never welcomed a skinny White girl in the company of a skinny Chinese girl. “You want hot sauce?” the cashier asked, after taking our order. “What?” “Hot sauce.” “Oh, no,” I said. “I guess not.” I know the Look I got in return. Saw it in the Delta, when I brought my lunch to school on Peach Cobbler Day. That’s one craaaaazy bitch.

We ate it all in the parking lot, sitting in my car, listening to Destiny’s Child. No shame. You’ll be happy to know that the sound of greasy-spicy-artery clogging euphoria is timeless. Also multicultural. It’s a small world, after all. A small world with a roughly equal gender ratio, I hope.

This I Believe: Spaghetti-Os

2006-05-12T23:07:00.000-04:00

I feel for Chef Boyardee. The millennium has not been good to him. When I was a kid, Boyardee fought only “Frugal Gourmet” Chef Jeff Smith for kitchen space. If you don’t remember what happened to Jeff Smith, well, Michael Jackson wants you on his next jury. Boyardee kept the youngsters at a distance. And he ruled.

But Chef Boyardee would not fare well in today’s celebrity chef buffet line. I doubt he’d know what to do with lamb liver or octopus eyeballs -- so, no “Iron Chef” cameos. He doesn’t shout explosive catch-phrases like Emeril, or back humanitarian causes like Paul Newman. Chef Boyardee mixes a mean beef ravioli, and he’s amenable to your microwave. That’s about it.

Nowadays, he’s not even welcome in the spaghetti aisle. While Emeril snuggles among Prego and Barilla, flashing his self-satisfied grin in three flavors (Vodka Sauce, Puttanesca, Mushroom/Onion), Chef Boyardee must split his time between Pasta, Aisle 4 and Canned Meat, Aisle 6. Canned meat. Bobby Flay wouldn’t survive such shame. Anthony Bourdain would sue.

If Boyardee’s twisty gray moustache seems a tad grayer, it just shows how the mighty can fall. Nothing lasts forever, even Chef Boyardee. Which is why I bought the Spaghetti-Os.

One reason, anyway. It was a pity purchase, but also an experiment. Or, more accurately, an act of faith. Boyardee might be relegated to dish duty, but Spaghetti-Os should have permanent reign over mass-manufactured, canned entrees. “Uh oh, Spaghetti-Os” nothing. Spaghetti-Os have a foothold in the food chain, because they’re easy and damn tasty. So I hoped.

Belief is a shaky thing, after all. This week, Stephen Colbert scored cult status by staging a spot-on mockery of Bush Beliefs. “The greatest thing about this man,” Colbert told the uneasy White House correspondents, “is he’s steady. You know where he stands. He believes the same thing Wednesday that he did on Monday, no matter what happened Tuesday. Events can change; this man’s beliefs never will.”

Colbert is right, of course. There’s a word for “belief in spite of measurable change.” That word is “insanity.”

Still, I wanted the Spaghetti-Os to be yummy. Because as you grow up, so many beliefs get squelched. Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy aren’t real. Father doesn’t always know best. Neither does Mother. You can wish upon a star, but you probably won’t get a snow day. Not in Tennessee in April.

Events can change, but can’t some childhood gods stay enthroned? Like Spaghetti-Os?

I bought the goods on Monday, and, I’m ashamed to say, right away I got jaded. Turns out, Spaghetti-Os aren’t part of Boyardee’s repertoire. They’re Campbell’s. Boyardee cooks Beefaroni, which sounds like a “Happy Days” character. Not my decade.

The can went in my cart anyhow. Then it stayed on my pantry shelf for four days. On Monday night, I chose salad. Tuesday I baked tuna noodle casserole, which I ate in front of “American Idol” with Qi. Leftovers on Wednesday.

Thursday was my Delta friend Lizzie’s birthday, and she requested Meat-Free Day in celebration. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem, as I’m, er, a vegetarian (pesce, not lacto-ovo). But, okay, I’d purchased Spaghetti-Os with meatballs. I wasn’t a vegetarian in ‘86. And I’d really liked Spaghetti-Os with meatballs. In fact, I had a Spaghetti-Os tradition of saving the meatballs for last, eating around them and counting them up, then savoring them one by one. I could delay gratification, no sweat. Theoretically, this skill should’ve served me well.

*Parents, relatives, former teachers please pause reading right here.*

According to Kimberly (not her real name), Webb School class of ‘95 or so, my future sexual bliss hinged on suppressed impulses. She filled me in during a set change for Steel Magnolias, in the make-up room: “When you’re peeing, see how long you can stop the flow. You’ll thank me later.” Maybe Kimberly achieved Triple X success before graduation, but, for me, the “O” in Spaghetti-Os wasn’t the least predictive.

(*You can resume reading here.*)

Besides, Spaghetti-Os with meatballs are “A GOOD SOURCE OF PROTEIN!” sez the label. 11 grams. 16% of your daily requirement. Unfortunately, they’re also a great source of sodium. 890 mg. When I was young, and my heart was an open book, I didn’t worry about things such as high blood pressure. Since I hated math as much as I adored Boyardee (sorry...Campbell’s), I wouldn’t have known that 890 mg is 37% of my daily sodium allowance. If a wise adult had clued me in, I might’ve skipped a meatball or two. Doubtful.

My “My Little Pony” days weren’t clouded by the specter of mad cow disease, either. A very small circle next to the ingredients of Spaghetti-Os with meatballs claims: “U.S. inspected and passed by department of agriculture.” The font is size -3. Steadfast beliefs...ask me tomorrow? If God has a sense of humor (and from past experience, I believe S/he does), I’m in slight mortal distress. Offhand, I’m not conjuring any more humiliating death than mad cow disease via Spaghetti-Os. Getting hit by an Oscar Meyer Weinermobile, perhaps.

I waited until tonight. Tonight I feel solid, trusting, faithful, and ready to brave unrefrigerated beef. Why? I passed Statistics. Did pretty well, really. I tell you this not because I seek applause, but to prove that miracles happen. Actual, big miracles. Miracles with small “p values.” If there’s no correlation between academic miracles and sanctity of childhood belief, then I’ll go down in a neon-red blaze of artificially flavored spaghetti sauce, with a decent second semester transcript. By God.

Barring my Mmmm, mmmm demise, I intend to test nostalgia in a few more posts. I’m betting Kristy’s Big Day holds up against The Great Gatsby. Fingers crossed, I’m right.

Epilogue

2006-04-26T22:22:00.000-04:00

This morning it rained. No, I mean really rained. I awoke at 5:30 a.m. to total darkness, punctuated by Kodak flashes of lightning -- the “dark and stormy night” of Snoopy novels, shifted to early morning. Reset my alarm for 6. At 6, I told Karl Kastle to shove it. Slept until 6:30, leaving time for only one cup of Community Coffee before Qi arrived for our walk to school. “Do you think we’ll evacuate?” she worried. “If we do, I’m not coming back,” I said. “What will you do?” Of course, I’d been joking. I think. What would I do, if I had to leave New Orleans again? “I’d move in with Mom and Dad.”

That’s Plan A.

Okay, Mom and Dad?

Surely there’s a severe-weather clause in the “You can never go home again” rule. You can never go home again...except in the event of tornado, flood, or hurricane.

Hey, thanks for not turning my bedroom into a second office.

I did return to Murfreesboro for Easter, and found things pretty much as I’d left them. By that I mean, the floorboards are new, as are several kitchen appliances - and there’s a square of duct tape where a marble-top island will soon be erected near the stove (islands in the stream, Dolly). But my parents are still my parents. After we all hugged at the airport, Dad handed me a thermos of coffee and proudly announced Bush‘s newest, bleakest approval rating. Mom referenced a key lime pie in the fridge: “I told your dad ‘No tidying up the edges. We’re saving this for Jesse.’” I have good parents. Damnit. No market for stories about functional childhoods.

I should have taken the Easter long weekend to bulk up on attachment theory and repeated-measures ANOVA, but I instead indulged the childhood routine. Friday afternoon, Mom and I read our respective juicy novels on the sunroom couch. Saturday morning, I browsed the Daily News Journal (still the Newsless Journal in some quarters). Saturday afternoon, Dad and I went to a Middle Tennessee State University baseball game. Go, Raiders.

If I wanted a time warp -- a Tennessee weekend circa 1996, or, why not, ‘86 -- I almost got it. “Almost” is operative. (Isn’t it always?) My book was Julie Powell’s Julie and Julia, not The Baby-sitter’s Club. I didn’t touch the comics in the DNJ. And in the third inning of the ballgame, score 3-1 Guest, Ex Who Shall Not Be Named joined my bleacher.

Funny, I don’t remember ever seeing Ex Who Shall Not Be Named before we started dating. This, despite the fact we went to the same church, used the same gym, probably ordered grape leaves at the same falafel joint off the Public Square. Since the noxious break-up, we’ve crossed twice. What’s that line from When Harry Met Sally? “In a city of over a million people, you’re bound to run into your ex.” (Well, Murf just has 100,000, but any chance to quote my favorite comfort flick...)

As in December, we both smiled the way infants sometimes do right before they throw up. He sat four rows ahead of me and Dad. Two innings later, Ex left.

Are you surprised by the lack of drama? I am, sort of. When I mentioned the encounter to Mom, she said, “Oh, I hear he’s getting married.” Ex Who Shall Not Be Named found a soul mate. Holy guac. That should get a response. Hold on to your cell phone, HTS (or W., or Jessica, or whomever has graciously gone on standby).

Nope, nothing. No sighs or tears or frantic IMing. A couple of gossipy emails. “Mazel tov,” I wrote HTS. “That poor woman,” she replied.

I didn’t think I’d recover from that relationship. It was, after all, my first. At least 50 crossword puzzles. We worked a puzzle on nearly every date. Like many romantic quirks, this one started sweet and got pathological. How was your day? 50 across. What’s on your mind? 14 down. The last clue we completed was “stir fry,” #41 in The New York Times Book of Puzzles for a Lazy Sunday. I’m certain, because I wrote it down in my journal. January 17, 2005: I’ll remember these things forever, and it makes me sick.

Only, I didn’t remember. Not until I reread old journal entries a few weeks ago. You can go home again, but things change, too. What a relief.

So, I’m ending the blog here.

No, just kidding.

I’m veering from journal-style for awhile, though (a month? Two?). Couldn’t leave you without an appropriate epilogue. If you want to know what happened to HTS, W., Jessica, Mary, Joelle and Paul, and a few other names I’ve dropped in the past year, I’m sure they’ll tell you. Um, actually, they are you. Hi, guys.

What’s the future for me? Errrr. New Orleans won’t be my final destination -- I can say that much. Nor will psychology be my ultimate profession, I think. Friend has started dating again (a meltdown you missed), so he won’t be my life-partner. Does uncertainty make me twitchy? You bet. Is this the end?

Is it?

Please.

Kids, Crime, and a Bloggiversary

2006-04-11T17:25:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I tried to convince Qi not to have a baby. “Aw, you don’t want a baby,” I said. We were walking home from Tulane. Qi stayed silent for a full block before replying: “Yes, I do.”

And I didn’t argue. Not much. Because what do I know about having a baby? A husband seems important (though, arguably, not essential). Qi has that. Stable income is nice. Qi is still in school, of course, but her husband works law enforcement for the Chinese government. Good to have the feds on your side in China.

From what I’ve seen in Mr. Mom and Baby Boom, child-rearing also requires a certain tolerance for chaos. “Chinese women are strong,” Qi told me, stepping lightly around someone’s discarded mattress. “I can deal with stress.” Empirical evidence agrees. During the hurricane, Qi slept in the psychology building. (As you can see, it’s a sturdy structure, but not appealing to refugees in the “Give me your tired, your poor” sort of way.)

Then, last week Qi got mugged and bought really cute shoes, all in the same afternoon. The mugging happened at 9 a.m., on our usual school route. Qi was alone, talking to her husband on her cell. When the mugger grabbed her purse from behind, Qi turned around and pulled back. “It was just instinct, you know?” she told our Developmental Psychology class later. So, Qi fell (“He was a little guy, but tough,” she said. Qi weighs about 110). Then, she screamed for help. As it was the middle of the morning (not even), construction workers heard her, tackled the mugger, and called the police. Court date is this summer.

A little therapy might not be a bad idea -- that’s what we all thought, “we” being me, my Developmental prof, our program director, and various classmates. “I’ve had therapy,” I offered, detonating a chain of “me toos"....what’s the truism about psychology students and “me-search”? Qi listened to us, nodded empathetically, and headed to her office. "Shoes.com is having a sale,” she explained.

Say what you want about “retail therapy,” but Qi bought one very reasonably priced pair of Hot Kiss flats. Hardly as potent as Prozac. And if you suspect she’s repressing the incident, well, get a translator and do a quick Google search. “I know what I’ll be blogging about tonight!” she exclaimed. Ah, a girl after my own heart...

Unless I get time for a tutorial in Chinese, I guess I won’t know Qi’s real feelings about the mugging. (This is assuming a blog contains “real feelings” -- debatable, no doubt.) She let me in on the title of her post, though: roughly translated, “I Have Another New Experience.” Personally, I would’ve gone with: “I Lose All Faith in Humankind,” or “I Am Intensely Distressed,” or “Get Me Out of New Orleans Right Now.” But as we’ve established, Qi and I have slightly different coping mechanisms.

In fact, I have not used the title “I Have Another New Experience” once in the one-year (as of today) lifespan of this blog. Amazing, considering the number of “new experiences” I’ve...experienced...since April 11, 2005. New job. New city (two of them). New boyfriend, while it lasted. Evacuation. Relocation. Celebration (“Look, ma! No mold!”). Some sublimation. Frustration, too. Maybe too much. “Goofus Musings” has never claimed to be saintly -- that’s Gallant’s domain -- but the blog title promises a sense of humor, at least. A “quarterlife crisis” is a pretty privileged event, when you think about it. I made it this far. (“Why should you worry so much?” Qi asked me before midterms. “The test will happen, whether you’re anxious or not.”)

I thought about ending it here. A year is a nice, neat package for a blog. Plus, I’m done with “new experiences” for awhile. But...I can‘t let go right now. (W. says, “You can’t die on your birthday.” Comforting news.)

Instead, I’m taking a new direction. Until I get bored, I mean -- then I’ll go back to recounting minor meltdowns and electrical outages. At present, I can’t describe this direction, because I have to go to class, and, okay, I’m not sure what I’ll do exactly. Stay tuned. And thanks -- it has been quite a year (by cracky).

Darkness Falls, Semi-Literally

2006-04-02T13:26:00.000-04:00

On the first day I moved into my apartment (the first-first day, not the second-first day), Mom and I arranged to meet my landlord for the key at 10 a.m. At 9:45 we arrived on my doorstep, digital camera and Madeleine’s café lattes in hand. We took turns posing by the mailbox; brushed premature fall leaves off the sill; and, finally, sat to wait. We waited. And waited. August in New Orleans does not provide good waiting weather. At 10:30 we tossed our coffee dregs into the shubs and called my landlord. No answer. We rearranged ourselves on the steps, listened to the mating calls of lawnmowers. You know that saying, “Southern girls don’t sweat...they mist”? Chuck it in your box of grossly misleading adages -- along with “A taste of honey is worse than none at all” and “The early bird gets the worm.” (“This is true,” Qi told me during our 9:30 Developmental class, “but one could also say the early worm gets eaten by the bird.”) Our damp fingers left smearprints on the camera lens. My thighs glued to the brick steps like militant protestors. “Hell no,” they said. “We won’t go.” But it’s almost lunchtime...

11:30, he showed up. “All ready to take a look inside?” Too dehydrated to tell him how ready we were -- how ready we’d been for over an hour -- we nodded. My landlord flicked on the air conditioning, demonstrated the gas stove, and left. I suspect he went back to bed. I haven’t seen him since.

But yesterday I got a note on my mailbox. I’d just returned from administering an IQ test in Kenner. The process of IQ testing -- or the process of me giving an IQ test -- is perhaps worthy of another post. For now, I’ll say it’s long (4 hours, usually) and thus tiring, both for examiner and unsuspecting examinee. I was ready for a beer and a nap, not necessarily in that order. First, the note: “Earlier this afternoon, a tree trimming service knocked out the main power supply to this unit. Entergy has been contacted, and an electrician will perform repairs. You can expect service today, Sunday, or Monday at the latest. Best wishes.”

Oh no. No, no, no. As I climbed the flight to my door, I imagined myself in one of those 1950s horror films. “Don’t go in there! No, don’t! Don’t turn the....” Inside: total darkness. Heat. Worst of all…silence. No reassuring refrigetator hum. No click-click-click from the rusty overhead fan. No creaking and slamming of AIM’s electronic doors. I set down my bag of IQ manuals, unshouldered a tangle of videotaping equipment, and went to bed. It was 2:30 p.m.

Considering my locale, there’s no tactful way for me to describe my attitude toward powerlessness. If I complain that the power loss is inconvenient (which it is), someone will point out that, for God’s sake, most people in this town lost their homes. You want to gripe about a few days without the Bravo channel? If I say the power outage is strangely comforting (which it is, in the “back to basics” sort of way), someone will accuse me of slumming. Like those celebrities who claim to “understand the plight of the African people” after taking a safari.

So, all I’ll say is: I’m glad I can use the Dells in my advisor’s lab. Because I expect I’ll be living in the dark until Friday. Thursday at the earliest.

As a kind of epilogue (or perhaps a prologue), I'll also tell you what I did after I woke up. Dutifully, I rescued a lone Smirnoff from the fridge, delivered it to the light of the porch, and consumed it in four still-cold gulps. "Have you seen the electrician?" my downstairs neighbors shouted from their door. "Not yet!" "You should've seen the tree branch fall...it was incredible!" Apparently, my neighbors were home when the arboreal shiznit went down. "There was this intense crash, and a fire right outside our door. We put it out with our feet!"

Now that would have made a good post.

And....5-1

2006-03-24T21:41:00.000-05:00

Ready? Good.

5. “Brown Sugar,” The Rolling Stones

Ignoring the themes of racism and prostitution, this is a fantastic song. Je Ne Sais inflation for mentioning New Orleans. Crescendo isn’t much, but Criterion 1 is covered with “I said YEAH, YEAH, YEAH, wooo!,” and the Stones obviously know their bass.

4. “Hotel Yorba”/”My Doorbell,” The White Stripes

Impossible to choose between these two -- they’re the yin/yang of car songs. What “Doorbell” lacks in Criterion 1, “Hotel Yorba” fills. (Bill Haley proved the fun of counting in a chorus: “1, 2, 3 o’clock, etc. etc.”) In turn, “Doorbell” provides ample Beat for accelerator tapping/steering-wheel pounding. Neither song has much Crescendo, but who matches The White Stripes for Je Ne Sais? Are Jack and Meg White married? Siblings? Exes? Neighbors? “Appealing mystique,” French or otherwise, accurately describes the Blanc, er, Stripes. (I took Spanish in high school. Lo siento.)

3. “Kiss,” Prince

So much fun to sing in the car, it makes me wonder whether Prince himself is a car-singer. I think no. Can you imagine Prince singing in a Porsche? Or even a Toyota? I bet he has awful road rage. And likes to stop at Waffle House. Anyway, “Kiss” exceeds the rubric on all four criteria. You know that blonde who sat parked in front of her apartment last week, screeching “Ain’t no particular sign I’m more compatible with?” Wasn’t me.

2. “Me and Bobby McGee,” Janis Joplin

True story: if it weren’t for this song, I wouldn’t have spent two years in Hughes. In the hour before my TFA interview at the Prudential in Boston, I took my Discperson to the ladies’ room and gave a lip-synched stall performance. I needed Janis for confidence. “Bobby McGee” is Je Ne Sais: “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” Crescendo, Beat, and Nonsense Words will never menage better than in the final minute, when Janis’s Full-Tilt Boogie band goes....full-tilt? Bonus points for Kris Kristofferson as lyricist.

And the number 1 is....can you see it? Best friends head-banging in a clunker car. Saturday night in Aurora. No way. Way. Yeah, it’s cliched to pick “Bohemian Rhapsody,” Queen. But Wayne’s World sustained a sequel and a “Dancing With the Stars” fame-extension (party on, Tia Carrere) for a reason. It wasn’t just the one-liners (“Schwing!”) Queen helped in a totally righteous way. Criterion 1: Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the fandango? Criterion 2: head-banging. Criterion 3: more Crescendo than bipolar disorder. And Je Ne Sais: “So you think you can stomp me and spit in my eye? / So you think you can love me and leave me to die?” Oh, baby....

That’s all. I’ve realized it’s not quite as much fun to write lists as it is to watch list shows. Somehow I left out “Lola” by the Kinks, which should have been #3 or 4. And “Signed, Sealed, Delivered” by Stevie Wonder deserves a place, too. Good thing I’m only an armchair culture-ranker. Tonight I’m watching TBS “Dinner and a Movie." If you’re hungry for a virtual tiramisu, just let me know.

Drumroll....10-6

2006-03-23T19:39:00.000-05:00

Judging from my performance on today’s Univariate I midterm, perhaps I should have minded my p’s, t’s, and z’s, instead of generating this song list in class. Nevertheless, here are my Top Ten Tunes, 10-6:

10. “Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, Pt. 1,” The Flaming Lips

High score for Criterion #1 (Use of Nonsense Sounds or Syllables) and 4 (the Je Ne Sais....). Lower for #2 (Beat) and #3 (Crescendo). I first heard this song in Charlottesville, courtesy of The Troubadour. The Troubadour may or may not have been a graduate student, but he selected my graduate-students-only apartment complex for his regular outdoor acoustic concerts. I never could figure out his schedule -- 1 a.m. Friday morning guaranteed; other times/dates TBA. His repertoire was easier to memorize: just this song. No “Stairway to Heaven.” No “Layla.” Only “Her name is Yoshimi / She’s a black belt in karate....” Though he nailed the chorus, he neglected the intermittent robot sounds - which, in my opinion, are most fun to imitate on the interstate. Woo! Woo!

9. “Getting Better,” Bob Schneider

Bob bottoms out on Criterion #3, but he makes up for poor crescendo with steady bump-BA-bump-de-bump-BA-bump beat and leisure-suitworthy scat singing (plus “la la la la la la la“). For the Je Ne Sais, it’s tough to top the first two lines: “Well, I’m driving downtown in my big red Cadillac / Sipping on ice wine, mixing it with similac.” I must confess, I do not know what “similac” is. Sounds like baby formula. But Bob makes it cool.

8. “The Way,” Fastball

What happened to Fastball? They “made up their minds / and they started packing.” Now I keep getting them confused with Uncle Kracker, who had a better one-hit-wonder band name, but woefully inferior music (always a bad idea to cover a song that has been covered by, um, The Rolling Stones). Fastball scores near 1 (on a 5-point Likert scale) for criterion 1, but high marks for Beat, Crescendo (in instrumental form) and Je Ne Sais. “The children woke up, and they couldn’t find ’em / Left before the sun came up that day.” Dangerous soundtrack for my Delta days.

7. “Twist and Shout,” The Beatles

No matter your age, pace, or hearing level, The Beatles have a driving song for you. To work, on a Monday: “Across the Universe,“ “Hey Jude,“ “Blackbird.“ From work, on a Friday: “Back in the U.S.S.R,” “Mean Mr. Mustard,” “Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da.” In the meantime, shake it up, baby. This is the Crescendo standard, and Je Ne Sais edges out the Isley Brothers’ version by being just a bit rowdier. Criterion 1 and 2....pretty darn good, too. You can’t fault The Beatles -- they’re part of the national psyche. Literally. One of my IQ test manuals recognizes “yesterday” in a vocab section: it is either “the day before today” OR “a song by the Beatles.” See how smart we all are?

6. “Gin and Juice,” the Gourds

Nevermind that every time I play this song in my car, I feel like “Michael Bolton” from Office Space. I’m entitled to have “my mind on my money and my money on my mind,” right? That’s what the Gourds’ version of this Snoop Dogg tune is about: unabashed arrhythmic whiteness. Who cares about Je Ne Sais? No time for that Frenchy shiznit. If four-letter words are Nonsense Sounds, the Gourds get a solid 5. Beat and Crescendo peak in the extended instrumental at the end. “Extended instrumental” is dope right now. Just so you know.

Stay tuned for 5-1. I’ll see if I can round up last-season reality tv stars and the Snapple Lady for sporadic commentary.

Not in Random Order

2006-03-16T23:46:00.000-05:00

Top 5 Necessities for Grad School Survival

5. Clock alarm
4. C2 Coke
3. Coffee
2. Coffee
1. Coffee (and maybe books)

I love lists. Psychologists, please discuss. Is it need for systematic order in my life? Suppressed lust for David Letterman? Whatever the cause, the prognosis isn’t good. On any given Friday night, instead of building friendships at the local student hangouts, I’ll be on my couch, holding my breath for the biggest Reason To Salute the Blue States, Celebrity Fashion No-No, Mortifying Movie Ballad (“Because You Loved Me,” anyone?). On a particularly slow Friday evening in Charlottesville, I counted each of Bravo’s "30 Reasons It Rocks To Be 30." I don’t remember all of them, but my choice for #5 or 6: with any luck, by age 30 you no longer sit alone on Friday nights watching list shows.

Once in a while, I can convince a long-distance friend to join me in this mindless diversion -- is it really “mindless” if you craft clever editorial comments to swap on IM? Last Friday, a close compadre and I saw two hours of VH-1’s “Top 100 Games Ever.” I’ll let this friend go unnamed, as she probably values her social reputation. “Drinks vs. dancing?” is a good question to start the weekend. “Hula Hoop vs. Parcheesi?” Questionable, indeed.

To my credit, the portion of my brain allotted for sequencing Child Stars All Grown Up still bows to larger intellectual pursuits. After expressing indignation that Scrabble ranks below the yo-yo, I messaged my friend: “Shouldn’t there be a rubric for these things?” You can take “Yo, teach” out of the Delta classroom, but....

In anticipation of tomorrow evening’s list mania, tonight I present my own Top 10 with rubric. I’ve selected a topic of great personal significance -- eclipsed neither by list shows nor, apparently, by Univariate I (since I mentally generated most of my list during class today). Cue Mo Rocca - it’s....

Top 10 Tunes To Sing In the Car

I’m a long-time car singer, no shame admitting it. Started at a young age. One of my parents’ favorite road-trip albums, circa mid-1980s, was Huey Lewis and the News' Sports. I’m sure many families have coasted to Grandma’s house warbling about joy, joy, joy, joy down in their hearts or Old MacDonald. We covered “Bad Is Bad.” I especially liked the background part: “a dit dit dit dit dit dit dit doo wop.” Criterion #1 on my rubric: use of nonsense sounds or syllables. A good car sing-along unites. No lyric knowledge necessary. Or, if you’re alone on the highway, “na na na” requires only minimal brain-vocal energy, leaving room for activities such as counting license plates, checking MapQuest, and, yeah, watching the road.

My dad imparted the importance of Criterion #2: beat. Why do cars have steering wheels instead of Nintendo joysticks? The answer: James Brown’s “I Feel Good.” As long as “good times, great oldies” radio stations exist, “I Feel Good” will play approximately 1,162 times per day. And every time I hear this tune, I’ll think of my father, en route to Kroger or Blockbuster, pounding the steering wheel on the chorus: “So good! BANG BANG / So good! BANG / I got you! BANG BANG BANG BANG.” A top car song leaves your voice hoarse and your palms slightly red.

The accelerator goes with the steering wheel like Sonny & Cher, Sly & the Family Stone, Belle & Sebastian (see? I’m hip!). Pound the wheel, press the pedal, repeat. It’s not enough to rely on bass, though. A truly great car song needs Criterion #3: crescendo. In order to reach 80 mph, one must pass through 60 and 70. In an upper-echelon road song, music parallels speed. Ike & Tina understood (not that I’m resurrecting the Ike Turner Fan Club). “Proud Mary” starts “nice and easy,” but pretty soon....speed-limit violations. If you’re not burning rubber by the end of “Proud Mary,” call OnStar -- you’re too old to be on the highways.

Last Criterion: the je ne sais....Some songs just belong in the left lane. Before the sight of Tom Cruise made me dispepsic, I enjoyed that scene from Jerry Maguire where Jerry hunts for a car-sing. Neil Diamond? No. Petula Clark? Hmmmm. Wait - bingo!: “Free Falling,” Tom Petty. Any song mentioning “freedom,” “rebellion,” “cash machine, gasoline” gets a high score. Though perhaps Frank Sinatra “My Way” belongs in older-model vehicles.

Now the proper scoring requirements have been established, I must leave the Top 10 for another post. I can’t stay awake. Guess which “Grad School Survival” item I forgot this morning?

3.14 a la Mode

2006-03-14T23:27:00.000-05:00

Pumpkin, cherry, pee-can, pe-cahn,
Ice cream off or ice cream on.
Key lime, apple, Derby winner
(Fake) chicken pot, served up for dinner.
Chess or chocolate, coconut
12-inch from the Pizza Hut.
Food as math? I’m set to try it -
But 3.15 equals “diet.”

Happy Pi Day. This is math I support.

Small Wonder (But Not the '80s TV Show)

2006-03-12T01:57:00.000-05:00

I’m not going to write any more quasi-spiritual posts this month, because, as I said, I got dropped from God’s Friends and Family plan last fall. If God were speaking to me at all, He/She’d use the answering-machine voice of my Texas grandmother: “Hello? Are you there? It’s your grandmother. Well....I see you’re out again. I‘ve tried to call several times. Let us know you’re alive, if you can spare a few minutes....” Thank goodness for unconditional love and a shared affinity for “Grey’s Anatomy.” My grandmother’s, not God’s.

But before I go cold turkey (cold dove? cold sparrow? eh, no...), I’ll say this: lately I’m impressed by the accessibility of miracles. Obviously, New Orleans isn’t the Mecca of water-walking at the moment. I’m pretty sure if Moses wanted to part Lake Pontchartrain, he’d have to deal with the levee board. No burning bushes, either -- the humidity’s way too high. I’m thinking of small miracles. Unimportant, in the grand scheme. Fortunately, the etymology of “miracle” is not “to be knocked flat by a monumental act of faith,” or even “to be really wowed.” Apparently, “miracle” comes from the Greek “meidan,” meaning “to smile.” Smiling is easy enough.

Except when it isn’t.

I mean, don’t actors often prefer tragic to comedic roles? Happiness can be hard work. I’m looking at the January 26, 2006 issue of Rolling Stone, in which Steve Coogan (“Britain’s Larry David”) describes his TV characters. He says, “I like people who are generally aspirant but feel cheated or malcontented. You do a lot of contemptible character, and that produces a lot of comedy. What’s hard is trying to do a character who’s basically a nice guy.” Contentment is, let’s face it, kind of boring to watch. And (to me, anyway) it’s impossible as writing material. How many posts did I generate while dating Friend? How many during/after/about the break-up?

Of course, I’ll admit to being more neurotic than most. Which is why I started looking for small miracles in the first place. It’s a strategy I employed in the Delta, when malcontent peaked. (“Aw fuck, Lamarcus....you made our teacher cry, again.) Toward the end of my second school-year, I attended a few services at UCC Congregational Church in Memphis, and though I didn’t “get saved,” I resolved to quit whining for awhile.

April 18, 2004 I wrote in my journal: Today’s sermon was about the soul-killing power of ’if only.’ ’If only I were a tougher teacher with a more svelte figure and matching purse/shoes....’ I could ’if only’ my life away.

April 20 I decided to bitch and moan less and appreciate more. It worked for exactly twelve days.

April 22: Thank you, God, for this day during which I had a delicious bowl of Grape Nuts, taught a calm social studies lesson and worked with a student at my house for an hour. April 27: I am grateful for hugs from Lindsay and Seth, good grades on the _Hatchet_ test, a 4-mile run followed by “American Idol” and Morningstar chicken with rice. May 2: I’m not trying very hard to find the joy in life. May 11: I’m about to go to school, but I’m so depressed I can hardly breathe. So much for appreciation.

My record for miracle-seeking has not improved with time, and my motivation, er, spotty, at best. Today, though, minimal effort required. Hence, this final vaguely religious observation:

It happened on my walk home from the gym. Usually, I walk with a soundtrack: Diana Krall on introspective days, 50 Cent if I’m upbeat. Kris Kristofferson for Delta nostalgia, or Justin Timberlake for Honesdale (ask Mary). But today, for some reason, I wanted silence. Or not silence, but lack of constant noise. I got the birds, the lawnmowers, the omnipresent Mexican workers chipping tile. A few blocks from my apartment, I smelled grilling or wood burning. It’s a familiar scent, but not one I get to experience often, as I never grill or burn wood -- no tofu on the barbie.

These two things -- the comfortable noise and smell -- would’ve suited my desire for minor miracles. Pleasant sensory stimulants generally don’t come without strain: hours of food prep or make-up application. But as I crossed onto my street, I glanced right, and there it was. Meidan. A toddler sitting on a porch swing peering at a book, and next to him, his dad. Or it might have been his granddad. Based on certain age discrepancies within my family, I find these relationships hard to judge. In any event, the boy was reading, or sounding out words, and the father was smiling. Also drinking a Michelob Light. In the half second it took me to walk past, I remembered my porch swing -- Memphis, 1985 -- and how my dad sat next to me.

Sometimes we read. Go Dog Go was my favorite, with its treetop pooch party on the final page.

Other days, Dad brought out his guitar, and we sang “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” You probably know the tune. Will the circle be unbroken / By and by, Lord, by and by / There’s a better home a’waitin’ / In the sky, Lord, in the sky.

Deep stuff for a 5-year-old, I suppose. In my preoperational bliss (Piaget, oui), I didn’t fully grasp the significance of “unbroken circle.” It reminded me of Family Circus comics, since they were printed in a circle. Family Circus comics made me smile. Sitting with my father, swinging, singing off-key, made me happy. If, in some way, this snapshot constitutes a miracle, then I’ve been blessed from the start. And if that isn’t miraculous, well, there’s always Grape Nuts for breakfast.

Ode to Mrs. Piaget

2006-03-09T22:32:00.000-05:00

“Mom knows best,” that’s what they say,
But not to Mrs. Piaget.
Though hours she spent in nursery rocker
Softly singing “Frere Jacques”
To Laurent, Lulu and Jacqueline.
No doubt, too, she wiped their chins,
And cleaned their bibs,
And soothed their cries.
Really, wouldn’t it be wise
To call her child psych’s “all-time great”?
Imagine how she had to wait
As Jean penned each kid’s play-by-play:

L. won’t eat the soup today.
J. lost interest in the doll,
Now is crawling down the hall.

“Jean, dear, can you take a break?
Cherie, for the children’s sake?
I’m glad Laurent rolled over twice
And Lulu’s grasping skills suffice
But coq au vin is getting cold
No, just two times -- not three -- she rolled...”

What patience shown by this grand-dame,
And yet we never see her name
On Developmental syllabi
I guess ours is not to wonder why,
But offer praise to the monsieur
Instead of writing odes to her.
Well, for the record, Wife of Jean:
I’d like to say that though you’re gone,
I’ll find you cause for celebration
Throughout my “formal operation.”

To The Italian Undergrads Who Share My Washer/Dryer

2006-03-06T00:34:00.000-05:00

Gentlemen:

On this evening of acceptance speeches, I’d like to thank you for putting the joy back in Sunday-night laundry. Had I dirty socks enough, and stained shirts, I’d gladly while the hours at our Whirlpool, listening to your exotic banter. I don’t understand your language, but I admire your choice in wool blankets. I’m sorry I initially mistook you for Japanese. I only caught a glimpse of your dark hair through the kitchen window, and I thought I smelled sesame oil. I promise I’m not usually so ethnocentric. I also swear I only use that Veggie Tales t-shirt with the sweat stain for dusting. All my sexy v-neck tops are at the dry cleaner’s. If you ever care to borrow my Bounce sheets, you’re more than welcome. Is there an Italian version of “mi casa es su casa?” My detergents are yours. Prego.

J.

Damage Control

2006-03-02T12:43:00.000-05:00

Twice during this vacation, I have almost killed my new friend Qi. Both times, she smiled graciously. Qi is not dumb. She scored near perfect 1600 on the GRE, missing only a couple of Verbal questions. English isn’t her first language. (Qi doesn’t brag, either -- she revealed her GRE score in a sunny but offhand way, as one might mention a spotless dental record. Sure, it’s an accomplishment....but don’t you know someone with the same good fortune? A cousin, maybe?)

The brushes with homicide occurred in my car, as you might expect. Most of New Orleans’ streetlights remain busted, so four-way stops have become Roulette-ish. On our Thursday-night drive back from Muses, I reached a busy intersection inches ahead (I swear!) of a tan Chevy and paused just briefly before continuing straight ahead. Had I not slammed my brakes, Andie Acura’s front bumper would be a permanent attachment on the Chevy’s left fender. Qi lurched forward. I indulged my inner Howard Stern. Katie, in the backseat, groaned softly. Katie wasn’t supposed to be with us, but moments earlier -- toward the end of the parade -- she had yakked on herself, thus demonstrating incapability of driving her own car. Good news for her, though: she must have been feeling better at the time of our near-collision; otherwise, she would’ve yakked on Qi. Perhaps Qi smiled in gratitude. Hawaiian Punch-and-rum leaves a pretty heinous stain.

Our second cheat of death was much less interesting. En route home from Winn-Dixie, at yet another intersection, I failed to see the Jeep with the right-of-way. Again, I hit the brakes. The Jeep honked. Qi may have frowned slightly, but she thanked me for the lift anyway. In addition to being smart and calm, Qi is clearly a very good person. I hope we’ll stay friends.

I’m not sure what Qi’s definition of “a very good person” is. Almost every time we’re together, she tells me, “You’re so good!” Yesterday, she said it twice: once when I checked out an Anne Tyler book from the library; once while we were running around the track at Tulane’s gym. Her use of “good” may have referred to my literary selection or my exercise habit -- but, let’s face it, Anne Tyler is not Chekhov, and the track isn’t the Olympics. And besides, Qi was running, too.

In fact, I did many “not good” things in February. I won’t list them, lest you think I’m proud of them -- or lest you, like Qi, have any lingering illusions about my good-ness.

I will admit I haven’t gone to church since September. Felt especially guilty about this yesterday, as it was Ash Wednesday, and Ash Wednesday is my favorite holiday, next to Thanksgiving.

I know, it’s puzzling. If I decide to create a Match.com profile in the next few days, I’ll selectively omit my affinity for Ash Wednesday, as I might gloss over those DSM-IV diagnoses and the hari kari knives in my closet (just kidding). SWF, blonde, average build, likes: long walks on the beach; candlelit dinners; deep conversations; holidays commemorating death and loss; Italian food; swing dancing. Interested?

No doubt Jesus is scratching His head. Historically, He has likely noted that I don’t handle loss particularly well. I’m not even talking about death -- that’s a whole different plane. This morning I lost Internet connectivity for two hours, and I almost clawed a hole in my modem. Each time I lose my cell phone -- more times than a person my age should -- I teeter dangerously close to nervous breakdown.

Then, there’s the “saying goodbye” sort of loss: goodbye Honesdale; goodbye Murfreesboro; goodbye New Orleans; goodbye Charlottesville. My friend Joelle, who does not often read this blog, sent me a housewarming email shortly after I (re)arrived in NOLA: “I can just imagine you happily bouncing from place to place, bringing grace and cheer wherever you land.” Given a limited amount of information, I suppose our friends will always give us the benefit of the doubt. God bless them.

So, it’s not that I have a loss fetish. On the contrary, I’m big on togetherness. At Thanksgiving, my family (usually) comes together to eat tofurkey, watch Macy’s, and avoid political discussion. No stocking stuffers to organize or blinky lights to untangle -- just you/me/us and a variety of pies.

On Ash Wednesday, I get the same feeling. The “part of something bigger” feeling. I guess the “bigger” thing is death and sin and mistakes....all that “inappropriate dinner conversation” stuff. But it’s also the jumping-off point for forgiveness, which is the upside of screw-ups. I tend to forget I’m forgiven -- and that’s good, because otherwise I’d drink a lot more.

After Qi and I got back from the gym yesterday, I ate a salad, looked at “American Idol,” and tried to appreciate God’s forgiveness. I couldn’t. I know I couldn‘t, because I had trouble sleeping, and it seems to me that the peace of forgiveness should work at least as well as Tylenol PM. As a back-up for sedatives, I listened to three James Taylor songs (“Fire and Rain,” “Sweet Baby James,” “You’ve Got a Friend”). Didn’t work. It’s tough enough to accept Qi’s unflinching good humor. God’s? Forget it.

Finally, I turned to Anne Lamott. Traveling Mercies goes everywhere with me - Charlottesville, Tennessee, Louisiana. W. and I have a private Anne Lamott fan club -- we even tracked down her IM moniker. “Anne Lamott is online!” I announce on cell phone, when I hear the happy little creak of an open e-door. We’re not stalkers. Truly. We just feel reassured by “Annie’s” faith. At least I do. Seattle Times calls her “sidesplittingly funny, patiently wise, and alternately cranky and kind.” The New Yorker says she’s “cause for celebration.” I have to borrow these book-jacket acclamations, because I don’t have any words for her. She’s great.

In Traveling Mercies, Anne Lamott describes ashes as “contradictory”: “They’re impossible to let go of entirely. They stick to things, to your fingers, to your sweater...It’s frustrating if you are hoping to have a happy ending, or at least a little closure, a movie moment where you toss them into the air and they flutter and disperse. They don’t. They cling, they haunt. They get in your eyes, in your clothes.”

I’m waiting for the “movie moment” when I can reconcile togetherness/loss and morph into a very, very, exceptionally good person. In the meantime, I am grateful for my friends and -- amen -- my brake pads.

Three Parades and an Eggplant

2006-02-25T22:03:00.000-05:00

It’s Saturday night; it’s stormy; and I’m staring at an eggplant with great anticipation. In a few hours, the eggplant will transform into either Spaghettini with Tomatoes and Eggplant (Linda’s Kitchen, page 90) or Farfalle with Garlic-Roasted Eggplant in Creamy Spinach Sauce (Claire’s Classic American Vegetarian Cooking, pages 132-133). Claire and Linda are two of my favorite vegetarian chefs (Linda being Linda McCartney, Paul’s late wife), and the eggplant is my all-time favorite vegetable. An eggplant is a commitment. You can’t casually slap in on a sandwich or throw it in a soup. There’s work to be done -- chopping, breading, peeling, salting, roasting. The eggplant demands effort and time. Two cycles through Otis Redding’s Greatest Hits, at least. But eventually you finish, and the eggplant accessorizes your pasta like Gucci earrings, and you can tell your grandmother, “I cooked with an eggplant.” Eggplant rocks.

The above paragraph is meant to convince you of two things: 1) you need to buy an eggplant; 2) I’m getting old. You can bet the early-20s crowd doesn’t acclaim eggplants on Saturday night. An eggplant can’t be infused with vodka or thrown in with ramen. When I was 21, I regarded eggplant with detached admiration, as one might smile at an elderly neighbor’s Faberge collection. Commendable, even noteworthy. But not for me. Not now.

Well, to be fair, I was due to attend another Mardi Gras parade tonight, but Endymion got rained out. I’ll be back on St. Charles Avenue tomorrow afternoon, beaded and eggplantless. Thursday evening I joined a few classmates on the uptown leg of St. Charles, where Babylon rolled at 5:30, followed by Chaos and Muses.

In my pre-NOLA youth, I wasn’t aware that Mardi Gras parades had distinct themes. I figured the theme was “Mardi Gras” (or “Alcohol”). Babylon’s crew dressed as medieval knights, while Chaos went macabre with tongue-in-cheek underworld scenes (float titles: “Corpse of Engineers,” “Department of Homeland Insecurity,” etc.). Muses is traditionally all-female, and the crew tossed high-heeled shoes, along with commemorative dolls and, of course, beads.

You want beads? I have a good three lbs., in purple, silver, white, red, gold, green, and magenta. I got them the honest way: by reaching out my hand. It’s not that I consider myself too old to flash, nor too demure. Perhaps too sober. And uptown St. Charles isn’t that kind of parade spot. On Bourbon, you elbow around the reeling fake IDers. Uptown St. Charles places everyone in the shadow of five- and six-year-olds. My classmates and I huddled in front of giant wooden platforms containing hordes of children. “Stay away from the kids,” an undergrad advised me. “You’ll never get any beads.” Ah, but just you wait, kiddies: your eggplant years are creeping up.

I have to admit, I forgot the significance of the single empty float. Maybe I wandered too far into a state of childish excitement. Like most of the crowd, I alternated shouting three phrases: “Beads! Beads!” (to the float brigades); “Work it!” (to the baton twirlers); and “Yeaaaaaah, ______” (to whatever happened to be passing -- drum major, police car, jazz band, horse). When the empty float passed at the end of Muses, I yelled, “Yeahhhhhh, empty float!” The people around (and above) me -- grandmothers, fratties, toddlers, classmates -- chorused “Yeahhhhhhh, float!” Then, we all returned to “Beads! Beads!”

Were I older and wiser, I’d comment on how Mardi Gras ‘06 represents New Orleans ‘06. Smaller, darker, but with great potential for joy. Even reading that line, though, I can tell I’m being heavy-handed. I know more about eggplant than about Mardi Gras. And way more about Mardi Gras than life. Which isn’t saying much, in total. I don’t think anyone at Muses on Thursday really forgot Katrina. Any given street in NOLA, including St. Charles, is only a few blocks from spray-painted evac. notices and aging FEMA trailers. Come Wednesday, everyone will go back to clearing debris, or walking around debris, and observing Winn-Dixie’s new 8 p.m. curfew. But until then, I hope the city gets a few more “Yeahhhhhh, float!” moments. Some things should be ageless and timeless. Just not ratatouille.

Don't Cry For Me, North Lima, Ohio

2006-02-22T21:35:00.000-05:00

Many thanks to K for telling me how to install a site meter. Now I can view the demographics of the goofus musings “audience.” Where is Santa Fe, TN, anyway?

Really, I probably shouldn’t have added this feature, as it only feeds my communication obsession-compulsion. The DSM-IV defines “obsessions” as “persistent ideas, thoughts, impulses, or images that are experienced as intrusive and inappropriate and that cause marked anxiety or distress.” The comorbid compulsions (love that comorbidity!) are “repetitive behaviors or mental acts the goal of which is to prevent or reduce anxiety or distress, not to provide pleasure or gratification.”

So, here’s what happened yesterday: I stationed myself in front of Triton for half an hour, reorganizing MP3s ’til Friend showed up (obsession). Then, when he appeared, I spent two hours exchanging messages with him (compulsion!). Two hours. Did I get “pleasure or gratification”? Well, maybe a little. But mostly I fretted about how long he’d stay on Triton before slamming the e-door. Psychologist, heal thyself.

(I realize this episode is of no cosmic importance, but since you’re my friends from Chicago, Austin, and Boston, I hope you’ll indulge me. Person from Herndon, Virginia, please feel free to navigate elsewhere.)

If I were a psychodynamic theorist, I’d look to my childhood for signs of imminent e-OCD. Unfortunately (or fortunately), I have no memory of playing “Barbie Waits By the Phone.” No way were my Barbies holding out for Ken’s “What’s up?” Not with so many parties to attend, hairdos to achieve, cheerleading practices to coordinate. Psychodynamically speaking, I should be crimping my bangs or clutching pom poms.

I’d rather take the empiricist perspective. It’s not in my nature to obsess and compel - technology has nurtured my pathology. Ten years ago, I prayed nightly for a phone call from my teen crush, apparently in great detail (journal 5/18/95: I wish that X would call at 8:15 during a ‘Seinfeld’ commercial tonight and say ‘You don’t know how hard it is for me to call and ask this, but do you want to go out Saturday night?’). I can only imagine that at 8:16, I returned to Jerry and the gang, saving my next religious request for Friday-night ‘Pop-Up Video.’

Ah, 2006. So many ways to “reach out and touch,“ then pull back a bloody, heartbroken stump. At 8:15 tonight, Friend did not call. Or instant message. Or text message. Or email. Or look at my Friendster profile. Or, as I’ve discovered, navigate to this site (unless he’s in Herndon). W., grab my psychosis meds. I know you’re reading.

Instead of seeking professional help, I’m going to attempt cold-turkey withdrawal. I’m turning my cell phone off. Shutting down email. Logging out of Triton. Until tomorrow. Definitely. Tomorrow.

Multiple Choice

2006-02-18T13:04:00.000-05:00

Are you ready? The reason Jesseanna doesn’t blog much anymore is ______.

A) She’s never home.
B) She’s immersed in “Tics, Stereotypic Movements, and Habits” (Matthews et al.)
C) She’s preoccupied with a variety of mysterious, elusive, yet somehow omnipresent lovers.
D) None of the above.

Give up? The answer is C, of course. Observe these time-tested strategies for navigating multiple-choice. Don’t pick the first option (A). Don’t go with overly technical language (B). Forget “None of the above” (D). Clearly, the best choice is C.

I realize C could be construed as a “distracter.” I haven’t mentioned these omnipresent lovers in previous posts, and if you went with the “true/false stem” technique, I apologize. I’ll try to maintain the homoscedasticity of the bell curve by deleting the outliers. Or something.

Next question: short answer.

Please describe these “mysterious, elusive yet somehow omnipresent lovers.” Use a #2 pencil, and be sure to make your mark heavy and dark.

Don’t worry -- I’ll handle this one.

(An aside, though: it really is important to make your mark heavy and dark. Last week’s TA duties included operating a scantron machine for the first time. Scantron doesn’t like light lead. I had to manually darken several test bubbles. Another aside: wouldn’t “Scantron” have been an awesome name for a Transformer?)

In keeping with standard, inverted-triangle essay style, I’ll start with my most recent and specific paramour.

1) Triton. I met Triton at the beginning of the month, through a mutual acquaintance. “I looooove Triton,” W. exclaimed over IM. Triton? As in, “We are the daughters of Triton! Great father who loves us and named us well! Aquataaaaa...Adrinaaaaaa...A-blah-blahhhhh...” Well, he does have nice pecs. Wrong Triton - hey, I knew that. Apparently, Triton’s the latest version of AOL Instant Messenger for Windows, and his mighty trident allows instant downloading of MP3s. Hello, soulmate. On Valentine’s Day Triton gave me Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” (via W.), and I reciprocated with David Lee Roth’s “I Ain’t Got Nobody.” So much cheaper than a dozen roses, and more filling than cherry bon bons. Another afternoon at home, muffin? Sounds delightful.

2) Terri Gross. It’s true -- I’m a LAG. Wellesley trained me right. Every evening at 6:30, I retreat to my bedroom with a nightcap. Terri’s already waiting. “I’m Terri Gross,” she coos. And this is Fressssssh Air.” Yesterday night Terri treated me to an interview with “Richard Thompson, a British singer-songwriter whom I recommend solely for his cover of Britney Spears’ “Oops! I Did It Again.” (Look in the “Bonus Audio” section, if it’s still there.) To lose all my senses....just so typically me.

3) Robert Spitzer. Terri introduced me to Robert. How’s that for kinky? Before I found Robert’s “archived interview, I knew him only as the “elusive” editor of the DSM-IV, psychiatry’s comprehensive reference book. Now he’s Bob the meticulous scientist, semi-faithful husband, ballroom dancer. In my fantasies, Bob and I ooze through a samba while debating the comorbidity of generalized anxiety and major depressive disorder. He dips me at the end, too.

With this trois at my constant disposal, it’s difficult to schedule keyboard time. If you’d like to fill in the blank with a guest post, holler. I’ll tell Terri to keep it down, so we can hear.

Nothing Rhymes With "Homoscedasticity"

2006-02-09T21:50:00.000-05:00

The word of the day is “comorbid,”
Which simply means “stuff side-by-side.”
Like “under” ’s comorbid with “water” or “wear,”
And “seek” is comorbid with “hide.”
I don’t mind aggression comorbid with sex,
Or doorbells with dog salivation
But when psych makes the “quant” spend time with the “qual,”
There’s comorbid angst and frustration.
‘Cause numbers and letters, I think, really don’t mix.
At least not in my lexicon.
Keep your digits comorbid with sigmas and sines
And leave “y” with “ogurt” and “awn.”
Since when does a “p” equal .05
(Or less, if your study is valid)?
I like my “p” comorbid with “green,”
In a spicy masala or salad.
Please, leave my “r” to “ocky” or “oad,”
Not some half-pint correlation.
“N” should be “ickels,” or “eighbors,” or “ice,”
Instead of “the sum population.”
And “b” is a slope? A y-intercept?
What happened to Hamlet and honey?
Whether “F” is a critical value or not,
It certainly isn’t too “unny.”
They tell me a “t” is a test, not a drink,
And “z” is a score, not a nap.
I envision a low “z” on my stats “t” next week
This “comorbid” stuff is all c-r-a-.05.

The Truth Emerges....Mostly

2006-01-27T16:30:00.000-05:00

I better come clean. You know the “Folsom Prison” incident? The Pete’s meltdown? Didn’t happen. Or parts of it didn’t happen. I did go to the bar with Courtney. Drank a vodka tonic and a Smirnoff Ice (just one, not two). And I did dance with a 20-something hipster. No, rewind. “Dance” might imply too much motor coordination on my part. I shuffled around with a 20-something hipster. He dipped me at the end. But I didn’t succumb to a watery fit of heartbreak on the dance floor. I actually had a pretty good time. I like Cash.

Here’s another confession: I’m not ashamed of my lies. I wouldn’t have spun this Pete’s tale to, say, Jesus. But I figure you’re not Jesus. More likely, you are: 1) a friend or 2) a stranger. If you’re a friend, then you know of my tendency to wax histrionic. Witness September’s skin irritation: “Eczema,” Wynne said, “not leprosy.” If you’re a stranger, I doubt you care enough to chastise me. Don’t you have better things to do?

But okay, I know Oprah would be upset. This morning, Friend (formerly Boyfriendish) forwarded me two articles (this one and this one)about Oprah’s showdown with James Frey, author of the memoir-oops!-novel A Million Little Pieces. In case you haven’t heard, Oprah recently unleashed major pre-primetime venom on the author, calling him an embarrassment and a “liar.” I didn’t watch this unpleasantness, but Hillary Frey, author of the Salon.com article, called it “a little creepy.” I can imagine. What happened to fuzzy, dishy, Your Spirit-celebrating Oprah? Good thing we have Dr. Phil in the next timeslot.

Hillary Frey (apparently unrelated to James, or at least not admitting any kinship) claims Oprah’s audience stood by the Wo-man, cheering and clapping with every verbal shot. Again, not hard to imagine. I’m guessing Oprah bet her audience would happily accept her apology for initially endorsing James Frey. After all, forgiveness is spiritually healthy. And the audience got a real two-for-one deal: a little Oprah, a little Jerry Springer. No, no, Oprah, we’re sorry we cannot express more affection. You go, girl!

Lying is bad. I think we all agree. James Frey made a mistake and, contrary to my previous post, I believe mistakes should be avoided (ah, what a tangled and troubled web of deceit she weaves!). However....surely someone appreciates the irony -- a larger-than-life TV icon castigating an author for inflating his life. Generally, don’t Americans like reality to be as unreal as possible? A few months ago, Oprah’s audience cheered as Tom Cruise hopped on a couch, shrieking like a banshee. Unreality at its finest. Oprah repeatedly announced that Tom had “gone crazy!” Could be. Or maybe Tom, like James Frey, got a little “confused.” Here’s the deal, Lt. Maverick: we might treat you like a character in an ongoing wacky soap opera, but you aren’t really fictional. You’re supposed to act like an honest-to-god human, not Yosemite Sam.

Perhaps it’s okay to confuse fact with fiction, as long as you don’t write anything down.

Alternately, warping reality might be fine, just do it on television. “Reality TV” enjoys more popularity than ever, despite the inherent oxymoron. This is the true story of seven highly toned, attractive and hormonal strangers picked to live in an exquisitely decorated, liquor-equipped, three-story house and work top-notch spots in the record/clothing/clubbing industry....We call this “The Real World.” Duh. I mean, doesn’t this scenario describe the day-to-day existence of your friends?

You won’t catch me hatin’ on reality TV. I watch more “ _____ With Celebrities” shows than anyone I‘ve met. It makes me happy seeing Master P cha-cha alongside George Hamilton. I’m entertained.

Which, to me, is the whole point.

Or, 90% of the point anyway -- if I’m being honest.

Decisions, Decisions

2006-01-05T11:35:00.000-05:00

We're supposed to go out again tonight. Courtney came for dinner yesterday -- eggplant casserole and spinach salad, prepared by my mom. After everyone had swiped the last pieces of eggplant through that garlicky, parmesan-laced tomato sauce, my father retired to the Rose Bowl, and Mom, Courtney, and I worked a puzzle and watched Gigi in front of the fireplace. And after Maurice Chevalier thanked heaven for little girls and Louis Jordan achieved his August-May romance with Leslie Caron, Courtney thanked my mother for a great evening and whispered to me, "Karaoke tomorrow night. Stay out late for some debauchery."

From previous nighttime outings with Courtney, I know the implications of "debauchery." 1) There will be an ungodly amount of alcohol (not that God would endorse anything beyond a single Cabernet). 2) Even if Courtney and I arrive in the same vehicle, we won't leave together. People use the phrase "getting lucky," but in my experience, there is zero luck involved. The formula reads like: two restless, 20-something women; two 20-something guys (the adjective "horny" is generally unnecessary); 5-6 drinks apiece; 1 superficial exchange of phone numbers.

For me -- and, I suspect, for Courtney -- the mathematical outcome includes a fraction of regret. How handy that time is almost as good as booze at smothering unpleasant memories.

My former boyfriend (now capital-F Friend) believes in luck, but not fate. "I don't believe things happen 'for a reason,'" he wrote in the death-knell email. "I don't think the hurricane happened for a reason, or that you wound up in Charlottesville for a reason. I'm glad we met. I'd meet you all over again, even if I knew you'd leave. But we can't stay boyfriend/girlfriend." (This is paraphrasing, but you get the idea.)

Well, it beats "it's not you; it's me."

And truth, I don't think events and relationships happen "for a reason," either. Hurricane Katrina didn't deliver me to Charlottesville for a reason, just like it didn't force families to huddle in the Superdome for a reason. Kids don't get cancer for a reason. There's no reasoning with discrimination or poverty or random violence. Not even with stumbling on the sidewalk. I believe in God, but more as a tour guide than an events director. "There's the spa and the swimming pool and the tennis courts," God says (to me, anyway). "There's a chance of rain, so if you want to stay indoors and play Tetris, go ahead."

Luck and choice, but no reason.

I'm going back to New Orleans tomorrow. Not because Providence destined it, but because I didn't apply for a transfer to UVA. And if I stay in Murfreesboro another week, both my parents and I will require sedation.

I'm a little scared and worried, but I also have a history of luck. I'm not just talking about the relatively undamaged state of my New Orleans apartment, though this represents a major luck surplus. Nothing beyond blind good fortune prompted the first encounter between me and Friend -- the one that led to a round of ciders and Ms. Pac Man, followed by 2.5 months of cappuccinos, Jack White, "Arrested Development" cuddling, etc.

Luck was with me in Honesdale, too. After all, Mary's from Cali, and Joelle and Paul are from Rhode Island....so how did we all wind up pub-crawling near Scranton?

I even "got lucky" in the Delta, where the odds aren't so good. What else but luck could sustain a 21-year-old English/psychology major through nine months as an elementary-school teacher? The patented "don't-even-think-about-it" Teacher Look helps, but there must be luck, too.

I don't have a perfect record for choice-making (understatement alert). If I decide to join Courtney at Pete's tonight, it will undoubtedly be a bad choice. But I'll probably go anyway. I often told the fourth graders, "Choices have consequences, so make wise choices" (borrowing from one of my own teachers). What I didn't add was: bad choices often make pretty good reading.

Misery Loves Misery (and Lightfoot), Part II

2006-01-01T15:33:00.000-05:00

I'll call the bar Pete's, though that isn't its real name. I'm not sure why I'm using a pseudonym -- if you know Murfreesboro, you know this bar. It's the largest, flashiest sports bar in town, with ad spots on Nashville radio bragging about two-for-one happy hour and locally famous live music. If you don't know Murfreesboro, you probably know a bar called Pete's, in which case you know this bar. "Pete's" is a generic name, and this is your standard, Pete's-ish place. Plate-glass front doors open to a cramped "wait room," where you dish the $6.00 cover while a bouncer makes the mandated, perfunctory ID check. The main room contains, in addition to the bar (teak? mahogany? some shiny wood...), square dining tables; a backlit stage; and a tiny, oblong dance floor. Also, statues of the Blues Brothers, and -- in the spirit of the season -- a mounted reindeer and Christmas stockings. 'Cause nothing says "the holidays" like drinking yourself into oblivion.

When I didn't see Courtney at the door, I went ahead and ordered a vodka tonic. Vodka tonics and I go way back, to weekend partying on Beale during my TFA stint. For Beale outings, I selected the slinkiest, strappiest tops Express could offer, paired with tight jeans and blister-guaranteed heels. I'm sure this combo spoke to several professions, but "fourth-grade teacher" wasn't among them.

For my trip to Pete's, I chose a TJ Maxx sweater that I actually wore teaching fourth grade. Saggy jeans and Easy Spirit orthopedic shoes almost completed the Look. I could've used knitting needles and cats, too.

After a round of cell-phone tag, I found Courtney at the back ell of the bar. She'd ordered a glass of Merlot, and her friend held a Smirnoff Ice. I think her friend's name was Jackie, but it may have been Jenny or Janet. Like most sports bars, Pete's boasted a floor-vibrating decibel level. I smiled at Jackie/Jenny/Janet. She smiled at Courtney. Courtney smiled at me. And we each fixated on the turbo-merry decor, waiting for whatever was supposed to happen next.

Apparently, that was: nothing. The band segued from a cover of "Hard to Handle" to a cover of "Honky Tonk Woman." Rudolph's nose kept blinking. I finished my vodka tonic and started crunching the ice. "Maybe we should go closer to the dance floor," Courtney offered. As this act involved parting the Red Sea of frat boys, none of us were willing to make any immediate moves.

Instead of a miracle, we got "Sweet Home Alabama." At the opening chords, the frat boys leaped from their seats ("Turn it up!"), and we scooted near the stage. God bless the South.

As they say, "liquor before beer, in the clear," I ordered a Smirnoff Ice. (Hush! Smirnoff Ice is too beer....it's just sweet beer.) My cell phone hadn't buzzed to indicate a text message, but maybe Boyfriendish needed prodding. "Smoky bar, lots of drinks. I miss you," I wrote. One message received: "Have fun!" Time for another Smirnoff.

I guess I should have accepted the invitation to dance. Booze and dancing are a notoriously bad match, like booze and copy machines (or booze and anything but sleeping). I'd been eyeing the guy who asked me, though -- not because he was particularly attractive, but because he wasn't sporting the baseball cap/collared shirt-over-tee look, like all the other Pete's guys. Another perk: he appeared at least close to my age. Between the two of us, we could have parented some of the kids in Pete's. Not that I was thinking this far ahead.

Quick drink tally: two pre-party SoCo crans; one vodka tonic; two beers. "Drink to forget" was working pretty well for me. Until I reached the dance floor, I couldn't recall the title or artist of the featured tune. Mid-spin, I got it: "Folsom Prison Blues," Johnny Cash. Wouldn't you know, Walk the Line is the only movie that Boyfriendish and I saw together at the theater. "What's your name?" my dance partner shouted. Then, "Hey, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"

The song ended; I ran for the bathroom. When I came out, my dance partner was gone. "Where did you go?" Jackie/Jenny/Janet asked. "Your boyfriend was looking for you."

But that was the problem: my boyfriend wasn't looking for me. "Too much cig smoke," I texted. "Going home." No response. He just keeps a'movin', as Cash says, and that's what tortures me.

Misery Loves Misery (and Lightfoot), Part I

2005-12-31T14:39:00.000-05:00

I know this message has already been conveyed by numerous Lite FM songs, but I’ll say it again: break-ups hurt worst at night. Until sundown Thursday, I resembled one of those Oprah “Explore Your Spirit” segments. “Honestly, I’m just so glad that I made a friend in Charlottesville,” I told HTS. “And I’m feeling better each day.” At the time, I wasn’t lying. Twenty-four hours prior, I had treated HTS to a voicemail straight from Ch. 8 Nicholas Sparks -- before tearfulness and angst channels into rain-soaked passion. “I’m sitting in an out-of-order massage chair, and I’m miserable,” I sighed.

More generally, I was in the middle of a Huntsville, Alabama mall -- Mom and I had gone south to visit my aunt, uncle, and cousins. I’d fled to the wonky massage chair after Zen tear-suppression techniques failed. I liked the fact that the chair couldn’t keep its chakras centered either.

Post-mall, post-Mexican dinner, as my family dreamed of margaritas,“Awake in Alabama” (how’s that for a Tom Hanks movie?) pieced together a montage of Boyfriendish memories. No smiling walks through the park or holding hands over the popcorn bucket....nothing you’d pay $7.50 to see on the big screen. I lay awake thinking about that afternoon when Boyfriendish played a White Stripes MP3 three times, so I could appreciate how the drum riff “sounds just like Animal from the Muppets.” Or how he recounted the entirety of Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair on our first date (could’ve been an ominous sign, but wasn’t).

(I realize this all sounds a bit gooey, particularly for a romance that didn’t last as long as some of my better highlighting jobs. The fact is, I could easily charm/sicken you with details about Ex Who Shall Not Be Named. He fried up the best hashbrowns I’ve ever eaten: lots of garlic, dashes of cumin and dill. He also looked great in cowboy boots. But these idiosyncracies don’t tug on me at 2 a.m. I say time has a lot to do with it, though my ex-therapist might claim otherwise. Maybe relationships are sedimentary -– some layers get pushed down in order for others to spread out. Maybe my two and a half months with Boyfriendish will sink and settle into a thin, flat nothing. Still, he sure could kiss.)

Thursday morning, I mustered some of that fish-bicycle Wellesley spirit and got my car halfway unpacked. After my chat with HTS, I called Boyfriendish. No agenda, I promise....can’t a girl phone a good friend? Boyfriendish was in his car, en route to NYC where he’s spending New Year’s Eve with old college buddies. We talked for 45 minutes, not a single “baby,” “sweetie,” or “honey.” After we hung up, I texted him: “It’s nice hearing your voice.” Sweet sentiment, good for a “You too, dear.” I needed something. One message received: “I like your voice too.” My chakras shifted dangerously.

See, I know Boyfriendish likes my voice. Once in a while, I even Scarletted it up for his benefit. “Darlin,’ ahhh can’t find mahhh umbrella anywheah. And I do declah, I think it might ra-yun.” Perhaps I’m overanalyzing just a hair, but I believe liking someone’s voice is altogether different from liking to hear that voice.

My lip trembled, and the neuroses knocked on my brain: let us out.

I immediately called my friend Courtney. Courtney is a former high-school chum and the only person I know in Murfreesboro –- she went to college here, and she never left town after. She hates her job. Also, she tends to go on unsatisfying dates. In sum, this all means that Courtney is usually up for lots and lots of drinks.

We arranged to meet at around 9 p.m., local sports bar. Courtney had dinner plans with her neighbors –- she’d call when she left their place. At 8:00 I showered, turned on Beyonce, turned off Beyonce, and listened to Janis Ian’s “At Seventeen” twice. If I was going to wallow, I wanted to do it right. “At Seventeen” is the saddest song I know (“I learned the truth at seventeen / That love was meant for beauty queens...”). Gordon Lightfoot will also work, in a pinch. One of my closer friends (W.) has requested a blog post about the cathartic benefits of bad ‘60s/’70s ballads. I caught her on IM at 8:30, and we discussed Gordon (by way of Jessica Simpson, naturally):

W: Why is Jessica Simpson famous?
J: because she has lots of blonde hair and a very small waist and very big boobs.
W: Oh, God bless America then
J: Jessica Simpson probably isn't consoling herself with Gordon Lightfoot right now.
W: Because the lyrics are over her head
J: I bet she'll be "reading that book again" in less than a month.
W: she may have already read that book
J: several times
W: so the rumors go

And on and on....until 9:00. No call from Courtney.

J: well, I'm going to call her...
W: ok
J: no answer
J: frustrating
W: argh
W: time to turn on the telly
J: I want to get in my pajamas, but as soon as I do she'll call

(Isn’t that the way it always goes?)

At 10:00 I mixed myself a drink –- SoCo and cranberry juice. At 10:15, I added more SoCo, not as much juice. At 10:30, Courtney called. “We’re all here! Come on over!” We? “Just me and a few friends from work.” Friends from work? What happened to gloom, cynicism, straight-up vodkas?

(Wait...it gets better/worse, but I’m off to Sewanee in celebration of Mom’s birthday. See you in ‘06! TBC.)

Tidings of Comfort and Total Meltdown

2005-12-26T13:25:00.000-05:00

"I promise I'm not crazy." As promises go, this is not one you'd care to hear from a significant other. Insincere vows are certainly nothing new in romance. Honesty, fidelity, endless passion, lawn maintenance -- often sworn, too often forgotten. But at least these promises seem, well, promising. My oath, though spoken in earnest, had the shelf life of trojans in Vegas. What was the use, really? Imagine a friend who promises, "I'm nosshht drunk," after downing five shots of tequila and throwing up on your futon.

My boyfriend(ish) paused, nodded, and backed...slowly...away.

Moments earlier, sanity had been within my clammy grasp. If I hadn't given such credit to my parking skills...If I hadn't attempted to squeeze my sedan in the crawlspace between two SUVs...If I hadn't perched so long on the bumper of the right-side SUV. In three or four moves, I could have saved two or three K of auto damage.

By my rep for mental health, still totaled (assuming I had one in the first place), because of what happened afterwards. "I can't find a place to park," I told Boyfriendish on the cell. Twisted metal? What twisted metal? "Is it okay if I leave my car at your apartment for awhile?"

You could argue for the craziness of this request, but I don't think it was entirely unreasonable. Boyfriendish lived less than three miles from my apartment complex, and he had happily (by appearances) fetched and deposited me for most of our dates. I walked to class. During my three-month stint in Charlottesville, I refilled my gas tank twice. Point being: I didn't need the car. And perhaps Boyfriendish could use it as a portable storage shed.

"Oh, I'm sure you can find a spot, honey. Look down some of the side streets." We'd been dating two months, and Boyfriendish knew I could be a tad...insecure. What he hadn't experienced was my strong disgust and fear of automotive maneuvers. If he'd witnessed the screeching, grinding disaster only a few moments past...But that's another "if."

I did cruise the block around my apartment twice. Maybe once. In the end, I wound up right next to Boyfriendish's dent-free Camry. Shifted into "park," took the key from the ignition, climbed the steps to his door, and...stood there.

In retrospect, the choice was obvious: "not crazy" beats "not a bad driver" in the character-trait contest. I'm not sure how I planned to hide my vehicular trauma -- the SUV bumper had imprinted my Acura like a gas-guzzling cookie cutter.

"Where are you?" Boyfriendish text-messaged (never would he text "Where r u?" - one reason I liked him so much). "On your front porch," I replied. "Take me back?"

A more stable girlfriend (Andrea from "90210"?) could've answered these questions: how long have you been standing out here? why didn't you knock? what happened to your car? Unfortunately, I was rapidly moving into Brenda Walsh territory. Here's what I didn't do: offer any explanation, or, in fact, speak at all. My preferred m.o.: laugh like a maniac, burst into tears, refuse to talk on the 8-minute trip home. When we pulled up not far from the dastardly SUVs, I grabbed my purse and leapt out of Boyfriendish's car, slamming the door behind me. Drama much? Add a DUI record and a behind-dumpsters coke snorting scene, and it might have landed Spelling.

The desperate assertion of sanity came minutes later, after I realized that a broken relationship, in addition to a broken side-view mirror, could make for a really bad day.

"Boyfriend" did not become "Boyfriendish" as a result of this episode. Not directly, anyway. Boyfriendish apparently has a high tolerance for nutso behavior, maybe because he is so thoroughly sane -- the type of guy who checks sodium content on spaghetti sauce labels. The "ish" is my doing. I knew baseless promises of not-craziness weren't enough, so I decided to make the ultimate gesture of rational thinking: nothing says "neuroses-free" like candlelit rejection.

Over dinner in Richmond, I advised Boyfriendish to cancel his plans for a New Orleans visit. "We're headed in such different directions," I explained. (Look! Look! No twitching!) As a neat little bonus, this line could be interpreted both literally and metaphorically. Boyfriendish had just mailed applications for teaching jobs farther north. No one in my family makes a habit of crossing the Mason-Dixon Line. I congratulated myself on a masterful display of logic, then waited for Boyfriendish to throw down his fork, jump on the table, and profess undying affection, Tom Cruise style. In short (bad Cruise pun), I waited for Boyfriendish to act crazy.

Of course, he didn't. "Okay," he sighed (quietly, not dramatically). "I understand."

I had enough sense not to make the split "official," whatever that means...thus, the "ish." Boyfriendish has phoned every day since I arrived in Tennnessee, but the "honeys" and "babys" are being phased out. As I'm not totally delusional, I doubt much time will pass before Boyfriendish becomes Friend, The End. The geographic gap between Charlottesville and New Orleans is matched only by the leap from Arcade Fire (him) to the Black-Eyed Peas (me) -- a distance we never quite managed to bridge.

I wish I could say I left both my heart and my neuroses in Virginia. Au contraire. My second tearful outburst came just two days ago, one day after my TN homecoming. I had accompanied Mom and Dad to a Christmas Eve wine-and-cheese. The wine wasn't boxed, and the cheese wasn't Kraft. This was an Old Murfreesboro, historic district affair. My presence brought the average age down by about 20 years.

Fifteen minutes into the soiree, I wasn't faring all that well -- Boyfriendish was much on my mind -- but I wasn't doing too poorly. Cocktail party chatter has become considerably easier for me since Katrina. My apartment? "Minimal water damage, from what I hear." My program? "Still running, though the administration is making pretty big cuts." My advisor? "Just had a baby last month. Beautiful kid!" No doubt I was breezing through one of these Q&As, modestly sipping Cabernet, when the front door opened again, and our elderly hostess trotted up to greet another guest: Ex Who Shall Not Be Named.

"Oh, look at the time! Better get home to bed before Santa comes! Thanks for a lovely party!" As my mental faculties are more-or-less restored, I can today construct the appropriate graceful exit. At the moment, I went with my tried-and-true: I just stood there. Ex Who Shall Not Be Named nodded. My parents nodded. My grandmother frowned. I squealed, "Ohhhhh! How are youuuuu?" Mickey Mouse-meets-Donna Reed.

"Oh, look at the time!" my mother announced. "We better get home and have dinner before Santa comes!"

Insanity must not be genetic. There's hope for my kids, yet.

Safe at home, I reached the bathroom before projectile sobbing. Someone had to see the cosmic unfairness of the situation: as Boyfriendish faded from 500-plus miles away, Ex Who Shall Not Be Named popped up a block from my neighborhood. Adding insult: this was nearly the one-year anniversary of "the incident" -- the one that caused temporary bruising and rather long-lasting emotional wreckage. I had to spread the insanity around, so I called HTS.

I'll spare you the details of our chat, only because you can probably guess how it went. Lots of wailing, moaning, tooth-gnashing on my part; lots of "there-thereing" and "it's okaying" on her end. The stuff of which James Taylor songs are made. (Wasn't JT in an institution for awhile?) When my sentences became more coherent (e.g. not "and...he...I...am...so...angry..."), HTS returned to cocktail hour with her in-laws, and I washed my face, wiped my nose, and unchained myself from the lavatory.

A couple hours later, HTS called to check my status, or, I suppose, talk me away from the medicine/liquor/firearms cabinet. By this time, I had found the solace of comfort food (mashed potatoes) and Southern Comfort. Though I wasn't exactly comfortable, I wasn't hyperventilating. I assured HTS as much. "Good," she said. "When you called, I thought something really, really awful had happened. I mean, I thought someone in your family had died."

And that is why everyone needs good friends: not to assure us we're "not crazy," but to inform us that, yes, we've temporarily veered off the road to sanity. I plan to stay on this road in '06 -- that is, once my car gets out of the shop.

Don't Go Changin'

2005-11-25T21:20:00.000-05:00

I know folks don’t enjoy being pigeonholed, but it seems to me that the world contains two groups of people: those who like Billy Joel and those who don’t.

This division might seem arbitrary. Actually, it is arbitrary. I decided a couple of days ago, after an uneventful phone conversation with HTS. She was describing the stand-up routine of some locally popular comedian (“That Mr. Pibb...he’s just lazy! Why don’t he get his degree?”), and I asked if she had any comedy clips in her MP3 collection. “Would you burn a CD for me? I’m all alone and friendless in Charlottesville...” The self-pity routine hasn’t gotten me too far on this blog, but it worked for HTS, sort of. “What can you burn for me?” Ah, reciprocity. Well, I have Aerosmith. No? Justin Timberlake? Long pause. Billy Joel? I swear, the receiver got much warmer. “Don’t you dare put any of that ‘Always a Woman’ crap on my CD!”

Hmmm...frequently kind...suddenly cruel. (Only kidding, dear.)

After we mutually decided on Carly Simon (Moonlight Serenade album), I took a moment to evaluate my stance in the pro-Billy camp. What is it about the Piano Man? In my mind, his songs can be collected in three categories: Peppy Billy (“Uptown Girl,” “Tell Her About It”), Edgy Billy (“You May Be Right,” “Movin’ Out”) and Sappy Billy (“Just the Way You Are,” the controversial “Always a Woman”). But despite the dichotomies, he tends to, well, sound the same. It’s not like the Beatles’ early years versus “Paul is dead.” If Billy Joel were a food, he’d be pumpkin pie. As Garrison Keillor put it, “How different is the best pumpkin pie you ever ate from the worst pumpkin pie you ever ate?”

I suspect my boyfriend is anti-Billy. Since the start of our relationship, he’s made me two CDs. CD 1 contains Belle and Sebastian, Sufjan Stevens, M. Ward, and Wilco, among others. CD 2 contains more Belle and Sebastian, more Sufjan Stevens, Wolf Parade, Built to Spill, and Animal Collective. No “Captain Jack.” I’ve burned him one CD in return: “Cantaloop Flip Fantasia,” Notorious B.I.G. “Hypnotize,” and Dee-lite “Groove Is In the Heart.” I don’t know why I go to extremes.

Can Billy-yin reconcile with Billy-yang? This morning I looked to “The Ellen DeGeneres Show” for answers. B. Joel was one of Ellen’s guests, and I hoped Ellen would get Billy to the couch, allowing a dose of armchair psychology. No luck. After a pumpkin-pie rendition of “Only the Good Die Young,” Billy left the studio, making room for Queen Latifah. Somehow I doubt Queen Latifah listens to Billy Joel, either.

Perhaps I’m in dubious company on my River of Dreams, but I refuse to jump ship. These are unpredictable times: W.M.D. or no W.M.D.? Carbs or no carbs? Melt in your mouth or hit you with a street lamp (http://www.nytimes.com/2005/11/25/nyregion/25cnd-parade.html?hp&ex=1132981200&en=b7bb95e562f8ceb3&ei=5094&partner=homepage)? I’ll take Billy’s state of mind and skip the 500-lb. chocolates.

You Say Turkey, I Say Tofurkey

2005-11-23T21:39:00.000-05:00

It took five or six minutes to place the voice down the booth at Starbucks. Peter Sellers? Not as nasal. Rumpole? Not as blustery. But it had to be one of those cartoonishly British on-air personalities. Mr. Belvedere? Maybe. I don’t really remember Mr. B’s speech pace and inflections, only that he was a TV butler. Is it ethnocentric to characterize a British voice as butlerish? Yes, I think so. Forget Geoffrey from “Fresh Prince,” then. And that Remains of the Day guy. In the end, I settled on the moderator from “My Word!,” the Balderdash-meets-Linguistics 101 game show on NPR/BBC. I’d need chirpy theme music to be certain.

The elderly woman at the corner table sounded exactly like Ex Who Shall Not Be Named’s mother, who in turn sounded like every loveable Southern grandma on Stouffer’s chicken commercials.

The cashier who handed over my cappuccino (whole milk, cinnamon on top) spoke with no particular accent or clip. Perhaps he’s the standard voice, against which other voices are measured. If everyone sounds like somebody, then there has to be an original “voice,” right?

When my boyfriend tries to imitate my accent, he comes off as a cross between Scarlett O’Hara and Foghorn Leghorn. I pin him as a mix of NPR’s “Car Guys” and Vinny from “Doogie Howser.” We’ve been dating long enough for me to call him my “boyfriend,” but we haven’t reached the point at which flirtatious teasing can be dropped. “Mind if I paahk my cahh in this lot?” I ask him. “Well, fiiiine, Ellie Mae,” he replies. “You jest do thayt.”

I shouldn’t have been at Starbucks on Monday morning. Last week I vowed a 7-to-6 Thanksgiving holiday work schedule, in anticipation of my early-December deadlines. I’d rise at 6; shower; dress; email briefly; start work at 7, and pause only for an hour-long lunch break. Today I stuck to the plan (more or less...silly Friendster), but Monday I needed a prescription refill, and Barnes and Noble/Starbucks shares a shopping complex with CVS. Should I stay and sip? Should I drive back to my apartment and retrieve an ego development study? Best American Essays 2005 perched right next to the java: bright red cover, David Sedaris beckoning on the inside. I could afford an hour. Have you heard David Sedaris’s voice? No comparison.

And I’m glad that I chose the Starbucks booth over my computer desk. Sometimes I do need to hear voices other than the nagging ones in my head. My inner voice alternates between Madeleine Albright and Fran Drescher. “Everything is okay, dear,” it says, with a faint Eastern European accent. “This day has been good, and one mustn’t worry about the future.” Then, Fran takes over: “My gawd, can’t you stay focused for a second? Jeez! Get back to work!” Fran does not go to Starbucks, apparently. Or if she does, I have mistaken her for someone else.

There are certain voices I don’t enjoy: Fran; the FOX sportscasters who wake me at 6; my own, echoed on my cell phone as I’m trying to chat with my mother. Mom and I started sounding alike several years ago, in accordance with the “turning into my mother” stereotype. But am I borrowing her “Well, gosh!” and “anyyyywayyy,” or is she taking mine? The reception is too fuzzy to tell.

In any event (anyyywayyy): Happy Thanksgiving. I say “Thanksgiving,” but Boyfriend claims “Thanksgiving” has the proper emphasis. We’ll reach an agreement around the time he stops mock-requesting mint juleps.

Get Smart or Die Tryin'

2005-11-18T12:31:00.000-05:00

I suppose Armageddon is not at hand. Reached this conclusion today, after waking to 30-degree weather. For the past three or four days, temps have been in the 60s and 70s. On Tuesday, I wore a t-shirt to class. Mr. President? Um, maybe we should’ve checked out this global warming thing. Or at least moved “the environment” farther down on our shit list. Then again, “Christmas in July” has worked well as an office-party theme. “July at Christmas” could be equally chic.

Just to be safe, I’m stockpiling Aquafina. Another ominous sign: 50 Cent may make Oprah’s book club. Is this the “club” Fitty envisioned all along?

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/11/16/books/16cent.html

Crazy times.

Unlike Ben Affleck, I can’t honestly say that I “don’t wanna miss a thing.” I wouldn’t mind closing my eyes and falling asleep for the next week or so. UVA has granted students a full week for Thanksgiving break, but this means a shorter pre-Christmas crunch. The co-eds have already traded beer pong for a game I call “Don’t Even Start.” Object: shame anyone who claims to have a heavy workload. I got lots of practice at Wellesley.

Player 1: Ohmigod! I’ve got soooo much to do! Three 5-page papers, two problem sets, and an American lit presentation in the next five days!

Player 2: Don’t even start. I’ve got two 20-page papers, three presentations, and a biophysics lab report in the next two days. And I’m donating a kidney tomorrow.

My contribution to the game -- class presentations on 12/1 and 12/6, a paper on 12/5, a research proposal on 12/9, and exams thereafter. So much for tofurkey and football.

Though I’m not looking forward to T Day in Charlottesville, I can’t complain much. In the spirit of our Puritan antecedents, I find some pleasure in denying pleasure. “Don’t Even Start” probably originated on the Mayflower. Pilgrim 1 said something like, “Ohmigod...what if we don’t find land? I only have enough water to last five days, and I feel a case of scurvy coming on.” Pilgrim 2 responded, “Don’t even start. My water rations ran out yesterday, and Goody Proctor just gave me the mumps.”

Things could always be worse.

The exams and papers aren’t causing me much concern, anyhow. It’s the presentations that might ruin my holiday. I realize public speaking is no match for religious persecution, discomfort-wise. But at least the pilgrims knew exactly what to expect in England: marginalization, jail, flogging. Public speaking involves a few more “what ifs.” What if my PowerPoint slides vanish into the techo wilderness, leaving me alone at the podium? What if my voice goes shaky and sheeplike? What if my legs refuse to perform their standard, torso-supporting function?

Count me among the individuals who fear public speaking more than death. Death might involve humiliation, but, by definition, you don’t have to live with the shame.

The 12/1 presentation is for Social Stigma, and the professor has advised us to frame our schpiel as a “story.” “What you want to do is tell us a story about some part of the stigma literature,” she explained. If you’re in the mood for a “story” --that is, if you’re not playing “Don’t Even Start,” and you have time to comment on my presentation draft -- please email me. Most of you are writers (newsies) or teachers (past or present) or both, and I could sure use your critiques. In exchange, you’re welcome to share my doomsday shelter or organic pumpkin pie.

68-Day Cinema

2005-11-10T18:21:00.000-05:00

Have we ever discussed how fun it is not to be pregnant? No swollen ankles. No aching lower back. No restrictions on caffeine, alcohol, or Space Mountain. The joys of unpregnancy are on my mind today, not because my own “with childness” has been in question, but because my advisor canceled our 11 a.m. weekly meeting due to her impending (Thanksgiving Day) delivery. “I can’t really move,” she explained over the phone. Mobility: hard to overrate.

Like a good advisee, I made sympathetic noises and offered “anything I can do to help.” I then thanked the anti-fertility gods and ran to the grocery store for wine, coffee, and maybe a non-craved jar of pickles. Skipped the ice cream aisle.

Even with wonky hormones and sore feet, my advisor is a pleasant person. I really would help her if I could, but in the oft-quoted words of Butterfly McQueen, “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout birthin’ no babies.” I will, however, gladly volunteer for diaper duty when I return to New Orleans in the spring.

Yeah, I’ve decided to go back. My landlord says the apartment is in good shape, and the Tulane Web site continues its abuse of exclamation points (“Only 68 days until the first day of classes!” “Students, parents head back to campus!”). As I read these enthusiastic snippets, I imagine Tulane’s provosts skipping around their desks and spontaneously bursting into song: University Renewal, the Musical.

My own punctuation of choice is the ellipsis. I’m not certain how I feel about leaving Charlottesville...guess I’ll adjust.

Ambiguity triggers odd desires for me. I’m not talking sauerkraut with chocolate sauce -- my appetite is more cinematic. I need to see When Harry Met Sally.

When Harry Met Sally is my mac ‘n’ cheese: my comfort movie. Feel free to share your own. A good friend credits Grease for easing her through her harder-partying early 20s. She claims that Grease is the perfect hangover flick: from start to finish, it matched the length of her post-debauchery nausea. “I knew that by the time Sandy and Danny sailed off in the convertible, I’d be okay,” she said.

When Harry Met Sally is 90 minutes long -- enough time to feel depressed without sliding into Radiohead territory. The length isn’t so important to me, though, nor is the dialogue or most of the plot. I do believe men and women can be friends.

Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal aren’t my favorite actors, either. As a romantic-comedy team, I prefer Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh (well, before they got divorced).

I think I like this movie for what it isn’t. It’s not a “love at first sight” tale. Harry and Sally meet after college, but they stumble around for 10 years before falling for each other. There isn’t much action: no big vacation montages or career moves. Sally lunches with friends; Harry practices softball. The path to their happy ending is neither complicated nor extraordinary.

And Harry Connick Jr. does the soundtrack.

Class now. Class again in...68 days. In between, I’ll be with my remote.

Tainted Love

2005-11-07T06:31:00.000-05:00

Is it love or poor hygiene? I’ve been dating the same guy for three and a half weeks, and yesterday I watched a cricket-sized black bug crawl along my bedroom wall. On the right side of my computer: two empty mini-bottles of Bella Sera; crumbs from a rosemary olive oil loaf; an unwashed orange juice glass. On the left: two cans of Coke Zero; an Adelphia receipt; more crumbs. My trash can leaks deskjet paper and dental floss. My clothes hamper lists to the left. We won’t talk about my bathroom.

There are lots of songs about how love screws with your insides. Nat “King” Cole says, “This can’t be love, because I feel too well.” Love is supposed to knot your stomach; fuzz your brain; increase your heart rate, blood pressure, sweat production. It isn’t supposed to clog your sink.

To be fair, I should say it’s a little soon to use the word “love.” The guy and I certainly haven’t traded “loves” -- “I like you a lot,” we tell each other. It’s the truth. I like the moments he stops along a hike to recount a Calvino short story. I like the fact that he gave me an ironing board on our second date (purchased at a rummage sale, decorated with gingham and bemused cats). I like the way he says “hot” and “God,” because he’s from Cape Cod. And he thinks I have an accent.

I do not like the strange smell in my closet.

Sunday used to be for Mr. Clean and Tidi Bowl. Work five days; play one, and on the seventh day, scrub. I maintained that schedule through much of September, even with the five-week syllabus deficit. But now “like” has come to town, and the carpet crunches under my toes. My health is fine.

In January I’ll leave Charlottesville (maybe), and I should have time to dust again. Until then, don’t check under my bed.

Boo

2005-10-31T07:09:00.000-05:00

Happy Halloween. Technically, it’s still All Hallow’s Eve Eve here, but by the time I finish this post, the witching, ghouling, Power Rangering hour will have arrived. Enjoy...and don’t take apples from strangers.

Compared to vampires and werewolves, adult fears are a little mundane, aren’t they? I’m afraid I won’t get to Starbucks before my 9 a.m. Research Methods class. Also slightly anxious about defining and explaining “internalization of ethnic identity.” Not exactly haunted house material.

No matter -- I’ve never been much for the blood-drenched, pointy fanged or translucent. Freddy Kreuger never scritch-scritched into my childhood dreams. After lights out, the bedpost was still a bedpost, and beneath the bed were...socks? If my parents had let me watch horror films as a child, I like to think I wouldn’t have been terribly bothered. Redrum. Hmmm. Is that Scrabble-acceptable?

Know what movie contributed most to my occasional kid-insomnia? Follow That Bird. Obviously, Children’s Television Workshop paid little attention to the separation-anxiety-prone subset of their viewership when they put together this flick. First, Big Bird wanders off Sesame Street. Maria, Luis, Snuffy, Mr. Hooper...gone. Then, he lands in the middle of a strange town, and he’s forced to hitchhike back to his nest. If I ever contemplated leaving my driveway before seeing Follow That Bird, the image of yellow feathers crammed in a semi sufficiently dissuaded me.

No costume parties for me today, but I caught two shindigs over the weekend, in Honesdale. Gallant would have stayed in Charlottesville to perfect a journal review assignment, but Goofus needed to dress in pirate gear and watch pirate movies (Friday night), then eat unseemly amounts of candy corn with Mary, Paul, and Joelle (Saturday night). Candy corn: Goofus. Boxed raisins: Gallant.

A grown Gallant probably wouldn’t celebrate this holiday at all. Gallant knows when to call it quits with Halloween. When you’re old enough to buy a Kit-Kat at CVS, you’re too old to request one in the guise of the Incredible Hulk.

I came mask-to-face with this unspoken rule at age eleven (sixth grade?), while trick-or-treating with Wodora Stapp.

Some mothers believe that Halloween etiquette sets certain candy-grubbing boundaries: if you don’t live within fifteen miles of the neighborhood, don‘t go begging for Tootsie Rolls there. Wodora’s mother did not subscribe to this nonsense. It took a good twenty minutes of travel in Mrs. Stapp’s minivan, but at 5 p.m. we idled within the high-fructose confines of the Regency Park subdivision.

Regency Park unfolded in endless blocks of identical two-story homes, most with station wagons out front, playground equipment in the back. Wodora and I stood before these houses like visitors to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. You could almost hear the Oopma Loompas chanting from behind a Foreman grill.

I don’t remember what costume I wore that year. In the past, I’d been a good witch; an Indian (Native American, as my Goan roommate at Wellesley quickly pointed out); a clown, twice. This may have been the year for Cats. My introduction to musical theater came early -- Mom and Dad had season tickets to the Tennessee Performing Arts Center, and Cats played there at least twice (though I suppose no one in Middle Tennessee will admit to attendance).

In the spirit of Webber, I wasn’t your standard painted-whiskers, synthetic-tailed feline. I trekked Regency Park in a short fake mink, tall black boots, evening gown and stockings. Jellico cats, come one, come all!

Regency Park wasn’t quite ready. At our third or fourth two-story, Wodora and I chirped “trick or treat!” but the candy bowl remained on the opposite side of the threshold. Wodora and I waited. Mrs. Stapp revved her van. The RP mom eyed my boots and tasteful black agate jewelry. She said: “Aren’t you a little old for Halloween?”

Until this moment, I’d never considered being “too old” for anything, really. I didn’t suggest playing Barbies in certain company, but the impulse was more sympathetic than remorseful -- if you want to try on lip gloss instead of crowning a new Barbie Miss America, well, you’re the guest.

RP mom didn’t deny us two Dum Dums apiece. She had made her point. Shamed two prepubescent girls on a chilly night in a strange part of town. We didn’t stop our door-to-door, but I only faked disappointment when Mrs. Stapp suggested hot chocolate and The Parent Trap. We wouldn’t return to Regency Park next year. I didn’t put away the glitter facepaint and cakey eye-pencils, but I stayed on my own street, where the Eakers and the Wises and the Sebens knew T.S. Elliot and were generous with Reese’s Cups.

It’s hard for me to smile upon the Grinch who stole Halloween. Wodora and I weren’t too old...please. We were still in elementary school.

But even if we’d been driving Mrs. Stapp’s van instead of counting our loot in the backseat, I‘d think the scorn was unnecessary. There’s the usual “Halloween comes but once a year” argument, but beyond that - why deny anyone the right to pretend? Once childhood is over, the “faking” loses its charm. Fake IDs, fake marriages, fake...you know. Past the age of 12, imagination becomes more obligatory than magical.

Except on Halloween.

Today you can be a pirate or a dinosaur or a Smurf, and no one will suggest therapy. It’s okay to play. So, I hope you will. Trick or treat.

It's a Win-Win Situation

2005-10-17T07:47:00.000-04:00

Not only are the beer pongers statistically happier, apparently they're trendier:

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/10/16/national/16games.html?incamp=article_popular_1

Gimme a "V"

2005-10-15T12:06:00.000-04:00

It's coincidental that I received those two semi-anonymous lashings below -- the topic of my next post was going to be how tired of myself I am. Seriously. I've now been in Charlottesville for a month, and the social interactions count is at 3 or 4. At least one of those exchanges was between me and Lizzie the Crab. Like me, Lizzie lives de facto alone. Dave's ascended at last, and the other shells were never inhabited to begin with.

I, too, have the appearance of roommates: I share a kitchen and living room with two medical students and a biochem graddie. Their shells are filled with books containing phenylketonuria, and acesulfame potassium and other Diet Coke-can words I can't pronounce. And their shells are usually abandoned, in favor of the medical library. How 'bout another game of Solitaire, Lizzie...

So, I'd like to fritter my mornings at Central Perk, exchanging sugar packets and witticisms with hip quarterlifers. But I suspect they've paired off: Ross-Rachel, Monica-Chandler. Either I must find Paul Rudd or get an eponymous TV show. If you're weary of "Jesseanna: the Blog," just wait for "Jesseanna: the Series."

This all sounds a little self-piteous, doesn't it? I wasn't going for that effect. Truth is, I pity my parents and devoted long-distance friends, who must listen to me whine about crammed syllabi and impenetrable social circles. Well, now I sound self-deprecating. Damn. It's hard to escape the "self" on a blog, isn't it?

Even without the occasional anonymous flaming, I'm paying for my ego-tripping. Last week's Well Being seminar focused on the essentials of achieving happiness. Two words: don't blog. Our guest lecturer read from two chapters of his book, The Happiness Hypothesis. Here's the important equation: H = S + C + V. Happiness equals your "set point" (genetic predisposition), plus conditions of your life, plus voluntary activities. And you thought you needed a guru to figure this out.

I'd say my "set point" for happiness is pretty high. It doesn't take much to stir my endorphins -- drinking a C2 Coke will do it, or hearing "Dyer Maker" on the radio. My life conditions are good, too. I'm in an air-conditioned apartment with two packs of Morningstar meat-free chicken in the freezer.

It's the "V" that's bringing me down.

In my free time, I blog. Well, I also watch "Martha Stewart: Apprentice," but for now we'll say blogging is more condemnable. By definition, blogging is selfish. It's a solitary activity, based on introspection. Self, and....self. The Happiness Hypothesis says, "You're in trouble, pal." If you want satisfaction (Rolling Stones-brand or otherwise), you must leave the laptop. To paraphrase further, quality and quantity of interpersonal relationships is the single most important predictor of happiness. Apparently, numerous studies show that, on average, men aren't happier than women; African Americans aren't happier than Whites; the rich and famous aren't happier than the middle class (though it's key to have food, shelter, etc.). Yet, people with social ties are happier than loners; extroverts are happier than introverts.

As it follows, Friday-night beer pongers are happier than Friday-night bloggers. Bottoms up.

The actual blogging isn't as damaging as the act of self-consideration. In another positive psychology study (Lyubomirsky and Ross, if you're interested), participants were classified as "happy" or "unhappy," based on the Subjective Happiness Scale. They were then asked to rate 10 fancy desserts and choose their top 4. Later, a researcher informed them that they'd get to pick between their second-rated or third-rated dessert. Not ideal, but, hey, it's free shortcake. Before taking out their forks, participants had to rate the desserts a second time -- and before this re-rating, they were asked to focus on their "feelings and personal characteristics" or on "neutral images, objects, and geographical scenes."

In other words, they were divided into bloggers and non-bloggers.

You might know the outcome. When forced to think about themselves, the "happy" bunch derogated the desserts they were missing, thereby matching behavior previously shown by "unhappy" individuals. The study concludes: "It is not surprising that even happy individuals induced to reflect about themselves and their emotions may begin to ponder the implications of their decisions."

Happy bloggers better quit while they're smiling.

Unfortunately, I just can't stop. Not yet. Execrable as it is, blogging -- or, writing -- brings me "flow." I got the word "flow" from Psychology 101. Mihalyi Csikszenmihalyi....you may have heard of him? He said "flow" is the je ne sais quoi of hobby enjoyment. It's the natural high you get from engaging in a challenging-yet-achievable activity. In the words of The Happiness Hypothesis, "The keys to flow are: there's a clear challenge that fully engages your attention; you have the skills to meet the challenge; and you get immediate feedback about how you are doing." Sometimes, the feedback is, "You suck." So it goes.

I'm posting this on a Saturday morning. The birds are chirping. The beer pongers are sleeping in. I'm going to Starbucks for my daily journal article-reading and Frappucino slurping. Ross and Rachel won't greet me there, but I'm happy, anyway. Dessert, anyone?

The Honky Tonk Woman....What Was Her Name?

2005-10-07T22:45:00.000-04:00

Did you see the excitement?

http://www.eonline.com/News/Items/0,1,17532,00.html?fdnews

Everyone jokes about how old the Stones are, but clearly they still dominate. You don’t get bomb scares at Wayne Newton concerts. Nothing says “star power” like a little threat of mass destruction.

I was close enough to the concert to get blown away, had there been an explosive. But I wasn’t at the concert. Tickets sold out long before I got here, and I’m in deep study mode, anyway -- Developmental Psychopathology midterm on Tuesday. You think you can’t get no satisfaction?

No, last night I listened to James Taylor and cried into my DSM-IV. Around 10:30 I drifted off, only to awake at 2 or 3 a.m. Hello, afterparties. Hello, UFB (Unidentified Frat Boy) yelling “BEER PONG! BEER PONG!” over and over. What is beer pong? I know “bong,” but not “pong.” Kids today. Sheesh. I think Mick would agree.

I have to admit, I don’t know that many Stones numbers. “Satisfaction,” of course, and “Brown Sugar” and “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” “Angie” is great, too. If I were named Angie, I’d probably listen to more Stones. There’s nothing cooler than hearing your name in a cool song. (I know I just used the word “cool” twice...sorry. After reading studies with titles such as “The Moderator-Mediator Variable Distinction in Social Psychological Research,” I’ve decided vocabulary in general is overrated.)

If I couldn’t be named Angie, I’d gladly go with “Julia” (Beatles), “Lola“ (the Kinks), even “Roxanne.” I don’t have to put on the red light or sell my body to the night.

Elvis Costello has “Allison” and “Veronica.” Eric Clapton has “Layla.” Ike and Tina (or CCR) have “Proud Mary.” Who has Jesse? Rick Springfield. “Hey, your name is Jesse...like in that song, ‘Jesse’s Girl.’” Yeah, that’s right. “Only I guess that song is about a guy. Heh. Or a lesbian.”

You think this isn’t real dialogue? Damnit, Janet -- wrong.

What the pick-up artists of the world fail to remember is that “Jesse’s Girl” isn’t the only “Jesse” song. Not long after Rick quit coveting his friend’s girlfriend, Joshua Kadison delivered some gender-appropriate “Jesse” lyrics. “Jesse, paint your picture / ‘Bout how it’s gonna be / Jesse, you can always / Sell any dream to me.” Joshua’s “Jesse” is a lot feistier than Rick’s buddy. She’s taking the cat, Moses; she’s moving to a “trailer by the sea.” Joshua might dismiss her as a dreamer, but he’ll come around when the cabana boys start delivering tequila shots.

Despite the one-liner awkwardness Rick has caused me, I applaud him for writing a song with a guy’s name in the title. Boys just don’t get set to music that often. When they do, it’s less romantic and more eerie (Eminem “Stan,” Dusty Springfield “Ode to Billy Joe”). A “trailer by the sea” isn’t the Ritz, but...psychosis and bridge-jumping? I’ll take the double-wide.

I heard that the Stones rented three floors of the local Doubletree while they were here. By now, they’ve taken their complimentary chocolate chip cookies and gone north. The bomb hoaxer and I have been left behind, like Father Mackenzie and Eleanor Rigby, darning socks and memorizing pathology until the next band rolls through. Any idea where Kadison’s playing?

On a Claw and a Prayer

2005-09-30T23:56:00.000-04:00

To begin, let me clarify: Dave the Crab is not Jesus. Dave hasn’t purged any sins. He hasn’t clothed the naked or fed the hungry, nor has he healed the sick. He hasn’t done a thing for my peeling fingertips.

But today Dave rose from the dead. I swear to...well, I swear.

This morning, I emailed a few friends: Dave had gone to the big terrarium in the sky. If you didn’t receive the email, not to worry -- I just didn’t want you to know my attachment. Getting weepy over a dog or cat, that’s one thing. A canary or gerbil could be “dearly departed,” I guess. But a hermit crab?

Remember the “Cosby Show” episode where Dr. Huxtable holds a funeral for Rudy’s goldfish? Touching, sure (I mean, it is “The Cosby Show”), but also a tad silly. And then there’s the fact that Rudy was 5 in that ep (way, way before the “Rudy Gets Her Period” episode...shark jumping, anyone?). I’m two decades older -- wiser, not sadder.

Only I was sad. Dave has been with me since March. When I offered to take him (and Connick, RIP) off the hands of the Highlights toy department, I figured he’d last two months, maximum. Dave lacked goodwill from the start (another reason he’s not Christ. I wouldn‘t describe Christ as “surly.”). He escaped his shipping crate while I was editing a manuscript, and it took me, Mary, and Joelle at least 30 minutes on hands and knees to locate him. In the meantime, Connick watched patiently from a desktop. Connick: the good seed.

I plucked Dave off the floor, and he clamped down on my thumb. Left a purple mark. I contemplated offering him to the next fourth-grade tour group, or serving him with butter. Zoot alors, what a loss...here we go, in zee sauce!

Dave knew I didn’t like him much. While Connick frolicked amongst the plastic palm trees, Dave sulked in his fake-shale cave. Every time I took the crabs out to “exercise,” Dave ran away. More searching, more carpet burns. “Look, man,” Connick waved his antennae. “Can we get rid of this guy?”

Then, affer a month or so, Connick switched shells. I mean, with Professor Coldheart as a roommate, he had nothing better to do. The new shell must have been an upgrade -- like trading a Sentra for a Jaguar. The Sentra was nice and everything, but the Jag...wow. Forget Dave. Let’s ride spinnaz, baby!

Dave stayed in his Volvo. After awhile, I kind of felt sorry for him. I’m not much of a risk-taker, either. It wasn’t a risk moving to Charlottesville; I had no choice. Living with your parents at age 25 is only romantic in indie movies -- the kind that star Hope Davis and that guy from Sideways. Paul Giamatti. I drink Merlot, and I’m too self-conscious to wear my cat-eye glasses. “That’s okay, Dave,” I thought. “I understand.”

If Connick had been at all familiar with the “tortoise and hare” fable, he would have kept his old shell. Slow and steady wins the race. Fast and impulsive, better luck next time.

Connick’s “next times” ended right after the New Orleans move. Only a heartless bastard would say “I told you so.” I’ll just note that I’m sticking with the Merlot.

We grieved a bit after the ceremonial flushing, but things got better. Despite Lizzie’s googly-eye/plastic mouse ear get-up, she’s really an introvert. When she moved in, Dave emerged from the cave. He stopped pulling the Todd Bridges act. Dare I say it? He was born again.

Now, though, he’s sick. A couple of days ago, I found an unattached crab leg a few inches from the cave. Lizzie still has all of her limbs. According to this link, we‘re going to need a prayer:

http://www.hermit-crabs.com/FAQ.html

And I thought the New Orleans move was stressful for me. If Dave sheds another foot, the eulogy will be forthcoming.

He didn’t move at all yesterday. Lizzie brushed him with her antenna. I poked his claws with my finger. C’mon, Dave...you always enjoy a good fight. Nothing. I placed him outside the cave overnight. He didn’t crawl back to his favorite corner. That’s it, then. Dave’s gone.

Good thing I didn’t bury him. I’m pretty sure the resurrection wouldn’t have happened if he had to roll back a stone or dig himself from under a shrub. He’s not omnipotent. I left him in the middle of the terrarium around 11:00 (ever hopeful), and...lo and behold...at 2 or 3 I found him perched on the water dish. Who said miracles don’t happen in suburbia?

At the time of this post, Dave is still alive, but I’m not confident he’ll last through the night. We’ve cashed in a lot of our blessings, Dave and I. We made it out of the Big Easy; we got a courtesy week at the Best Western; we found an apartment and gainful studentship (well, I did, anyway. Dave mostly eats peanut butter all day.) Our cup runneth over -- and the water dish runneth, too.

So, instead of asking for more “deus ex crab cove,” I’m going to get a handle on my anxiety. Set a good example for Dave. No more psychosomatic stressors. No more waistline or white-tooth envy (at least not this week). We know His eye is on the sparrow. We hope it's on the crustacean, and, once in a while (when I'm behaving) me.

Hey, Look At Me!

2005-09-30T17:25:00.000-04:00

I'm famous for not being famous! Well, sort of. Okay, not really. Forget it -- I'm going to the gym.

http://www.cjrdaily.org/archives/001699.asp

Flakiness: A 100-Word, Study Break Post

2005-09-29T21:09:00.000-04:00

The skin on my fingertips is peeling off. I’ve been reading a lot of abnormal psychology lit. Mix the two, and what do you get? Psychosomatic leprosy.

I expressed this hypothesis to my friend Wynne. Her response: “I think you have dry skin.”

For future reference -- displaying your dry skin to classmates isn’t the best “getting to know you” technique.

“What do you think of Charlottesville so far?” offered a ponytailed guy in Developmental Psychopathology.

“Crazy! See my fingers?”

I knew that wouldn’t fly, even in a psychopathology class. Self-destructive antisocial tendencies? Suddenly, the fingertips aren’t looking so bad.

Along for the Ride

2005-09-25T11:18:00.000-04:00

In my next life, I want to be an A & J Cab driver. Not just any A & J Cab driver, but the one who delivered me to the first-year grad kegger Friday night.

It’s not that I’d like to trade vehicles -- I’d say the cab has 50,000 miles on my Acura, at least. And a shag-carpeted shotgun must be hell to vacuum.

Then again, if I were the A & J driver, I probably wouldn’t lose sleep over a few dust mites in my shag. Nor would I worry about blackheads, water retention, or the whiteness of my teeth relative to Jessica Simpson’s. In a moment of weakness, I might flex my bicep against Vin Diesel’s. Eh, screw it.

You, Vin, that moron in the next lane...not a concern. R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me.

Aretha provided the soundtrack for most of my 10-15 minute ride. No comments on the weather (humid, 80s); no predictions for the big Homecoming Weekend game (UVA Cavs vs. ?); no inquiries about my destination other than its address, which I provided in a semi-apologetic, lowercase voice.

I shouldn’t have called for a cab -- I didn’t plan on drinking much, and the kegger wasn’t terribly far from my apartment. But I placed zero trust in my ability to follow Mapquest and keep four wheels on the road. I’ve mentioned my constant disorientation and my eentsy driving phobia (which, incidentally, is improving since Charlottesville is an auto-essential town). Combine these two idiosyncrasies, and you get a DWL. Dangerous When Lost.

As soon as I’m lost...usually, we’re talking 5 minutes from the driveway...the panic light flickers. The advisory message says “Turn around immediately.” Decent advice, but perhaps too elementary. What’s meant by “immediately”? My brain interprets it as “instantly,” “now,” “without delay.” Thus, I tend to swerve into the turn lane before checking for oncoming traffic. Or I attempt a U-Turn in the middle of the road.

The last time I engaged in a “lost maneuver,” a fellow motorist yelled a compound word that rhymes with “duckbread.”

A cab seemed like the smart way to go.

Who would’ve guessed, an A & J Cab driver can get lost, too. Well, not “lost,” exactly. We reached the correct street with Motown trumpets blaring. Once we pulled into the neighborhood, though, there was the small matter of finding the right house.

Had I been driving alone (assuming I made it that far alive), I would’ve looked for the house with a bunch of cars in front. Long-standing TFA Delta rule: when it’s party time, find the home with foreign plates in the driveway.

Alas, I would’ve failed miserably. Charlottesville is a college town: pubs on every corner; a Starbucks at every stoplight; and Friday-night keggers at every one- and two-story within 20 miles of the school. My destination street looked like a mid-high SES parking lot.

Aretha segued into Lionel Ritchie, and the cab got very quiet.

One minute of address hunting...two...three...I wanted to say, “You can let me out here! I’ll find it!” But the street stretched for at least a mile, and what if we were at the wrong end? I watched the digital meter rise by half-cent. The cabbie leaned diagonally, mentally cutting the leafy mailbox camouflage. Prince Valliant, minus saber, plus Chevy.

“Can you read that house number?” No, I couldn’t. Damsel in distress? Oh, c’mon... If I wanted to be the A & J Cab driver, I’d have to accept the challenge. Er, take the wheel. I craned toward the righthand window. “I think I see it...no...”

A pair of headlights flashed behind us.

You might think that a little extra light isn’t such a bad thing, when evening darkness proves stubbornly obfuscating. If your mind works this way, you’re not my cab driver.

Time was on our side, but speed wasn’t. If we had any hope of negotiating this great “I Spy” street scene, we had to move slowly.

Unfortunately, most college students don’t move slowly toward a keg. Especially not on Friday night.

I pressed against the window. Lionel harmonized about precious love sent from above. The cabbie sighed sharply. And the anxious frattie crept inches from our bumper.

All the makings of a Vin Diesel car chase, in slow-mo.

Well, like a blockbuster chase scene, it ended in a blaze.

Two beaming porch lights illuminated a white, country-style house, front porch already littered with red Dixie cups. We found it! Or, the A & J Cab driver found it! No, we both found it. A joint mission. Us vs. the Night, the Frattie, the Shubbery.

I reached over the gearshift, past the boundary that separates brave cabbie from small blonde girl. In my hand, I clutched the fare, plus 50% tip. Money seemed beside the point -- an impersonal celebration of our victory.

The A & J Cab driver leaned toward me. He stopped.

He stuck his head out the window.

He shouted: “Fuck you!”

“Have a good time, sweetheart,” he smiled into the rearview.

Then, he was gone.

Maybe someday I’ll share that surly confidence. In my next life -- if not in this one -- I’ll make the road obey me, instead of vice versa.

In the meantime, I’m buying an atlas.

A "C" Rime, Part II

2005-09-20T21:26:00.000-04:00

As promised, here’s another C:
This poem’s Continuation.
But sleep prevails o’er rhyming tales,
...Forgive the abbreviation.

Coleridge gave his Mariner
A bad run in Part II --
Heat increased, bird deceased...
What’s a guy to do?

This sequel isn’t half as bad,
Though humidity’s a beast.
The ‘Net’s still free, as is TV,
They even change my sheets. (not quite a rhyme - too near bedtime)

The mightiest of Cs has been
The one of crimson hue:
Thanks to the Red Cross debit card,
‘Tis sea, not me, that’s blue. (a grammar slip, "I" hope you'll skip...)

Best of all, the profs emerged
Preventing Consternation.
The Mariner now has three forms
For psych course registration.

Last, the lease was signed today:
Bed, bath, communal den.
No slimy bugs, nor moth-bit rugs,
Just two crabs moving in.

So, Samuel’s poor chap and I
Concur upon this matter:
That which does not kill you
Makes damn good wedding chatter.

*Zzzzz*

A "C" Rime , Part I

2005-09-18T22:20:00.000-04:00

It is an ancient Mariner!
...alright, she’s 25,
And instead of sailing seven seas,
She’s facing four or five.

The biggest “C” for Charlottesville
In VA, where she landed
‘Twas 10-hour drive, not deep-sea dive
But either way, she’s stranded.

Stranded? Okay -- too harsh a word,
Yet, nonetheless, Confusion
That’s the second “C” she sees
Coupled with delusion

The Mariner convinced herself
She’d find lodging straight away
Classes? Please! A sweet C-breeze
You can sign me up today!

Turns out, it’s not that easy
There’s an albatross or two
Leases aren’t so plentiful
And profs have work to do

Starbucks, Starbucks everywhere
(That is, instead of water)
But it’s clarity, not buzz, this Mariner needs --
A personal i-dotter.

With no sense of direction,
Either literal or metaphoric
The Clouds begin to gather in
And the sailor feels sophomoric.

The Best Western where she now resides
Is where she’ll leave Part 1
God save thee, lovely wireless card
This epic’s just begun….

I'll Take My Future on Wheat

2005-09-11T15:19:00.000-04:00

Beyonce Knowles shares my birthday. So does Mitzi Gaynor. If the stars are correct, the three of us should take a break today from being bootylicious and washing various men out of our hair. It’s time for us to do something nice for others...or submerge a pumpernickel. Our Murfreesboro Daily News Journal horoscope for Sunday, September 11 says:

VIRGO: Cast a little bread upon the waters today and you’ll receive a baker’s dozen in return when you need it. People you treat generously at this time will later respond liberally with you.

So....is a “little bread” a pinch of sourdough, or a literal “little bread”? A muffin? A ‘Nilla wafer? I’ve never dunked bread in water. I don’t even dunk Oreos in milk. I prefer my complex carbs high and dry. But if destiny commands it....

For the last consecutive three days, my grandparents have been delivering my Dallas Morning News horoscope via the telephone. Instead of “psychic friends,” I have psychic immediate family. As far as I know, Grandmother and Granddad have never been regular zodiac followers. Then again, they’re lifelong crossword puzzle devotees, and horoscopes usually appear in the same section, don’t they? Maybe Granddad was contemplating a three-letter word for “fruit sampler” when his attention wandered to the star signs.

Yesterday’s Dallas Morning News suggested that I “wait until the dust settles before making any big decisions.”

“But,” Granddad added, “don’t wait too long.”

My grandmother is also a Virgo, so this advice could be meant for her. It might even be a message for Beyonce or Mitzi (or Amy or Mary). Perhaps Beyonce just had a squabble with Jay-Z, and she’s debating whether or not to pack her Prada bags. Wait until the dust settles, Beyonce, or get a second opinion.

“Horoscopes are funny,” Granddad said, after giving me the latest starcast. “They’re so vague and optimistic. You’ll never get a horoscope that says, ‘Tomorrow you meet your doom.’”

True that. Horoscope writing must be an exercise in getting specific while speaking in generalities and offering direction while spinning readers right ‘round. What bread? What waters? Does that baker’s dozen come with powdered sugar?

Why, Dionne Warwick, why is it all so hazy?

Since Katrina, much of life feels hazy....nonspecific. Follow the stars; follow my heart; follow Granddad’s advice. It’s all experimental. Ultimately, my hands aren’t on the wheel. As someone who likes to grip the wheel until my knuckles fall off, this is a rather uncomfortable realization.

I didn’t check my horoscope in the NYT this morning, but I did locate this article about self-experimentation:

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/09/11/magazine/11FREAK.html

(I, too, find it disconcerting that the word “freak” is capitalized in the html address, but this is a reference to the book Freakonomics, not to the article’s writer or readers).

In summary: a psychology professor at UC Berkeley is using himself as a lab rat to test hypothesis on weight control. He caught onto the idea of self-experimentation while in graduate school. As the article says,

“If you knew Roberts 25 years ago, you might remember him as a man with problems. He had acne, and most days he woke up too early, which left him exhausted. He wasn't depressed, but he wasn't always in the best of moods. Most troubling to Roberts, he was overweight: at 5-foot-11, he weighed 200 pounds.”

Time to test a few theories, Roberts thought.

I won’t details his methods here, I’ll only reveal that they worked.

“When you encounter Seth Roberts today, he is a clear-skinned, well-rested, entirely affable man who weighs about 160 pounds and looks 10 years younger than his age.”

Surprised? Neither am I. If Roberts’ experiment had failed, I doubt he’d be profiled in this article. He probably wouldn’t send class notes to his alma mater, either.

That’s the nature of experiments, though –- sometimes they produce clear-skinned success stories; sometimes they lead to more nights of crying over the Clearasil tube. And there’s always a variable or two that can’t be predicted. Like, er, a hurricane.

I still don’t know where I’m going from here. I have an offer of readmission from the University of Chicago, but the program’s a one-year Master’s, not a Ph.D., and it packs a heavy financial wallop. My Tulane advisor is setting up at the University of Virginia, so I may follow her there. But will I succeed in research at UVA? Who knows. I might be able to whine my way back into Highlights....postpone school for another year? Forever?

Wherever I go, it’ll be an experiment. Might turn into an oozing, green mess...or maybe I’ll end up “a clear-skinned, well-rested, entirely affable woman.” I don’t know if the stars are smiling on me or on Beyonce. All I can do is take a deep breath, cast my bread, and hope it’s a zesty focaccia.

(PS: The three-letter fruit sampler: EVE)

All That and a (Small) Bag o' Chips

2005-09-06T19:47:00.000-04:00

“Did you ever have to make up your mind?”

This song lyric keeps running through my head. I don’t know the artist, don’t really care to. Most of the tune has nothing to do with my current situation -- it’s about some skeazy guy who can’t decide whether to stay with his girlfriend or “get distracted by her older sister.” I’m playing my violins for you, buddy.

No, it’s time for me to “make up my mind” about bigger issues. Or the issue: my entire future.

Got any suggestions?

At the moment, I’m asking myself if I’m an editor with a side interest in psychology or a psychologist with a side interest in editing. Reading between the lines of this sentence, you might conclude that I won’t go back to Tulane, or even back to school. But anyone who uses the cliche “reading between the lines” (or the often unnecessary adjective "current") probably shouldn’t be a professional editor.

Last time I checked, neither editors nor psychologists routinely use the word “skeazy.” Maybe I should be a blogger.

“It’s not often easy and not often kind.”

No, not kind at all. There are few feelings I hate more than uncertainty. Humiliation, looming confrontation, and toe-stubbing come close, but lack-of-direction sends me into padded wall mode. My biological father used to say, “I don’t want to be well-rounded. I want to be pointed in one direction.” That’s me, too.

I’m not really seeking ideas. Or pity. I’ve received more than my deserved share of both. Though Katrina has left me disoriented, it hasn’t really displaced me -- I have my home in Tennessee; lovely friends; and, oh, one other thing: a big chip.

I don’t mean Dorito. This chip is on my shoulder, not in a bag. It’s not large and triangular (or nacho cheesy). It’s really more Frito-sized. But it’s long overdue.

Though I’m unsure of many things, I know that, pre-Katrina, I was the least assertive person you’d ever met (or not met). You might have called me a doormat, but I prefer to think of myself as a welcome mat. Telemarketers, you are welcome to chat with me for 5-10 minutes. Red Honda, you are welcome to cut in front of me; your destination is likely more important than mine. Drunken frat boy, you are welcome to hit on me, and I’ll just smile and ignore you. No need to say “thank you.” You’re all welcome.

That was then. Enter: hurricane. Exit: welcome mat.

What’s the psychology of this phenomenon? (Psychology, editing, psychology, editing...). Again, it’s pure selfishness. I’m not Jesse anymore; I’m The Hurricane Victim. You’re welcome to step on or over Jesse, but for The Hurricane Victim...you better stand up and recognize, boy, or step aside.

Example #1: The exodus from New Orleans. Pre-hurricane, I suffered minor auto-phobia. As in, I wouldn’t drive. Okay, if I absolutely had to drive....If your head is falling off, I’ll drive you to the hospital. If it’s just an arm or a torso, maybe you can hitch with someone else. Driving requires assertiveness, even aggressiveness. Once you’re behind the wheel, there’s no way of saying “Excuse me” or “I’m sorry.” I’d like to get in your lane, but you won’t scoot over, so nevermind. I kind of wanted to go to this strip mall over the interstate, anyway.

Something about the word “evacuation” changed my driver’s mentality. Perhaps because “safety” is a slightly more important destination than “Wal-Mart.” On the Saturday of my flee from N.O., I took Andie Acura on the road for the first time in five days -- since my mother left the city. I can now personally identify with road rage, or Darwinism. Blinker be damned. You are going to let me in your turn lane right now. It’s survival of the fittest, and my sedan is in far better shape than your SUV.

“Did you ever have to finally decide?”

Example #2: Chicago. There are lots of stories from Chicago (more to come), but for this post, I’ll only share one. The setting is Friday, 9/2, on the steps outside the Hancock Tower Cheesecake Factory. The characters are me, Jessica, Jessica’s boyfriend Nick, and a leering, beer-in-paper-bag-drinking homeless guy. To be fair (and PC), the guy might not have been homeless, but he was jobless. I know this because he told me.

Scenario: Jessica, Nick, and I are chatting while waiting for our outdoor table. Beer Bag Guy totters over and plops down at my knee. He extracts a cigarette from his paper bag and puffs amiably in our direction. That’s fine, but Jessica is asthmatic, and I can’t say that I enjoy secondhand carcinogens. So, the three nonsmokers shift a few steps away from BBG. Less than a minute later, he’s at my knee again. “What the hell, lady? Hey, I ain’t got a job....”

Hold on a minute. Before the hurricane, I would have smiled sympathetically, opened my wallet, engaged in the requisite 5-10 minute conversation.

As I’ve said, that was then. BBG got on my chip. It’s not that I have some Scrooge-like grudge against charity. I don’t want to “decrease the surplus population,” but I do think charity should be, well, charitable. Not bullying. Time to scoop up the welcome mat.

“I don’t have a job either,” I snapped. “I just evacuated my home.”

BBG took his Budweiser and left.

“Did you ever have to make up your mind?”

I realize this all sounds a little b-witchy. Wait a few weeks, and I’ll be the Statue of Passivity again. Give me your tired, your poor, your homeless, your dateless, your call-plan pushing. Whatever.

But in the meantime, let me in your lane, and please, change the radio station.

Life According to Bill

2005-09-01T14:55:00.000-04:00

Day 5 of the stand-off between me and Channel 4 News. It’s much like a silent game of Taboo. Can you get me to say “Hurricane Katrina” without using the words “flooding,” “looters,” “ailing,” “loss,” “plight,” “overwhelmed”...? So far, there’s no tally, because the news hasn’t been willing to play. Fine. Be like that. I’ll just watch “The Cosby Show,” instead.

And, you know, “The Cosby Show” is a pretty good alternative. I like to think that if Cliff and Clair were forced out of their brownstone by a New York City hurricane, they’d put the sass in disasster. (Yeah, that’s the ticket...) Dr. Huxtable would tease Vanessa about waterproof eyeliner, and the younger kids would coordinate a jazz number with wind-and-rain sound effects. At the end of the show, Cliff would give a little speech about the Lesson of Hurricanes: people are more important than possessions. He’d toss in a corny joke at the end, and Clair would smile indulgently. Oh, that Cliff!

I haven’t yet reached a “Cosby Show” acceptance of Katrina, but I’m not cursing with the frequency of “The Sopranos” or crying like a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie. Right now, the closest fit is Groundhog Day.

You’ve probably seen it. Bill Murray is a blowhard news anchor who gets trapped in February 2. The alarm clock hits 6 a.m., Sonny and Cher croon on the radio, and Bill blinks twice: deja vous? Yup, it’s Groundhog Day again. He’s stuck.

What’s so bad about limbo? If I remember the movie correctly, Bill adopts several attitudes toward his plight. (Ah, I said the word “plight.” I lose.) After a brief period of panic, he celebrates. If today’s actions have no bearing on tomorrow, then why not get started on that DUI record? Because Bill is not a typical male, the idea of consequence-free sex doesn’t really tempt him. He only wants one girl: Andie MacDowell.

Hey, I didn’t write the script.

But after awhile, hedonism gets old. Bill wants out. He picks a fight with the hapless insurance salesman. He clogs his arteries with extra whipped cream and butter. He even drives his car off a cliff. No luck. Morning comes, and Sonny and Cher re-warble.

This is not a Quentin Tarantino movie. Andie doesn’t maim and slaughter Bill at the end (though that would be interesting). Nor does Bill maim and slaughter himself, much as he tries. No, like besweatered Bill C., Bill M. decides to “make the best of it.” He learns several languages, takes piano lessons, and becomes a friend to young and elderly alike. Wouldn’t you know it....he becomes just the type of man that Andie MacDowell goes for. Oh, that Bill!

In the spirit of Murrayism, I’ve progressed from giddy shock to sorrow to anger, and by yesterday night, I was ready to rescue a few kittens. So, I took a CPR class at the local hospital with my parents. Tomorrow I’ll still be in limbo, but I’ll know how to save an infant from choking “on a foreign object” (as opposed to choking on a familiar object which, apparently, never happens).

Now, wait, though....don’t bring your choking infant to me. Nurse Ashleigh had to gently correct my technique several times. “Okay, hon...good, good. Next time, try to administer the rescue breaths without grasping the infant by the neck.”

Honestly, if you don’t grasp them by the neck, how can you keep the little buggers still?

It seems I’m much better at hedonism than altruism.

That said, I’m going to Chicago tomorrow. Jessica has a futon, and I have a bunch of Southwest Rapids Rewards miles (courtesy of Mom). Even the worldlier, wiser Bill wouldn’t turn down this combo.

Again, thank you, thank you, thank you for the support. I would say thank you several more times, but that might get repetitive....cue Sonny and Cher.

The Good, the Bad, the Half-Shelled

2005-08-30T17:58:00.000-04:00

Okay, I lied. Looks as if I might be in Murfreesboro for a long time, and blogging seems like a relatively good way to pass the hours. By “relatively,” I mean relative to stumbling around the house in unwashed pajamas, or “biting mah pillow” (We love you, Corky!). These two activities have consumed 85% of my time since Saturday, when I drove the seven hours to my aunt and uncle’s house in Alabama. The other 15%, I set aside for watching the Weather Channel and admiring my red, puffy eyes. I have to say, depression isn’t a bad look for me.

I got out of N’Awlins on Saturday, when evacuation was only “voluntary.” My mom knows a lot about volunteering -- Junior League, Charity Circle, Garden Club. For her, it’s a mandatory thing. “Hurry! Go!” she commanded on Saturday morning. “Stop freaking me out,” I snapped. “It’s not time to panic yet.”

Au contraire.

At that time, the Tulane Web site encouraged students to “keep an eye on the news” and “be prepared.” News, check. Prepared, uh, check. I had half a tank of gas and a good pair of running shoes. That’s “prepared,” isn’t it? I finished my bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and shuffled my playlists on iTunes. And, once in a while, I glanced at the green and orange swirls swimming up Channel 62's Storm Tracker radar.

When the swirls intensified to orange and red, I refreshed Tulane’s page. A rough paraphrase of the new message: “Unless you seek a cold, watery death, get out right now.”

Here’s an interesting question: if you were faced with a sudden evacuation, what would you toss into your backpack? I didn’t have time to collect my journals, scrapbook, family photos, etc. Or I probably did, but the urgency of the situation, combined with old-fashioned paranoia, convinced me that disaster loomed one raincloud away. I chose to “save” the following:

Two pairs of underwear
Two recently purchased Old Navy t-shirts
One pair of Ann Taylor Loft jeans (the New York jeans)
One pair of dead-sexy denim shorts
Toothbrush, deodorant, floss, contact lenses, etc. (No one likes an unkempt evacuee.)
Childhood teddy bear (Ted)
Hardback copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
Computer
iPod
Box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch (because it was handy)

And Dave, of course. Just call me Noah, minus the ark and the rest of God’s creatures.

After spending Saturday night in Alabama, I drove home to Murf. At the moment, I’m in the Murfreesboro Starbucks. Blogging in a Starbucks! How chic! I owed it to my parents to get myself out of the house. I don’t know if you’ve ever spent a significant amount of time with a depressed person, but let me tell you....it’s no Dollywood.

Why the long face, Jesse? And where did the expression “long face” come from, anyway? Lately, my face has been short – scrunched and twisted in anxiety.

I know I have no decent reasons to be terribly upset. I’m safe. I’m with my ‘rents. Since my apartment is on the second floor, it might not be totally underwater. There’s a good chance that most of my precious “stuff” survived.

I survived. That’s the most important thing.

But I’m still poor company.

Mostly, I’m angry with my inability to put things in perspective. Because despite everything I just wrote, here’s what my brain has been chanting since Saturday’s adrenaline wore off: “No apartment. No friends. No job. No future.”

Well, that’s silly. Eventually, I will return to my apartment, and school will start, and I’ll meet people and discover the Greatest Love of All, and all that jazz.

In the meantime, I would scrounge up a few friendships here, but I don’t really feel like hanging out with people. I would get a job down at my local newspaper. But if I get a job, I’m admitting that I’ll be in Tennessee for at least a month, and I don’t want to do that.

Maybe biting mah pillow is the most rational choice.

No, no. I’ll rally. “Things could be worse” isn’t the most upbeat motto, but it works in a pinch. Dave sends a friendly antenna-wiggle to everyone who called, emailed, and sent good wishes our way. He picked up a new housemate while we were in Alabama -- Lizzie the Crab is an early birthday gift from my aunt and uncle. She was named by my 4-year-old cousin, with little regard for crab gender. The crab looks like a Lizzie, anyway. (Though it does not look like my Delta friend Lizzie. It doesn’t have red hair.)

So, I left New Orleans with one crab, and I’ll return with two. Noah....reversed?

Hurrichicanery (An Ode to Disaster)

2005-08-28T23:11:00.000-04:00

I think a massive evacuation calls for a limerick, don't you?

I've fled that great storm named Katrina
And am now safely gone from Orlean-a
In my apartment, what's left,
Not lost to wind or theft?
Well, folks, that remains to be seen-a....

Yeah, I know. It's not Ogden Nash. But I'm slightly shaken. More wit and wisdom later (if it hasn't been swept away).

Only the Lonely and Idiomatically Impaired

2005-08-25T22:25:00.000-04:00

I’ve already broken the first rule in the Handbook of Making Friends After Relocation (HOMFAR). Took less than 48 hours, which must be a HOMFAR record. My crime was simple yet personally devastating: I turned down an invitation.

Everyone knows that if you want to avoid seclusion and decay in a new city, you never, ever refuse social propositions. To put it tritely: beggars can’t be choosers. (If you think that idiomatic phrasing is bad, read further. It gets a lot worse.)

This rule goes for all invitations. Particulars such as date, time, location, and legality aren’t important. Squirrel hunting in the briar? Well, sure! Detailing your uncle‘s motorhome? Count me in! Shooting up behind McDonald’s? Swell! Should I bring my own needle?

The good news -- after a few weeks of friendship prostitution, you can scale back. By this time, it’s likely you’ll have at least one “starter friend.” Or you’ll have a nice drug habit to take your mind off of the loneliness.

When my cell phone rang at 9:30 last night, I decided to ignore it. I was already in my pajamas, tuned into my favorite “Sex and the City” episode (that one where Charlotte gets crabs in the Hamptons). After the credits rolled, though, curiosity won (over laziness, I guess), and I checked the message. Adrian a.k.a. Mrs. Luc’s daughter and sometime caretaker.

“Just wanted to pass along a message from Karen. She says she’s been trying to get in touch with you about a party. You might give her a call, if you’re not busy.”

Busy? No, I’m not busy, unless your busyness threshold is low enough to qualify “breathing” and “blogging.” Party with Karen! My pulse revived. My forlorn little mind buzzed with scenes from Beaches (before the cancer) and Thelma and Louise (before the double suicide). Karen -- a fellow 20-something who interns for Adrian -- would be the wind beneath my wings, saving me from a dive bomb into reclusion. Did you ever know that you, Karen, are my hero?

I didn’t wait to call Karen’s number. I’d programmed her “digits” into my phone several days ago, when Adrian gave them to me. “I just know you two adorable single gals will get along!” Adrian chirped. Even Mrs. Luc seemed optimistic.

“Karen? Um, hey. This is Jesse? Adrian gave me your message? About getting in touch?”

Not a promising conversation opener. HOMFAR would deduct points for insecurity, uncertainty, and general shakiness. I held my breath while Karen paused.

“Message?”

“Uh, yeah. Shesaidyouwantedmynumber…..somethingaboutaparty.” Now I went into verbal overdrive, hoping to abort Mission: Friendship as soon as possible. Obviously, we were missing a few crucial bits of machinery. Like, the engine, and wheels, and such.

“Oh! Hey! I have your number.”

I didn’t really know what to make of this information, so I waited for a cue, either from Karen or God. Did this mean that she was about to call me, before Adrian stepped in? Or had she filed my number “In case of severe social deprivation”?

Hallelujah, she continued. “I’m so glad you called! A bunch of us are getting together at this club on Napoleon tonight. Major drink specials. You have to come!”

The italicized parts of this exclamation didn’t stand out for me. What I heard was: “bunch of us,” “Napoleon,” and “tonight.”

See, Mission: Friendship wasn’t doomed, right? That’s good. However, I could see three potentially fatal flaws:

1. “bunch of us” -- “Bunch” usually means “more than two.” And “us” is a plural pronoun.” So, the Thelma and Louise fantasy needed tweaking. How much tweaking, I wasn’t sure. A “bunch” of bananas….three or four. A “bunch” of termites….twenty or thirty, at least. Bananas or termites? It didn’t seem like an appropriate question.

2. “Napoleon” -- Napoleon Street is….well, I’m not quite certain where it is. But I know it’s not close to my apartment. As I may have mentioned previously, “sense of direction” is not my sixth sense. Sometimes I get lost in the supermarket. Wasn’t I just at Aisle 7? My internal compass is guaranteed to fall apart after 8 p.m. The nighttime is the right time for many things, but not for putting me on the road in a strange city.

3. “Tonight” -- As Karen enthused about 10-cent beers, I glanced at my watch. 10:05. 10:06. Tick tick tick. Okay, I’m not one of those anemic partiers who collapses at midnight, but this was a “school night.” I had my first university orientation session today: 9 a.m. ‘til 3 p.m. Yesterday I intended to be asleep by 11 at the latest. I’d drug myself with Tylenol PM, if necessary. My “best forward foot” might not be a 100% confident foot or a psychology-whiz foot, but I didn’t want it to be a sleepy or hungover foot. (Again, apologies for the idiom. Just wait.)

“Awwww, I’d love to go, Karen,” I said in my best “apologetic-yet-very-cool-and- definitely-worth-getting-to-know” voice. “But I’m already in my pajamas.”

“That’s okay!” Karen announced, before I could segue into “Have fun, and we’ll get together soon.”

“I probably won’t get out there until 11 or so. You have plenty of time to change.”

So, now I’m sending the mixed messages. “Um, I really wish I could. I really appreciate the invitation. Really.”

“So, come on! There should be lots of other single people there. Not that I’m trying to pressure you or anything.”

Here’s what I’ve discovered about the “not….or anything” phrase: it‘s always intended to work in reverse. Classic example: “I’m not trying to be mean or anything, but…” A line like this always ends in a mean statement. “I’m not trying to be mean or anything, but he smells worse than dog diarrhea.” Of course you’re trying to be mean. If you were trying to be nice, you wouldn’t have said anything at all. Would you? Would you?

“I really wish I could go….” I started. What now? “Um, I really wish I could go, but….”

And here’s where it comes. The dreaded idiomatic phrase. The dumbest idiomatic phrase in the dictionary of phrases and quotations. Worse than “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” Worse than “You are what you eat” or “You can’t take it with you.”

“But…..I want to make sure all of my ducks are in a line for tomorrow.”

Pardon my idiomatic French, but: what the fuck? All my ducks are in a line? That isn’t even the right idiom. Ducks come in a row, not a line. And what does that mean, anyway? Why are the ducks in a row? They’re ducks, not ducklings. They don’t need to walk in a row. Makes them easier to shoot.

Karen didn’t say anything to this. How could she? Behind her silence was realization. Shazam. Eureka. I am dealing with Emily Dickinson-meets-Stephen Hawking. Abort! Abort!

The rest of our conversation lasted maybe 25 seconds. “Have fun and we’ll get together soon! Well, bye!”

I immediately called my mother, sobbing. Because when you utter an idiom only a mother could love, you have to call your mother.

“M-o-o-m….I….*snort*….I just ruined…..*sniffle*….ruined things with Ka-uh-Kar-ennnnnnnnn.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad, dear.”

“I won’t make annnnny friendssss *snort snuffle* I’ll just be ‘That Weird Girlllll….’”

“You’ll make friends,” Mom sighed. “I mean, not everyone will think you’re weird.”

You can fool some of the people some of the time….

Oh okay, I’ll stop. There’s a happy ending to this long tale o’ woe: today I met two incoming psych Ph.D.ers, and I invited them to dinner at my place Monday night. I’m going to cook the least weird food possible. Nothing with tofu. Definitely no duck.

I'm Doomed. How Are You?

2005-08-24T12:15:00.000-04:00

According to Mrs. Luc, I am doomed.

And Mrs. Luc knows what she’s talking about. In addition to being my 86-year-old neighbor here in New Orleans, she was a New Orleans tour guide for over 40 years. She’s done all the tours -- plantation tours, seaport tours, downtown tours, city tours. “You can’t be a tour guide if you don’t like people,” Mrs. Luc told me. I guess I’ll never be a tour guide. (Only joking. I do like you, at least.)

Mrs. Luc has seen thousands of Hawaiian shirts, I bet. Hundreds of straw hats and fanny packs. She has also seen a lot of change. I’m using both definitions: “change” as in “foreign and domestic coins,” and “transformation.”

It’s this latter definition of “change” that means trouble for me.

You see, dear, New Orleans isn’t what it used to be. When Mrs. Luc was my age, she could leave her door unlocked at night. The next morning, she might find a plate of brownies on her kitchen ledge -- made from scratch, of course, none of this Betty Crocker hocus pocus.

Also, she felt perfectly safe walking alone at night in our neighborhood. Mrs. Luc still walks several miles each day, but she’s careful to avoid certain streets. You can probably guess the pigmentation of people who live on these streets, sure as you can measure the meringue on the lemon pie Mrs. Luc delivered to my apartment.

“Keep your doors locked at all times,” Mrs. Luc directed. “And have some pie.”

Mrs. Luc does not eat pie (or drink), because she’s watching her figure. “You’ll gain weight living here,” she explained. “My grandson gained five pounds just visiting.”

If I get chunky, I’ll stand even less chance of finding a husband in this town. Things have definitely changed since Mrs. Luc was a 20-something. Women are waiting longer to get married. Or they think they’re waiting to get married. Really, they’re waiting for a long, lonely spinsterhood. “It’s getting late for you,” Mrs. Luc smiled. “Pretty soon you’ll be left with nothing but gays and mama’s boys.” Pass the pie.

Whether I’ll die fat and alone, at the mercy of non-white burglars, remains to be seen. At the moment, I can only report short-term tragedies: the sudden collapse of my iPod and subsequent loss of a 1,200-song index; the intermittent power failures wracking my little 2/br, 1/ba; and the death of Connick, my more cheerful hermit crab. Evidence suggests Connick died in his sleep, not in a street gang tussle. But I’m locking the aquarium, just to be safe.

Objects of My Affection

2005-08-14T23:40:00.000-04:00

I said goodbye to Old Blue yesterday. We’d been together since 1998. I know what you must be thinking: seven-year itch. But Blue and I fell out of touch long ago. I think it was around my sophomore year of college; maybe sooner. Any good doctor could’ve predicted it -- quick flame, quick burn. Sleeping together every night; living in the same room each day....As the Cole Porter song goes, our affair was “too hot not to cool down.”

Or, in the words of wise men: “A geek and her retainer are soon parted.”

Blue is the latest casualty in my “stuff massacre.” Also bound for the Murfreesboro city dump: four or five stamps from an ill-fated childhood collection; Mickey Mouse underwear circa ?; photos of my sixth-grade pen pal and of my college graduation (great occasion, bad skin); and a plastic thumb from a misplaced magic kit. I’m hoping that one of our local sanitation workers will rescue the thumb -- it must have some practical use.

If it isn’t obvious: I hate throwing things away. Candy, socks, birthday cards, mascara tubes....you might call me a “pack rat” or perhaps just “ew, gross,” but I prefer to think of myself as “attached.” I love my stuff. It has history. Blue stayed with me through a 1,000-mile move and Calculus AB. When’s the last time you had a relationship that solid?

But here’s the problem with stuff -- it takes up space. Not just emotional space. After almost 25 years of stuff-attachment, I’m running out of room. Sign #1 that an affair is spiraling toward disaster: “I’m beginning to feel stifled.”

This week I finally admitted that my stuff and I need to see other people. The first “other person” on my list is the trash collector.

Not coincidentally, today I resurrected an embarrassing addiction. Call it a coping mechanism. In order to toss Old Blue, I absolutely must scrapbook.

Scrapbooking. I can’t look at the word without imagining myself in bifocals. Scrapbooking, the bastion of overpermed septaugenarians. People who scrapbook shop at those cutesy alliterative, rhyming places. Kountry Krafts. Hobby Lobby. I’m a Hobby Lobbyist. S.O.S. Send the special spinster squadron! Snap, snap!

As it turns out, this madness runs in the family. While digging through a bin of stuff, I found a scrapbook belonging to my biological father. Awkward phrase, “biological father.” You can probably tell he isn’t in the next room. There’s no delicate way of saying it: he died of cancer at age 30, two months before I was born. I think if blogs had been around in the 1970s, when he was a 20-something, he would’ve signed up. He kept journals, too. Retainers....I’m not sure.

My latest scrapbook contains, well, stuff. Ticket stubs from a June 2004 Harry Connick Jr. concert. SpongeBob and Barbie valentines from my miscreant fourth graders. A Helena Community Theater playbill. Postcards of Honesdale that I forgot to send.

I’m not fooling myself -- I know that my leather-bound Ode to Stuff has very little, if any, long-term significance. Subtract the emotion, sentimentality, nostalgia....whatever....it’s just stuff. It gets yellowed and crusty; the words fade, before or after the meaning. It’s perishable. I guess everything is -- perishable, I mean -- whether or not we care to admit it.

So I’m not going to pull a reverse-Siddhartha and glorify the power of petroleum- and carbon-based things. Instead, I’ll wrap this slightly cluttered post with an observation:

Among my father’s scrapbook keepsakes (newspaper clippings, prom photos, band seating charts) is a playbill: “Night of January 16th” by the Central High School Players.

“Night of January 16th” is a courtroom drama written by Ayn Rand. In the program, my father is listed as playing District Attorney Flint, prosecutor of Rand’s heroine Karen Andre.

Flint is a pretty juicy role. I know this because I performed as the “grieving” widow Nancy Lee Faulkner in my high school’s production of “Night of January 16th.” Hillary was Karen Andre. Note to KA: you may have been exonerated, but watch out. I know where you live.

It’s safe to guarantee that I’m the only person who retains this Central High playbill. Even Central High itself isn’t around anymore. To whatever intangible power who united me with this flimsy blue sheet: thanks for the stuff.

Fowl Play?

2005-08-10T10:39:00.000-04:00

Nothing lengthy today; just a headline from our local newspaper:

Beat summer with roasted chicken

One word: ouch. I know heat leads to aggression and all, but please -- for the chicken's sake -- try not to beat anything today.

(Sorry for the pun...couldn't resist.)

This and That (Which One Am I?)

2005-08-09T21:25:00.000-04:00

When’s the last time a guy tried to pick you up by pointing out how UNsexy you are?

If you’re female, the answer is probably “never.” If you’re male, “even less.”

Well, my tally is “once,” and I hope I can stop counting.

I’ll explain, but I’ll try to keep it brief. There are a few other stories I want to share in this post, none of which are interesting enough for an entire essay. Or maybe they are interesting enough, but my attention span isn’t up for a battle with the word counter. After all, I’m moving to New Orleans in a week. Anxiety has reached a new high -- better known as “freaking out.”

So, where was I? I was at a Saturday-night wedding reception in Sewanee, TN, home of the University of the South, alma mater to Hillary, who was visiting for a long weekend. Does this make sense? I’ve been accused of comma-happiness, so let me clarify: Hillary knew the bride and groom from college; I didn’t. But I wanted to spend time with Hillary, and I like wedding receptions. Wedding crashing is en vogue, right? In the spirit of Vince Vaughn, I accompanied HTS to the party.

The first thing I noticed about John was his height. I’m 5’4”, and he reached slightly above eye level. Thumbs up. I’ve recently decided that I like short men (Tom Cruise excepted).

It hasn’t always been thus -- Ex Who Shall Not Be Named was at least 6 feet, and I enjoyed the whole “small me/protective him” thing. But we all know how that turned out. Besides, now that I’ve taken karate, I’m less inclined to flirt with bodyguard types. John seemed, well...manageable. Also, he had nice teeth. Good enough for a quick dance.

Once the DJ moved on, I figured I would, too. Foolish girl! Never underestimate the mojo of a drunken short guy. He didn’t exactly jump on a couch, but John tried every other technique to lure me behind the buffet. He showed me digital pics of his springer spaniel. He boasted about his hunting prowess (I didn’t tell him I’m vegetarian. Bygones.). He rhapsodized about Harry Potter. “What did you think of the latest book?” I asked politely. “I can’t believe ____ died!” Remind me to take my as-yet-unread Harry Potter back to Barnes and Noble.

When ruining the end of HP failed, John kicked the subtlety:

“You’re very cute,” he declared.

If only he had stopped there.

I’m not one of those girls who can’t take a compliment. You want to tell me I’m Angelina Jolie-meets-Athena? Go ahead. Maybe John felt compelled to temper his forwardness, because he immediately added: “Not hot, but cute.” Que, senor? When I think “cute,” I imagine bunnies and kittens and heart-dotted “I”s. Hot is....hot. Paris Hilton. Paris Hilton doesn’t dot her “I”s with hearts; she has her Greek shipping heirs do it for her. That’s hot.

Has the battle for feminine allure come to this? Cute vs. Hot? Betty: cute. Veronica: hot. Janet Wood: cute. Chrissy Snow: hot. Jennifer Aniston: cute. Angelina: hot. And look which one got Brad Pitt.

Since this anecdote is dragging on, I’ll give you a multiple-choice guess as to how I handled John’s one-liner. Did I...

a) throw my vodka-tonic in his face?
b) give a karate shout and knee him in the groin?
c) grab his neck, plant a “home from the War” kiss on him, whisper “Hot enough for you?” and walk away?
d) clutch my chest in mock agony, giggle, and exclaim, “NOT HOT! You’re saying I’m not hot? I’m hurt!” Giggle, giggle.

Hint: which is the “cute” response? Sigh. Jennifer, I’m with you.

What else? On Sunday evening, my cell phone rang an unidentifiable PA number.

“Hello?”
“Yes, hello?” Foreign voice -- not just strange, but foreign. As in: a prankster trying to fake a “Ablaham Rincoln” Chinese accent. “Hello. Your Chinese food is ready for pick-up.”
I waited for the punchline. “Um, I didn’t order any Chinese food.”
“Who is this?”
“This is _____,” I sighed, listing my cell phone number.
“No....who IS this?”
Was this really a Chinese restaurant? Or a serial killer trying to match a name with a random phone number? As I’ve divulged, I’m a bit paranoid about security issues. I decided to play enigmatic: “I’m not in Pennsylvania,” I offered.
Pause.
“G-ddamn kids!”
Click.
Somewhere in Pennsylvania, a Moo Shoo Pork remains uneaten.

Yesterday I drove through a small town containing several gazebos. I was reminded of a conversation about musical theater (of course). A few Theater Geek friends and I decided that all musicals can be grouped into two categories: Gazebo Appropriate and Gazebo Inappropriate. “Sound of Music” is Gazebo Appropriate. “Chicago” is Gazebo Inappropriate. Also Gaz. App.: “Music Man,” “Carousel,” “Oklahoma” (there must be some gazebos out west). Gaz. Inapp.: “South Pacific,” “The King and I,” “Hairspray.” I’d like to propose a new Tony category: Best Musical With a Gazebo.

When Milton Bradley’s wife was pregnant did she crave a game of Monopoly? Lately I’ve been searching for a Monopoly partner, to no avail. Dad is a card player, and Mom prefers board games without a side of blatant capitalism. So much for my tryst with Uncle Moneybags.

What I really want is a Monopoly date. Think about it: why blow $7.50 on a movie when you can earn $200 for passing “Go”?

I believe more dates should center around literal game-playing. You can learn a lot about a guy (or girl) based on a round of Monopoly. To wit:

Does she prefer the race car or the top hat? The race car suggests speed and spontaneity, while the top hat is more traditional.

Does he scoop up Baltic Avenue or save his money for Park Place? Is it steamy car windows on the first date, or are we waiting for a full moon and a Van Morrison CD?

Is “Free Parking” a rest stop or a cash pot? Playing by the rules or skinny dipping in a public pool?

Is “Go Directly to Jail” a catastrophe or happenstance? Does your date have a felony record? I hope not.

And last, I just want to say: satellite radio is a beautiful, beautiful thing. “If I Were a Rich Man” followed by the acoustic version of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”? That’s both cute AND hot.

Insert Wavy Flashback Lines

2005-08-06T13:05:00.000-04:00

You know it’s been a slow week when your pet crabs are experiencing more excitement than you are.

Here’s how I’ve spent most of my time since Monday: staring at the computer, trotting on the treadmill, twisting my hair (well, as bad habits go...).

In the same amount of time, Connick and Dave have moved into the penthouse of crabitats. That’s right, they’re shacking in an aquarium now, baby. 5-gallon (at least). Calcium-enriched sand carpeting. Two state-of-the art climbing logs. Coconut-husk exercise wall. If I could insert a little “Jeffersons” theme music in here, I would.

Since I don’t have much to offer in comparison, I thought I’d go vintage. I’ve kept a journal since 1994 (ninth grade), and though I don’t write every day, I did jot something on August 6, 1995 -- 10 years ago today.

A peek, if you promise not to judge:

“Jenny suggested I try a new hairstyle, and I’ve been fretting over it for the past few days. I like my hair, but change is often good. Grandmother K. bought me some cute overalls as as early b’day gift. My horoscope says new hairstyle + new wardrobe = guys, but the only guy I (think I) want doesn’t care one way or the other.

“I wish I was dating this summer. I think it would be fun. But I really only wish I was dating HIM. Oh well.

“After I get home, school will start. It won’t be so bad, but I need to do my summer book report.

“I think I’m getting obsessed with Lee, and that’s bad. I’ve got to learn to SHOP AROUND.”

Nevermind...go ahead and judge. What was I thinking with that subjunctive? Didn’t I learn anything in Miss Heffner’s 8th-grade grammar class?

And yeah, there’s the “hair and boys” thing. If you didn’t know me, you might think I was (were?) slightly, er, superficial as a young teenager. I included the line about the book report so you’ll see that I did, in fact, pay attention to my studies.

But I also paid attention to “HIM.” Here’s August 31, 1996:

“My birthday is soon(er)! Mom is planning a big brunch tomorrow, and we’ll have many relatives. Kind of wish I was having a boy/girl party, so Lee could come. But oh well. I’m keeping those “Sixteen Candles” fantasies in the back of my brain.”

More misuse of the subjunctive, and more Lee. I bet I still wore those overalls, too.

You might like to hear that Lee eventually asked me to prom and that we enjoyed a long, post-graduation courtship.

Only in my Molly Ringwald sponsored fantasies.

In reality, we both went north for college, and while I underwent boy-crazy detox at Wellesley, Lee began dating boys at Princeton.

Yes, it turns out that while I was pining for Tony in my school’s production of “West Side Story,” Tony had his eye on Riff. I found this out when Lee and I met up at Starbucks in Murfreesboro last summer. Talk about star-cross’d love.

If I had the oft-coveted time machine, would I grab my 15-year-old self by the shoulders? “Look, Jesse, the boy smells good, dresses well, and has a passion for Broadway musicals....get a CLUE.”

Well, I don’t know. Yesterday I got an email from a friend who said, paraphrasing, that with the time she’s devoted to love (unrequited or otherwise), she could have written a novel or trained for a marathon. I might have at least worked on that summer book report.

But then, don’t we all need a “Sixteen Candles” sequence? Some weeks are slow. The phone doesn’t ring. The mailbox is empty. The coconut-husk exercise wall seems more tedious than exotic.

When life gets stale, there’s nothing like a good obsession. After all, haircuts go out of fashion; novels wander into the bargain bin; and marathon-running hurts your knees. Obsessions last a year, at least. I wouldn’t mind obsessing right now. I wish I, um, were.

Breakin' the Law (And Other Disappointments)

2005-08-03T23:50:00.000-04:00

Take it from me: crime doesn’t pay.

And another thing about crime -- it’s not very interesting.

These observations come from my Tuesday morning in the Smith County courthouse. Smith County contains Carthage, TN, where Officer Brinkley stopped my mother on the last gasp of our return from Honesdale. She was speeding...and I couldn’t really say “She went thataway,” because, well, I was sitting right next to her.

In addition to the speeding, we got booked (or busted, slammed, cop slapped) for driving with expired tags. My fault, Officer. I should’ve renewed the tags in March, but I figured I’d wait until my homecoming. If “ignorance of the law” is no excuse, I guess “laziness” won’t work either.

We could’ve gone on the lam, but after 13+ hours of driving, I think we were too tired. Nothing to do but face the sun-spotted arm of the law. Yesterday I accompanied The Accused and my father to the locale of the crime, ready to hear the penalty and pay up.

Man, I was excited.

Who wouldn’t be, right? Courtroom drama makes great television: “Law and Order,” “The Practice,” “Ally McBeal,” “Night Court.” When I lived in Hughes, I watched a lot of “Judge Judy.” Something about the way Judge Judy made 300-pound truck drivers sit down and shut up boosted my faith in classroom management. I felt fairly certain that the Smith County judge wouldn’t swivel his head and say, “Don’t kvetch to me!” But you never know.

My anticipation rose when we reached Carthage. We arrived 40 minutes early, and The Accused (as I would continue to refer to Mom until it no longer seemed amusing) inquired what time traffic court started. “What’s traffic court?” I heard a nearby boy whisper to his mother. I looked at the kid, and he edged away from us. The theme from “Cops” played in my head. That’s right, sucka. Whatcha gonna do?

Next question from The Accused (oh alright...Mom): “Do you know where we can get some coffee?” Try the cafe, the courthouse receptionist said. Which cafe? The only cafe in town.

As we caffeinated beneath a large portrait of Scarlett O’Hara, I concluded that the Carthage judge would not resemble Judge Judy. He’d look more like the judge from “My Cousin Vinny.” He would have to be at least 80, droopy-jawed, with a few flies buzzing around his head (or “hay-ed,” as he’d say in his Huckleberry Hound accent). “I wish these here flies would stop buzzin’ ‘round my hay-ed. It’s long ‘bout time they be kilt.”

This elderly, “no nawn-sense” judge would sleepily stare down a room of hardened criminals. Or hardened traffic violators.

The 30 or so people crammed into the courtroom looked hardened to me. I assumed that a day in court called for “dressy casual,” so I wore a Gap khaki sundress, sleeveless but collared, with a belt tie. To me, the khaki dress says “stylish, not guilty.” On the other hand, a Dennis Rodman basketball jersey and low-cut gym shorts says “handcuff me now, mofo.” The Dennis Rodman devotee sat a couple rows ahead of me, and his attire -- not mine -- was the norm. Hardened, these Carthage traffic lawbreakers. Just another Tuesday morning in front of the ol’ judge! Gonna go shoot some hoops after!

My first disappointment came when the judge entered the courtroom. Middle-aged, glasses, moustache (standard, not handlebar), suit-and-tie, and no robe. No robe! Was this a hearing or a city council meeting?

After everyone sat, the judge made a few opening remarks, to which the hardened criminals glanced at each other and shrugged. We shrugged, too. Nobody could hear the judge. He didn’t have a microphone. Second disappointment, and counting.

Without a sound system, it was almost impossible to discern the details of our fellow convicts’ illegal acts. I leaned forward and strained my ears, hoping for the words “high-speed chase” or “unprecedented drug possession” or even “suspicious tractor emissions.” No luck. The best (worst) I got was a guy who went 93 m.p.h. In a 55 m.p.h. zone. High speed, but no high-speed chase. Disappointment all around.

Mom got her turn after about 15 minutes. When the judge’s assistant (who is that? the bailiff?) called her name, Dad and I smiled and softly clapped, “Hooray! That’s us!” If we’d managed to blend with the hardened criminals before this moment, our silent cheering forever killed any air of notoriety we’d achieved. In a room full of Eminems and Bobby Browns, we were Petula Clarks. Clearly, our version of “downtown” didn’t fit in this room.

And, as promised, the rest is....not interesting. The judge listened to Mom’s plea, asked a few questions (which I couldn’t hear) and fined us $360. With a little more help from outlaw families like mine, Smith County may be able to buy a couple extra squad cars.

Actually, the fine should’ve been $100 less. Though I couldn’t make out most of the judge’s introductory speech, I know he said he’d knock $100 off speeding penalties for those of us who hadn’t been ticketed in the past three years. Mom says she hasn’t gotten a speeding ticket since she was my age. But the judge never asked my mother if she had a record. I guess he looked at our “dressy casual” and figured we could afford a steeper fine.

So let me modify: crime doesn’t pay....but it pays more if you’re in a jersey.

A Little Less Conversation, A Little More Squealing

2005-08-01T14:38:00.000-04:00

“Oh, HEY!”
(hug, hug, hug, pat, pat, pat)
“What a cute DRESS!”
“Where did you GET it?”
“What have you been UP to lately?”
“How’s your wonderful (fill in the blank: JOB, HUSBAND, BOYFRIEND, BABY, HOUSE, APARTMENT, CONDO, MOTHER, FATHER, NEW CAR, NEW OUTLOOK, NEW CABLE-ACCESS SHOW)?”
“That’s GREAT! It’s so GOOD to see you!”
(hug, hug, hug, pat, pat, pat)
“We’ll talk SOON!”

Repeat these lines 20-30 times, and you’ll get an idea of my Saturday night. The inflection is necessary, because I’ve discovered that girl-to-girl small talk is much like a chirpy rap. It has a definite beat: ba BOOM ba BOOM ba BOOM. Replace male-centric lyrics such as, “Gonna smack those BITCHES” with female-centric phrases such as, “I’ve been looking everywhere for those SHOES.” See? Snoop Dogg may have been Eva Gabor in a previous life.

Where was I, dahling? Fo’ shizzle -- I spent Saturday evening at a catered, white-tent soiree, held in honor of a(nother) former high-school classmate who recently got married. Apparently, married people get lifelong companionship AND cocktail shrimp. The injustice!

This classmate is the daughter of our mayor, so you can bet her bridesmaids didn’t wear Dress Barn. The party must have cost $7,000 $10,000. It had sponsors. 40 of them. Valet parking attendants, too, juggling keys to BMWs and Jaguars and colossal SUVs. Andie Acura cowered.

I’ve never been very good at “getting my mingle on” -- I prefer private tables over mile-long buffets -- but once I mastered the small-talk rhythm (remixed for conversations with the opposite gender), I was okay.

Recognizing old classmates....not as easy.

I haven’t attended any reunions, since I’m not yet a Victoria’s Secret supermodel, nor do I drive a Bentley or wear Gucci boots. Unfortunately, this means that I had several conversations resembling the following:

“Hey, JESSE!”
“Hey....YOU! How ARE you?”
“Great! What have you been UP to?”
“Oh, I’m about to go back to school. But tell me what YOU’RE doing.”
Unrecognizable classmate: “Blah blah blah BLAH”
Jesse’s mind: “He says he’s working as a CPA in Nashville. Clint Hall did pretty well in math...maybe this is Clint. Or is it that guy who got seniors to stuff money in his shorts at the homecoming game?”

Thank goodness, noise from the dance floor pre-empted most verbal exchanges. If my mental yearbook-page-flipping failed, I could simply say: “I’m SORRY! I can’t HEAR you very well!” Sympathetic smile. Hug, hug, hug, pat, pat, pat....off to “Brick House!”

Okay, I admit -- I did dance to “Brick House.” All the other white girls in Ann Taylor sundresses were doing it...

Who was my dance partner? Well, some things haven’t changed since high school: I still can’t get a slow song with the star lacrosse player. But who needs strobe lights and “Unchained Melody” when you have Alex the Remodeler and “Everybody Was Kung Foo Fighting”?

That’s right -- Alex was there, and his live-in girlfriend allowed me to steal him for a couple of songs. I owe her a compliment; genuine, no inflection. True dat.