It's our time on the edge.

This is what I've been doing.

2011-12-04T20:36:00.008-06:00

Hi. I've obviously been a bad blogger, but more on that after a story of good intentions and mouse murder.

One morning a month or so ago, as I prepared to start my day, I heard a faint squeaking coming from the corner of the garage. Because I was curious and late for work, I waded through empty flower pots and my landlord's plastic-sheathed 80s pop artwork to find a lone baby mouse. We stared at each other for a minute before parting ways. And by parting ways, I mean before I jumped in the car and left. The mouse wasn't going anywhere in an "I've eaten poison" or "I like it here behind this mildewed poster of a splatter-painted heart" sort of way.

When I returned that night, I was about to drive full-speed into the garage in the way I do where I fantasize about breaking through the brick wall and surprising the barking weimaraners that live behind us, when my headlights honed in on something small and sickly wading around in an a puddle of motor oil. Sure enough, it was the mouse. I scooted it out of my path with an old New Yorker. The next morning, it was waiting for me just behind one of my tires. And this time, it pointed a frail whisker in the direction of its brother, who was standing a few feet away, covered in cobwebs. I found myself consumed by the desire-the need-to rescue these orphan mice from a bleak future of Valvoline baths, magazine spiders and the landlord's poison traps that lurk behind every rusty shovel. So I went back inside, got a shoebox, stocked a corner of it with iceberg lettuce and cheerios, and gave them the home they'd been looking for all along- someplace warm, safe and filled with indigestible foods. Then I put the box under a tree in the backyard (it was still relatively warm outside at this point), folded down a side in case they wanted to get some exercise, and left for work with a warm heart and hands covered in bubonic plague.

The mice were probably eaten by birds, their lettuce feast eaten by squirrels, the cardboard box eaten by the neighbor's dogs. But the point is, I'd helped them in some way... maybe. Whatever. I say whatever because a few days ago, with one quick surge of brick-breaking power, I erased all of the goodwill and good karma I'd established with mousekind. I ran one over. I'm sure it was quick and painless, but it was also messy. And until Matt finally got the hint and peeled said mouse off of the concrete with a snow shovel, it served as a gruesome twice-daily reminder of how quickly the bridges we build can be burned, or flattened, as the case may be.

In other, less vermony news, I'm almost 39 weeks pregnant and feeling crazy. But I'd like to reflect on my pregnancy before it transitions to parenthood and I forget all of the little details, big discoveries, cloying discomforts and irrational anxieties that have become my friends over the past months. I'd segue into that now, but I'm tired, and you have things to do.

P.S. Doing a Google image search for "baby mice" was the worst decision I've made all day. And that's saying a lot because I also wore pajamas to Target and tried making an eggnog milkshake.

Defeathering the nest

2011-09-19T16:49:00.010-05:00

Last night, I watched a good chunk of the Emmys whilst sipping Crystal Light and then slogged up to bed at 9 p.m., convinced that I would be dreaming weird dreams that blend common work scenarios and rare zoo animals by 9:05. But the second my head hit the pillow, it's like my brain finally turned on after being off for hours. And I could not. stop. thinking. And I was pissed. Because these weren't big, broad, creative thoughts, or "suddenly everything clicked" thoughts. They were evil, irrational thoughts - the kind that only come home to roost when all you want to do is sleep. I am afraid that my family will forget about me. I'm afraid that, along with blood, vitamins and oxygen, this baby is siphoning off the interesting parts of me too. I will give birth to a wunderkind, and in turn become a pile of fingers and brittle hair with a growing collection of old US Weeklies. I am afraid of uncertainty and the squirrel dropping acorns from the oak tree outside our bedroom window.

But morning came and brought clarity with it, and I'm hoping for a smoother transition to slumber tonight. Until then! Some thoughts I've had on sweaters and pregnancy.

On Old Sweaters
Don't be fooled by the old sweaters in your drawers and/or closet. Don't try and convince yourself that the 16-year-old working at the fancy vintage store who wouldn't buy them from you just doesn't know how to identify a good sweater. Don't lie to yourself when you spare them, for the fifth or ninth time, from the basket of clothes you're taking to Goodwill. Don't imagine the 35-year-old version of yourself pulling them out and throwing them on, excited to show off her like-new-again merino turtleneck from the window of her flying car. Just don't. Your old sweaters are old. And gross. They're pilled and have dried icing on the sleeves. They're stretched into unnatural shapes and smell like the anxious sweat of 2005. Don't be fooled by old sweaters. Just put them in the basket (if they're decent) or the trash, and move on. (This is a note written to myself as I stare at a pile of Muppety skins that used to be sweaters and need to be disposed of.)

On Pregnancy (Five things I've learned/realized thus far)
1. Naming a person is hard work and sort of a psychologically revealing. All of the grade school bullies. All of the unrequited crushes. All of it's off limits.

2. Nesting is a real thing (see sweater rant above). I suddenly feel the need to purge all of the junk mail and broken nail clippers I've been saving for years.

3. Tums are delicious.

4. Some people have cute bellies. And some people look like they ate an oblong serving platter (read: me). But comparisons are fruitless - a waste of time that could be spent standing in front of the refrigerator, eating shredded cheese.

5. I am fully aware that getting here isn't always easy. It wasn't for us. And despite the heartburn and deluge of worries, I am indescribably grateful.

2011-09-13T16:19:00.004-05:00

I do not tumbl (is that the verb form?)... yet, but if I did, I'd tumbl this.

Onward and outward: Thoughts at 25 weeks

2011-09-05T10:53:00.007-05:00

They (blogs, fake internet doctors, the Starbucks employees who feel sorry for you when you try to pay for your coffee* with a Blockbuster card) say that pregnancy messes with your mind, and I wholeheartedly agree. I'd actually liken it to walking around with a stomach full of person and a head full of melted ice cream.

Plus, work has been really, really busy. And... all of this is to say, I've been a bad blogger, but not for lack of trying. My account is full of half-started posts, abandoned midway through a word or sentence, left to toil until I delete them in a year.

So I may have a mushy brain, but it's accompanied by a happy heart. And the urgent feeling that I should be doing more to prepare before this baby arrives. The room where our stationary bike and dozens of precious dust bunnies sleep needs to magically transform into a nursery. I need to end my quest for a functional yet moderately attractive glider, bite the bullet, and buy something ugly. I need to vacuum my car. We need to sign up for classes. We need to find a daycare provider/robot nanny. I'm holding tight to the belief that everything will pan out... I think it will. It kind of has to.

From now until December, I'm going to make a concerted effort to blog about the thoughts I'm having trouble forming, the goals we may or may not be reaching, and the wonderfully confusing life overhaul we're about to undergo. Right now, it's time to stare into space for a few minutes. Happy Labor Day!

*I will always tell you it's decaf, even when it's not.

You want a coke? Maybe some fries?

2011-07-10T10:48:00.011-05:00

I'd like to start off by saying that becoming a regular at the McDonald's weekend-morning drive-thru is never a good thing, and I think that just happened to me. Truthfully, we have been going more often than we usually do, but still, this is disconcerting. When I pulled around to the first window this morning to pay, I breathed a sigh of relief to see a stranger in place of the girl who's been there the past three* times I've paid for our usual order, but when I proceeded to the second window, said girl I thought I'd avoided seeing greeted me with the kind of cheerful hello you only give out to valued customers and people you feel sorry for. That's what I've become. So we may have to back off for a while and eat normal breakfast things, like cereal and toast. I'll miss the morning drive, the anticipation, the $5 well spent on such a satisfactory, albeit unhealthy, start to the day. I'll just keep in mind the bitterness I felt today when I opened the bag to find they'd given me Spicy Buffalo Sauce for my pancakes.

This same morning, the one that's happening right now - the one when I reached platinum level status at McDonald's, I was sitting outside on our rusty veranda reading Tina Fey's "Bossypants" while Matt finished up the last of his McMuffin and flipped a page in "1861," which details the early days of the Civil War and is the exact opposite of "Bossypants." I'm just wrapping up the chapter where Tina describes the momentous day in which she taped the episode of 30 Rock with Oprah and then proceeded to tape her first ever episode of SNL as Sarah Palin, all while planning her daughter's third birthday party. She included Seth Meyers' script from the Palin sketch, and while reading it, I felt this twinge of nostalgia mixed with sadness over the font, the structure, the cross-outs and rewrites. And I realized I really miss writing sketches.

More than that, I miss having a reason to write sketches - I miss the urgency of churning out the last two pages during my lunch break at work and sneaking over to the printer to grab them before someone else does. I miss the rapture felt when your work is met with laughter, and the crickets that accompany a really sorry effort. I could keep writing sketches for my own amusement, but then again, I've never been a fan of pointlessness. Why put my clothes in a drawer when I'm going to wear them sometime in the next month or two? Why make instant oatmeal when McDonald's is just ten short blocks and a few dollars away? Exactly. That being said, if a good reason comes along, I'll jump on it. I have lots of ideas brewing... like one about Ke$ha presenting her PhD dissertation on the effect of whisky and glitter on house pets... or something.

Lastly, and speaking of Ke$ha, Dana and I went to see Ben Folds on Friday night. The 19-year-old in me - the one wearing baggy corduroys and some now-closed middle school's field day t-shirt, will always carry a torch for Ben Folds Five. I used to work at Creighton's on-campus coffee shop, and we'd wipe down the counters and steal bottles of Sobe to The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner. I know every word to every song on Whatever and Ever Amen. Ben Folds sings to dorky people like Michael Buble sings to that one lady you work with. I haven't really listened to anything he's released since Songs for Silverman, so I spent a good part of the show watching moths land on the back of the guy in front of me. But when he did play the familiar stuff, it was awesome. I teared up when he sang "Still Fighting It," but maybe that's because I'm a grownup now and better understand what it's about.

How does Ke$ha figure in, you ask? This was perhaps my favorite part of the entire show (video is from PA because the Iowa version had bad sound and a guy in a Chiefs hat bobbing up and down in front of the camera).

*The low end of a very rough estimate.

Why hello.

2011-06-15T15:54:00.007-05:00

I found this beaut in a book of sample photography that was left in a giveaway pile at work. I tore it out and taped it on a cabinet in my cube, and I've glanced at it every few minutes since then because I love it so much. That Sphynx is ready to see a movie. {Photograph by Michael Warren.}

When life gets too crazy, I'm naturally inclined to sit back and watch it all unfold from somewhere dark and comfortable. I don't talk about it a ton. I don't blog about it (hence the unplanned hiatus), which is a shame because that's when stories are at their most interesting. But hopefully this is me, standing in front of you, posting pictures of cats, turning a corner. I've started a new job, or returned to an old job really, and... the list goes on from there.

Until next time, here are some Sunday afternoon suggestions:

- Watch "The Killing" on AMC. Ever since "Mad Men" wrapped me in its smoky, polyester embrace, I'm inclined to think AMC can do no wrong. They could pay a birthday party clown to write knock-knock jokes in lipstick on a bathroom mirror for two hours straight, and I'd watch it and love it and probably buy the DVDs. But my low standards aside, "The Killing" will reel you in. You'll get annoyed with it quite often, but only mildly. Stick with it. The season finale is tonight, and I'm counting down the minutes. In lipstick. On the bathroom mirror.

- Download "All Eternals Deck" by The Mountain Goats. It came out in March, so you can tell I'm not exactly on the ball. Maybe you've already heard it. Maybe you hate it. But not me - John Darnielle's voice is like a punch in the air on a crap day. He makes me want to run until my lungs hurt (which isn't far for me, but you get the picture).

- Tell your dad happy Father's Day. Call him if you're far away. Hug him if you're close by. Not to be all, "I would if I could," but it's true. I would. Not being able to stinks. It never gets less stinky.

That being said, happy Father's Day to all the dads I know - the newbies, the vets and the soon-to-bes!

2011-06-06T15:20:00.002-05:00

Zebra Cakes

2011-05-26T20:17:00.005-05:00

Yesterday morning, I ran over a box of Zebra Cakes. It was lying in the street outside the elementary school by our house, and running it over was an accident. In that I thought the box was empty, and I love running over trash with my car. But when I looked in the rearview mirror to see the fruits of my harmless destruction, I instead saw icing, wrappers, a flattened box and one intact package of cakes lying a few feet from its fallen comrades. There were cars behind me; I panicked and drove on. But all day, and all night, and today too, I've been overcome with guilt. Crazy, constant, perhaps disroportionate guilt. Yesterday was the last day of school, and those Zebra Cakes were bought by a parent to celebrate the start of summer. The close of another successful year. And I flattened it all. Kind of on purpose. There's nothing I can do, short of leaving a replacement box in the street, so for now I'll live with sadness in my heart and striped icing on my hands. Whoever you are, (irresponsible) kid who dropped your snacks in the middle of 52nd street, I'm really, genuinely sorry.

..................

After my family was here for Easter, I found a small pocket notebook in our dining room - the spiral-bound kind that detectives use. I remembered my brother using it to take notes on the combination of sauces and seasonings he used to smoke our Easter ribs (classy tradition est. 2011), and I texted him, saying I'd drop it in the mail. He told me not to bother; it wasn't worth the postage. "You should look at the quote in the front though." So of course I didn't. I left the notebook in a catch-all bowl in the kitchen, with Trident wrappers, bobbypins and brown bananas. But I found it again tonight and finally read the quote.

"The texture of our universe is one where there is no question at all but that good and laughter and justice will prevail." -Desmond Tutu

Thanks, Joe.

If I split like light refracted

2011-05-14T11:19:00.002-05:00

I've been listening to this song a lot lately. It wound up on a mix I have in my car... reminds me of life before contact lenses.

Off to run errands and see "Bridesmaids" old-person style (early, in time for a 4:30 dinner), but more to come. I composed a post in my head while I was falling asleep last night.

2011-04-29T09:36:00.001-05:00

[From that kind of woman]

Go broke at the library... with me.

2011-04-27T13:46:00.005-05:00

It turns out my upcoming weekend visit to Chicago coincides with Lauren’s book club meeting, so I’ve been asked to attend. And I’m honored. It turns out the book they’re clubbing is "Sleepwalk with Me" by Mike Birbiglia, which I’ve been wanting to read anyway, and which will come as a breath of fresh, nonpoisonous air after reading
Methland (which I enjoyed, and I recommend).

I ordered “Sleepwalk with Me” from Amazon Marketplace – a dumb move because I need to read it before next Friday, and Marketplace is like Russian Roulette, only the gun shoots damaged garage sale books and it shoots them on a really unreliable timetable. I’m guessing the book will show up in time for Christmas. Maybe.

To ensure a decent start on the book, I tracked it down at the library and put it on hold. I like to think of myself as a library person, so I strode in casually toward the front desk, library card in hand.

“Can I help you?” the girl at the desk asked.

“Yeah, you guys have a book on hold for me. I think it’s that one right there.” I pointed to the book, propped up behind the counter and smiled with smug satisfaction. Obviously, I’m an awesome library patron if they hold books for me. I don’t even have to find them myself. Because I come here so often. Because I read so many library books.

She picked it up and asked for my card.

“I might have a fine,” I said nonchalantly, the way I tell the Blockbuster people I might have a fine, even when I know I don’t. It’s always cooler to pretend you might have one and not owe anything than to assume you’re fine-free and then get slapped with a $7 fee for keeping “Edge of Darkness” under the couch for two months.

“Actually, yes, you do have a fine And your card is expired. I’ll need to see your driver's license so I can renew it.”

Gah. Obviously I haven’t been a library person for some time now. Probably close to a year. And since I still don’t have a Nebraska license, I was almost out of luck. However, my purse is full of junk mail (not sure why, just one of those things), and I was able to produce something with our current Omaha address.

“Alright, great. I just need to collect $36.50 and then you’ll be good to go.”

I almost cut and run at that point. $36 can buy a lot of things – it can buy books from a bookstore, or gas, or a DVD from Blockbuster, or a few months of Netflix. But then I remembered driving around with our roadtrip audiobooks flopping around in the backseat for $36 worth of weeks after we’d returned home... last August. And the least I could do was square things up with the public library. So I paid the fine. And I took my book, feeling very exposed for the library person I am not.

Going forward, I’ll return my books on time, starting with this one. And when the Amazon copy of “Sleepwalk with Me” finally leaves the chamber and shows up in the mail later this year, I’ll it set aside and give it to you for Christmas.

And in unrelated and more important news, happy, happy birthday, Matt. No surprise party this year, but I hope the day was just as good.

Female Writers in Late Night by the Numbers

2011-04-19T09:21:00.004-05:00

Crappy, but not super surprising.

(click on title for link to source)

Test Pattern

2011-04-18T15:02:00.004-05:00

When I was little, I used to get up early in the morning, sit on the floor in front of our 13-inch TV and watch the test pattern on Channel 9 until the shows started. This ritual could last anywhere from a few minutes to an hour.

I've been in a creative no man's land for the past week or so, but will return shortly, severely nearsighted, in love with television and stripes, and infinitely patient.

A day of firsts

2011-04-09T19:38:00.013-05:00

Today was the first really warm day this spring. I walked around the Old Market for a bit after my haircut, letting the Vitamin D chisel its way through my sallow mole person skin and leaving my fingerprints on expensive knicknacks.

First time I watched "Willow" (not disappointed).

Matt enjoyed his first KFC Double Down, a year after it splattered onto the fast food scene, turning our napkins clear and making our hearts work three times as hard. When asked if he'll ever eat one again, he examined the leftover mystery sauce on his fingers and replied, "Yes, but I don't know when." My guess is someday. Maybe the next time we sit inside and watch Willow on the first really warm day of spring.

Three Things

2011-04-01T16:50:00.008-05:00

1.
I’ve recently discovered a whole trove of Tumblrs that have since served to distract me to a crippling degree. If left to my own devices, I could scroll through street style photos, rustic interiors and artful closeups of expensive desserts for minutes upon minutes upon minutes. This is the same part of me that can flip through the Summer 2010 Anthropologie catalog over and over until nothing is purchased but everything is softened, folded and covered in sneezes.

A few:
That Kind of Woman
Cali Vintage
Modern Hepburn

2.
Happy April Fools! The other day I was listening to my favorite morning show (sorry Morning Edition – this is local, and funnier) and the morning show people were lamenting the fact that no one does anything for April Fools anymore – the occasional fake news article notwithstanding. And I believe this to be true. My parents really embraced April 1st, and maybe my mom still does; I’m just not around to find plastic French fries on my lunch bag or gasp at the fake spilled wine on the dining room table. My dad used to tell his Intro to Sociology class they’d be watching some video on some African tribe or something, and instead he’d pop in Toonces the Driving Cat, lovingly rented from our local library, year after year. I was always jealous of the kids in that class.

3.
It’s always good to save the best for last, so… Congratulations to Libby and Patrick on the birth of their son, Charles Ellis! My heart swells and my eyes get teary when I think how happy I am for two such lovely, deserving, destined-to-be-fantastic new parents. Libby, I’ve known, ever since the day I met you (10 years ago!), that you were going to be an amazing mother. Your humor, grace and signature warmth have gotten me through some of the all-out crappiest times. You’ve shared it with your friends, your family, your Patrick, your patients, and now you get to share it with the most important person – your Charlie.

Charlie, I used to drive around with your mom in her pearl blue 80s spaceship car, smoking Camel Lights and listening to Bleed American at full volume until it got dark and we had to get back to campus for important things like grilled cheese in the cafeteria and Zimas in the mini fridge. Those were good times. I just thought you should know. Oh, and welcome to life outside the womb. I think you’ll like it here.

"Baby chickens. Diamond forks. Brand-name soda."

2011-03-25T09:00:00.006-05:00

Chang's idea of a fancy restaurant. My favorite line from last night's episode of Community.

"Once, I was a master at recycling leftovers. Now I cultivate the art of simmering memories." - Jean-Dominique Bauby

2011-03-23T14:00:00.018-05:00

Gah. Today’s been one of those days where I never actually woke up, like that internal mechanism that tells you you’re awake, and need to function as so, never clicked. It could be the erratic weather (is it spring? Or winter? Or some weird hybrid conjured up by the parka and flip flop people?), or the fact that I’ve finally started getting to those 5:30 a.m. spin classes I vowed to attend back in January. Whatever it is, I’m hoping it wears off. Can’t keep running into walls much longer.

While we’re all sitting around, waiting for spring to unleash its torrent of bunnies, perennials and vitamin D, here are a few book recommendations. I’ve been on a roll lately as far as finding good reading material goes. Of the four books I’ve read in 2011 (do with that information what you will), I’d only give one – "The White Album" by Joan Didion – less than two thumbs up. But I love Joan Didion, so I’d give it one thumb up and one thumb to thumb through the book to find the essays truly worth reading.

But here, in chronological order, are the books I’d recommend. I’ll spare you the lengthy reviews (and leave that to my more literate half), but just rest assured that I think they’re good. Really, that’s all you need to know.

"Street Gang: The Complete History of Sesame Street" by Michael Davis
If you’re into Muppets and the early days of public television, this is for you. You really have to be interested in children’s television too though, because the first third of the book goes into some serious detail about Howdy Doody and Bob Keeshan and the like. Riddled with fun facts and poignant remembrances.

"The Diving Bell and the Butterfly: A Memoir of Life in Death" by Jean-Dominique Bauby
Having watched the film adaptation of Bauby’s memoir (very) soon after my dad died, I kind of locked this away for a while, dreading whatever effect it may have. But my sister thoughtfully gave me the book for my birthday, and I figured it was time to give it a go. It’s super short, and I couldn’t put it down (which is weird for me, since once I know the “story,” as it were, I’m less inclined to read on). Anyway, you will probably laugh, most likely cry – and inevitably be moved by this book. Seriously, if you’re not moved, you are made of stone, and I want nothing to do with you. You soulless freak.

"The Good Wife" by Stewart O’Nan
During my heady, spendthrift days in Chicago, I used to frequent the bargain book section at Unabridged in Lakeview. One of my finds was a little hardcover edition of "Last Night at the Lobster" by Stewart O’Nan. I didn’t know anything about the author, but I liked eating at Red Lobster and figured I could spend $3 on something I may never read. Ended up loving the book. At the same time, a few hundred miles away, Matt bought, read and loved the book too, and proceeded to purchase O’Nan’s other works. "The Good Wife" is only the second one I’ve read, but it’s even better. An endearing, enduring testament to the lengths (in distance and in time) people will go to for love.

[Sidenote: Matt recently wrote a great review, which you can find here.]

So there you go! Get reading while the sky is still gray and you can stay inside. Because those bunnies bring sunshine, and sunshine brings guilt.

On a totally unrelated note, because I don’t blog regularly (we all know it – it’s time someone said it), I didn’t say anything about Japan last week, and instead decided to focus on incredibly trivial things like my hair. So now, very, very belatedly, I’d like to mention that my thoughts and prayers are with the people of Japan as they pick up the pieces of all they’ve lost. I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt a particularly strong pull toward the elderly, and that’s one of the hardest things for me to fathom about this disaster. Twenty percent of Japan’s population is over the age of 65 – a figure that jumps to more than 35% in rural areas (with many people in their 80s and 90s). Those that were spry enough to survive the earthquake and tsunami are homeless and residing in emergency shelters, less likely than their younger counterparts to ask for things they need, like blankets and food. Anyway, I’m not sure where I’m going with this. If you’re looking for a worthy place to send a donation, ShelterBox is an amazing organization.

Happy St. Pat's!

2011-03-16T18:52:00.007-05:00

An awesome picture of my dad. Today seems like a good day to post it.

This isn't the most festive song, but it's so beautiful. If you watch "Boardwalk Empire," you've probably heard Loudon Wainwright's version, which isn't available anywhere (except for a few YouTube clips dubbed in Russian). So Jim McCann it is.

Enjoy the day! Per Monahan family tradition, I'm going to see Lady Gaga this evening. Just kidding... about the tradition. But I am actually going to Lady Gaga. I'm anxious to see what she wears. Where Irish meets Gaga, I'm sure there are corned beef dresses and shirtless leprechauns.

Bangs: A cost-benefit analysis.

2011-03-15T20:51:00.004-05:00

Around mid-day Friday, I decided that I needed my bangs trimmed. Desperately. Immediately. And from that moment on, they felt annoyingly long and hideous. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw the eyeless lovechild of David Cassidy and that serial killer Charlize Theron played in Monster.

I called the place where I get my hair cut to see if they could fit me in that evening, but the earliest opening was Monday, and Monday was too far away. I called the place I used to go, and they could fit me in at 10:15 the next morning. I called the place I used to go before the place I used go and booked an appointment for 5:00 that evening, but then called back and canceled because really, I didn’t want to get involved in the politics of salon hopping. In the end, I settled for the 10:15 Saturday morning with a girl who’d never cut my hair before. The result is too short and a bit lop-sided, but the deed is done. I can breathe easier and blink without scratching my corneas.

It would be one thing if this occurrence was a rarity – the frenzied phone calls and last-minute appointments. But it’s not. Instead, I repeat it over and over, month after month. It provokes a lot of anxiety, and it costs a lot of money… well, kind of. $10 a month for a trim (bangs only). It’s like having a Showtime subscription on my forehead.

All of this is to say, I’m seriously considering letting it all go, er, grow. It will require patience and barrettes, but I don’t know if I have the attentiveness and expendable income bangs require. I’m not even sure why I started down this path in the first place. So, like I do when choosing between colleges, jobs, sandwiches and gas stations on opposite sides of a busy intersection, I’ve made a short pros and cons list.

Pros
1. Cover a wonky hairline and a widow’s peak Eddie Munster can’t hold a candle to.
2. Trick people into thinking you look like people you don’t actually look like. I’ve gotten a few Zooeys and Feists, whereas before I only got Eddie Munster (see pro #1).

Cons
1. That whole regular trim requirement, plus the cost of dry shampoo to keep them from looking like old French fries.
2. And… really that’s it, so maybe they’re not that bad, if I could just have the foresight to schedule the trims or the courage to cut them myself.

A win for the pro/con list. I’ll have the turkey club. I’ll brave the left turn to get to the Love's Travel Stop. I’ll keep the bangs, for now.

A lost art

2011-03-08T17:04:00.010-06:00

The list of things that are wrong with me is long and includes everything from my inability to keep clothes anywhere besides a basket in the middle of the hallway, to hands that are so inhumanly icy that happy babies cry when I touch them. But this thing in particular is relatively imperceptible, and you would never know unless I told you. Or spit on you.

My head and neck are disproportionately small (disproportionate being the key word here), so it was easy to notice the lump just below my jaw line. It’s actually been there for a few years (cue gasps from the diehard hypochondriacs – I get you because I’m like you, except I rely on the internet for both diagnosis and treatment). I ignored it like the financially challenged are wont to do, and got along fine. Until recently, when I discovered that that lump in my neck, when pressed, can now trigger a projectile stream of spit that leaps out of my mouth in a fountain-like arc. Sometimes it doesn’t even need triggering; it happens on its own. Which is worse. Especially if you are around people you don’t know. Or people you do know, for that matter. Because it is weird either way.

I guess this is what the kids call gleeking, only it is a mutant form of Olympic gleeking that must be stopped before it gets worse. Also, sometimes my neck hurts.

The ENT recommended a type of x-ray only done by one radiologist in Omaha. “How cutting edge!” That’s what you’re probably thinking right now. No. It’s only done by one radiologist in Omaha because everyone else has moved on to more advanced procedures, like CT scans and leaches. Said procedure is called a sialogram, and I expected something involving a dull razor… maybe eye of newt. Definitely spells. I was sort of nervous.

And it didn’t help that, when I got to the hospital this morning for said procedure, the techs, and even the radiologist himself, were waiting, grinning, tapping their fingers against the cold metal x-ray table in baffling anticipation.

"I haven't done one of these in years," one of the nurses said as she slipped a heavy, red flak jacket over her head. At that point, I considered running away. I could live with the lump in my neck, and I bet the gleeking would help me gain inroads with the show-and-tell set.

But I stayed. And after a dozen x-rays and a mouth full of saccharin dye, it was over. I'm still not sure what all of the fuss was about. My only guess is that rarity, and even more so the threat of extinction, can make anything fascinating - Western Lowland Gorillas, Eames loungers, tan M&Ms, even sialograms.

NRVOUS

2011-03-04T18:22:00.004-06:00

Something more substantial to come tomorrow...ish, but in the meantime, dwelling places! While the me of real life craves cozy, enclosed spaces -- the smallest bedroom in the apartment, the landing on a staircase, the two-foot space between the sink and toilet in a half-bath -- the me in my mind lives in pictures of modernist homes -- sparse, minimalist, sleak furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over a toadstool-covered forest floor. So, while I'll go for warm and fuzzy every time, I can't help imagine what it'd be like to live here. Or in any of these homes Miss Moss posted yesterday. Don't you just want to drive a Ferrari through that window?

Now, to the Moon! No, not the real moon. The bar version.

Recommendations

2011-02-24T14:13:00.013-06:00

I am only a product pusher in the professional arena. Home and the internet are for sleeping and people Dancing Alone to Pony. However, when I grow really attached to a certain object, food, band, breed of cat, brand of band-aid, flavor of toothpaste, texture of throw pillow, etc., all I want to do is recommend the crap out of it. And because I am a fickle consumer, it takes a lot for me to want to share my loyalty with others. So here, categorized by category, are my recommendations for life.

Facial Moisturizer - Eucerin Everyday Protective Face Lotion
If you’re like me, your face turns into a torturous mask of dry, crackly skin within seconds of washing. But you can’t not wash your face because, if you’re like me, you also have the epidermis of a 14-year-old boy, and your stipple drawing of forehead zits is the only thing still getting you carded. When you basically have the worst skin on earth, even worse than animals with poisonous skin, balance is imperative. I accidentally stole this facial moisturizer from my younger brother when packing to return to Omaha after a trip home. I made a halfhearted offer to mail it back, all the while slathering it on my face every morning and night like a goon. A goon with slightly happier skin. Recommend!

Breakfast – Kashi Instant Hot Cereal (Truly Vanilla)
Loyal readers will know that I have, in the past, struggled with breakfast. Growing up, my sister loved oatmeal to the point of sitting on the kitchen floor, eating handfuls of dry Quaker Oats like it was going out of style… and also like it tasted good. I’m more of a milk and cereal person, or a bacon person, or a breakfast burrito person. Any kind of person except an oatmeal person. But in an effort to consume more fiber, I forced myself to give it a second chance. Trial and error and dozens of half-eaten boxes of instant oatmeal led me to Kashi’s Truly Vanilla Hot Cereal. The key is to add half as much water as the box instructs, and also to put things in it. I add frozen blueberries, but you could add M&Ms or red pepper flakes. Just make it your own. Recommend!

Clothing: What H&M is selling right now
We don’t have an H&M in Omaha, which is good because I don’t have to deal with the constant disappointment of strolling by the store window, hoping for something wonderfully cheap and brilliantly wearable, only to find a bunch of bald mannequins wearing crocheted prom dresses and neon yellow Fresh Prince hats. But I recently had the chance to peruse the current merchandise, and now! Right now, their clothes are awesome. Think Madewell meets a normal person’s salary. More navy stripes than a fleet of old timey sailors. Recommend!

Almonds: Blue Diamond Wasabi & Soy Sauce Almonds
These things have enough sodium to dehydrate a dinosaur and kill all the slugs in Nebraska, but they’re delicious. Like a small, crunchy dragon roll. Recommend!

Mascara - Maybelline "Falsies"
I have this one eyelash that I discovered a few days ago. It's about half a lash length longer than its comrades. Normally, if you found an abnormally long hair on your arm, you'd yank it immediately, hoping no one had noticed it, and put it in a ziplock bag in case a museum comes calling or your grandchildren want to see it someday. But an abnormally long eyelash is a whole different ballgame. Brooke Shields uses pharmaceuticals to get longer lashes, so I should probably keep the one that grew naturally. The point of this story is that Maybelline's Falsies mascara helps all of my other lashes catch up to that one really long one. And therefore I am less of a freak. Recommend!

Image-based blogs
I’m a sucker for collages of captivating pictures – shoes, jewelry, close-up shots of sandwiches, etc. These are a few of my current favorites.
Miss Moss
Tomboy Style
Cup of Jo
Wiksten

Top 10 Favorite Love Songs

2011-02-13T19:21:00.009-06:00

Happy Valentine's Day! Whatever you're doing right now -- typing a memo, browning hamburger for a casserole, walking a dog or deep conditioning your hair, stop. Just for a few minutes. And slow dance with somebody.

10. REM - At My Most Beautiful

9. The Promise - Tracy Chapman
Two years ago, when Matt and I were teetering on the edge of getting back together after two years apart, this song popped up on Pandora, and I took it as a sign. I've been using Pandora as a Magic Eight Ball for life ever since, which kind of poses a problem when I'm listening to my Bad Decisions station.

8. Otis Redding - That's How Strong My Love Is

7. Adele - Make You Feel My Love
I thought deeply about which version of this song I like best. Matt loves the Garth Brooks version, and I have a special place in my heart for Billy Joel's take. But for me, Adele is it.

6. Ryan Adams - Come Pick Me Up

5. The Pogues - Fairy Tale of New York
I'm not exactly sure when or how this song became "ours," but it is. I mean, it can be yours too. But there's something about the line "You're an old slut on junk" that really tugs at the heart strings.

4. Damien Rice - The Blower's Daughter

3. The Weepies - Somebody Loved
After careful consideration, we chose this song for the first dance at our wedding. It's pretty, it's short enough to keep people's attention, and the idea of being "old and worn, like two softened shoes" is really appealing to me.

2. Peter Gabriel - The Book of Love
Close second for our first dance song, but it's a little long. We saved it for later in the evening. At that point, people would've danced to the sound of folding tables being stacked in the corner of the room. [Note: I love the Magnetic Fields, but come on, it's Valentine's Day. PG for the win.]

1. The National - Slow Show
This song isn't outwardly romantic, but it's desperate and hopeful and soul-baring, and love is very much the same way.

Various incongruous thoughts because I cannot get this two-post-a-week thing down, no matter how hard I try.

2011-02-10T16:36:00.013-06:00

Resolutions are made to be halfheartedly adhered to, over and over and over again. That's why P90X is still sitting in the bag we brought it home in. It is dusty, but it is there. Just in case.

The elliptical machines at the 24 Day Spa Basketball Court Fitness Warehouse to which I belong are arranged in such a way that you can watch your favorite episode of “Angel” and a random Zoomba session at the same time. Last Saturday, I was rolling the afternoon away at a leisurely backward 8 while Fox News slowly melted my brain when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a lone dancer in the otherwise empty classroom. She was prancing around to music provided by a handheld CD player. She was moving in a vaguely familiar manner, all fluttering feet and galloping explosions that spanned the length of the room. She was doing a reel! And suddenly, I was overtaken with a nostalgic curiosity that could only be quelled by an awkward conversation. Why are you Irish dancing in the Zoomba room at 24 Hour Fitness? Do you take classes with other people? Where? Etc.

I climbed down from my machine and saddled toward the door, stopping to fill my water bottle, hoping for a break in her music so I could run in and ask her my questions. Finally, she paused, and I made my entrance, complete with a high-pitched hello, hoping she’d hear me with headphones in her ears. She didn’t. Instead, she started dancing again. And I was standing there, uncomfortably, in the room. Watching. Just me… and her… and everyone outside on their elliptical machines, watching me watch her, feeling sorry for me – trying to fathom how embarrassed I must be. I felt my face getting hot as I debated what to do. I could walk out, just as anxiously as I’d walked in, leaving everyone on the outside to wonder what my motives had been. Or I could stand there until she stopped dancing.

That’s what I did. And when she paused again, I ran up to her, sweating, frantic, desperate to get her attention before the next song started on her CD. “Hi! Iusedtoirishdancebackinstlouisbutnowilivehereanditsbeensolongbutidreallyliketostartagaindoyoutakeclasseswhere?” Gah. I’m cringing right now, in the present tense, just thinking about how horribly awkward I was, and am. But she was nice, and she told me about the classes she takes at a place downtown, twice a week. When we parted ways, she said, “I’ll see you in class!” And I felt triumphant, like that whole ridiculous farce had a purpose and an outcome. I went home and signed up for more information.

And that is all. That’s all I’ve done. I haven’t gone to any classes, and now I’m not sure that I want to. After all, getting up there and dancing in front of people you don’t know? How embarrassing.

But in a related turn of events, I have been complaining, for the past few weeks, about that horrid McDonald’s commercial where the couple does the little hand dance with their lattes, and I guess the trick is that they’re doing all of this crazy stuff while staring straight ahead and occasionally taking a pretend sip. Anyway, I hate it to the point of hiding my eyes when it comes on. Because eye hiding is easier and more immediate than channel changing. But driven by that same insatiable curiosity, I still had to know who that pair of hand dancing latte drinkers was, so I Googled it. And it turns out… hold on to your hats because this is about to come full circle… they’re Irish dancers. Like, hipster Irish dancers who dance to Gnarls Barkley songs and wear neon. Very cool! I’m being 100% sincere right here.

Run from Up & Over It on Vimeo.

And then I gave their hand dancing another chance, and when they’re not holding lattes and schilling fast food, it’s kind of cool too.

Up & Over It YouTube channel

Almost makes me want to go to that class. I’ll show up in an gold lamé unitard and explain that I’m part of the new wave of post-Flatley dancers. It’s worth a try.

In other news, not only am I trying to get back into the dance thing – I’m also trying my hand at producing educational materials. My brother, Joe, who’s Teaching for America in Kansas City, needed a way to get his kids to remember the old Kingdom Phylum Class Order Family Genus Species biological classification thingy. So, he came up with this, and I drew it… poorly, but with markers and love.

"I'm not afraid of Sasquatch, I just think we should all be on alert."

2011-02-09T08:31:00.006-06:00

Ever since Annie participated in JVC near Gorge, Washington, wherein I learned about Sasquatch (the music festival - I learned about the creature long ago, via Monahan favorite "Harry and the Hendersons"), I've wanted to go. Really badly. And something - airfare, or work - has always kept me from making it happen. The 2011 lineup is amazing. Maybe this is my year? Probably not, but a girl can dream... about a pet bigfoot with bad breath and strong arms, about John Lithgow in flannel, about the adversity that made them a family.

2011 Sasquatch lineup

2011-01-28T13:17:00.004-06:00

"That was the year, my twenty-eighth, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things are in fact irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and every procrastination, every mistake, every word, all of it."
— Joan Didion, Goodbye to All That

January Hymn

2011-01-24T20:56:00.017-06:00

This is funny, at least until it devolves into paper eating nonsense.

The past two weekends have been shiny spots of warmth in an otherwise snow-crusted January. We saw Country Strong three times in a row, pausing in between viewings to split granola bars and nap on the floor of the theater lobby. We dug tunnels in the snow and filled them with old throw pillows and Little Golden Books. We fed Pringles to slow-moving sparrows.*

Actually, last weekend brought us to St. Louis, where Matt and I met up with Nerinx friends on Saturday afternoon, family that evening, and I've-known-you-my-entire-life friends late Saturday night. Mimosas, trivia, yearbooks, delicious pasta, wine and a lot of babbling, which came back in glimmers and fragments the next day. There was talk of Andy Garcia, I think. The rest of the weekend was more subdued. I spent Sunday afternoon helping my mom take down the brittle but beautiful Christmas tree, while MC, Paul and I debated what we'd do to the house we grew up in, if money was no object and only the sky (or the asbestos in our basement floor) was the limit. My vote was for a panic room; something simple, sturdy and windowless in the middle of the house.

Joe didn't get to join us in St. Louis, so he made a last-minute visit to Omaha this weekend instead. We spent the evening at the Dell on Friday night, and again on Saturday night, and in between I made him accompany me on my regular weekend trip to Target, where I wander aimlessly, spilling coffee on sale items and reading the backs of shampoo bottles. We also exchanged Christmas presents. Joe gave Matt "Road House" on Blu-ray and a fifth of whiskey. We gave Joe this poster:

...with the requirement that it be displayed in his classroom. He agreed.

On Sunday, we said our goodbyes, and I settled back into my normal Sunday routine of pretending to put things away. It's only almost February, but I'm already dreaming of dinners on the patio, open windows and sunshine on my kneecaps and the curly top part of my pasty ears.

One last thing, completely unrelated, but last week I bought the new Decemberists CD, The King is Dead. I'd kind of gotten tired of the mariners, the man-eating whales and 10-minute-long songs, but this is totally different. I wholeheartedly recommend it.

You can listen to the whole album here.

*Lies

Smells like band-aids

2011-01-20T11:01:00.009-06:00

If you're like me, you're drinking ice-cubed chardonnay, wearing a sorry combination of work and sleeping clothes, and watching the Thursday night lineup on NBC. Or, more likely, you are doing social things, with social people... and not wearing anything with a drawstring. But you're missing out! Because this new "Perfect Couples" show is actually pretty funny. Or maybe that's the Barefoot talking.

Speaking of the Thursday night NBC lineup, they used the line "smells like band-aids" on Community, and I'd like to say, for the unread record, that I thought of it first. My closet in Chicago, crammed to the ceiling with shoes, one-hit wonders from Forever 21 and probably my roommate's cat, smelled distinctively of band-aids. And I used to tell people that. So, Community writers, you owe me (an autographed picture of Chevy Chase or money).

And finally, speaking of TV, and in the spirit of Cougar Town, of which I have officially and publicly admitted my appreciation, here is a list of five things you're wary of but will probably like if you try:

Cottage cheese
Nova
Store-brand lip balm
Homemade funnels
Howie Mandel

Parks and Rec! Gotta go.

Because I promised I would.

2011-01-13T19:18:00.010-06:00

The pressure of two posts a week is already getting to me.

There is a hamburger documentary on the Travel Channel. Also, we're heading to St. Louis tomorrow night for Christmas in mid-January, and I need to pack. My mom left the tree up for us, so my hope is that we get there before the very last needle comes crashing to the hardwood floor.

While I stuff Christmas gifts, dirty laundry and dryer sheets into some sort of airport-approved trash bag/trash can, here is an amalgam of links I've collected over the past week. Things I've found funny, or at the very least worthy of wasting a little bit of time.

Do you dislike Gwyneth Paltrow? She seems to be pretty polarizing. And while I don't have a real opinion either way, her most recent blog post deserved some sort of response, and Videogum delivered.

Kanye West's video for his Monster single is controversial. This is not that video. This is better. [I couldn't embed the clean version, FYI]

I love this poster.

And finally, listen to this when you have a chance. If you've seen the movie, it'll make you like it even more, and if you haven't seen it, you'll want to... after listening to this... so... yes.
Coen Brothers on Fresh Air

Have a good weekend!

Love, Spoochi

2011-01-07T14:52:00.007-06:00

Sometime Christmas evening, I ordered Joan Didion's The White Album from the Amazon Marketplace and promptly forgot about it until it arrived in the mail yesterday. Thumbing through its yellowed pages, I found a postcard that had been wedged in the spine, equally yellowed but in otherwise good condition. Being the overly sentimental person that I am, I immediately went about devising a way to return it to its original owner. But then I realized that it had never been mailed. And then I realized it was from a cat.

Dear Dad,
I thought it was time you knew what went on in the flat when you go to work. I realize Mom likes dressing up in her "outfits," but she now includes me on the costume changes. I feel ridiculous. I am supposed to sleep and eat during the day - not be a vaudevillian. We have reenacted this shot many times - it reminds me of a cheap party trick. If there is anything in your power you can do about Mom finding full-time work so I can go back to leading a normal kitty life, I would be most grateful.
Love,
Spoochi

The year I saw Italy and Oklahoma for the first time

2011-01-03T14:34:00.046-06:00

Goodbye, 2010. You were a good year (on par with 2009, and so, so much better than 2008). But the champagne has been swallowed and the resolutions made, and now it’s time to usher in 2011 with all the ambition that can be mustered from the comfort of my couch. While Matt’s resolution is singular but lofty [he borrowed P90X from a friend when we were in Minnesota for New Year’s Eve, and last night I caught him carefully examining the 90-day calendar. “On day one, you take the ‘before’ picture of yourself – the one where you look sad, pale and hopelessly out of shape,” he said. “And on day 90, you take the ‘after’ picture – and you also achieve success.” I looked at the calendar, and the word “success” was actually written on day 90. Although I have to say, for all the people I know who’ve made it through day one, and maybe even through day 23, I don’t know anyone who’s gotten to day 90 – with all its tanned, muscular “after” pictures and success and promises of infomercial stardom.]

Anyway, on the flipside of that singular but lofty goal is a smattering of smaller, not-unachievable goals that I’ve set for myself, most of which could actually be accomplished during the month of January. They are as follows:

1. Take Matt’s day one picture, preferably in bad lighting to enhance the before-ness.

2. Try P90X for 90 seconds before stomping away (dramatically, in the direction of the nearest refrigerator).

3. Go to spinning class once or twice a week (on Mondays and Wednesdays, when the music is good, as opposed to Saturdays, when the instructor thinks he’s in a reimagining of Full Metal Jacket starring a room full of bikes).

4. Tell people I go to spinning class three times a week.

5. Buy yoga gloves, as my sweaty hands have become an impediment in achieving Zen.

6. Go to yoga.

7. Save more (money, specifically).

8. Cook more.

9. Read more.

10. See our families more.

11. Write more. A wise Biers told me this weekend that more people would read my blog if I wrote with any semblance of a routine. And I suppose he’s right. So my goal is to post at least twice a week, hopefully more. I’d go so far as to name specific days (like, I will always blog on Tuesdays and Thursdays), but I’m afraid I will end up rebelling against the self-inflicted structure and not blog at all. Which would defeat the purpose of this resolution.

What are your resolutions? Don’t leave me hanging! My twelfth resolution is to encourage more comments.

And finally,
2010: A Photo Retrospective, beginning with a New Year's Eve 2009 midnight kiss

Addendum: After spending nearly two hours looking through photos, I can confidently say that 2010 was a really, really good year. Don't let me down, 2011. As half-baked as they may be, I've got plans for you.

And remember - you heard about it from the La Choy Dragon.

2010-12-27T20:06:00.011-06:00

This is probably hard to believe, especially for you, Matt, as you're so often nestled beside me on the couch reading while I talk back to reruns of Teen Mom, Google pictures of sphynx cats in sweaters and interrupt your deep literary thoughts with questions about rashes and weather forecasts. It may be hard to believe, but I used to read like a fiend. By the weak glow of my headboard's clip-on light, in the middle of math class, anywhere and anytime I had a free second to explore the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler or track the whereabouts of The Talented Mr. Ripley, I was reading. But these days, distracted by life's distractions and no longer dependent on public transportation (you read a lot faster when the guy next to you is trying to sell you a seat on his space ship), my reading habits have slowed to a snail's pace. The backlog of novels and short story collections waiting to be read is older than a teen mom and spreading faster than this rash... but I'm making a dent. Currently on the docket: "Street Gang: The Complete History of Sesame Street" by Michael Davis. And it's really good. I keep pausing to look up the old commercials Jim Henson used as the small-screen debut for some of the earliest Muppets.

This one is a 1965 spot for La Choy's line of Americanized Chinese food.

"For the campaign, Henson designed a lumbering, life-size dragon fully capable of locomotion. Counting the chef's hat that he wore as a crown, the La Choy dragon stood considerably taller than the actors hired to play against him. Operating from within the dragon, Frank Oz could swagger, flail its arms, shake its head, crane its neck, and, with assistance of an aide with a blow torch, breathe fire."

(Lauren, I know we used to eye this book with longing and envy when it was perched in the window at Unabridged. I'll send it to you when I'm finished.)

The bells were ringing out for Christmas day

2010-12-25T14:40:00.011-06:00

Hope you're having a great day! I'm not in St. Louis this year (first time ever), but I'm lucky to be with people I love, who've made me feel right at home. Plus, we got to open presents on Christmas Eve. No doubt six-year-old me is very, very jealous.

Anyway, to my family in St. Louis and friends in Omaha, Lincoln, Baton Rouge, Chicago, Kansas City and everywhere else, happy Christmas.

I've got a feeling this year's for me and you.

Triple-Meat Reflections

2010-12-12T08:26:00.010-06:00

Over the past two weeks, we've found ourselves edging into the Christmas spirit along with everyone else. After all, 104.5 only plays "Do They Know It's Christmas?" 20,000 times between Thanksgiving and New Year's, and the tree is slowly dying and in need of some pre-Christmas appreciation, and there are presents to be wrapped (and more importantly, purchased), and now there is snow on the ground.

I am a Dundee locavore in that I eat pizza from our local Pizza Hut and drink wine from our local gas station. In keeping with our convictions and the spirit of the season, we ordered Cheesy Bites pizza on Friday night, paired it with some chardonnay from A.B.'s 66 and hunkered down to watch "It's a Wonderful Life." The pizza was acceptably greasy, the wine tasted only mildly of ethanol, and the movie was good, of course. Jimmy Stewart is even more endearing in HD.

On Saturday, we braved the wind and snow to see "A Christmas Carol" at the community playhouse, a tradition that had been shelved for the past few years. New Scrooge is very funny, but new Nephew Fred did a better job carrying the Christmas goose than he did an English accent, and new Tiny Tim wasn't nearly fragile enough. Two thumbs up on the fake snow that fell on the audience at the end, but a resounding humbug to the chorus, as not a single member made eye contact with me - not even once.

And finally, I would be remiss not to provide an update on the turducken.

In a word, it was gray... ish pink.

I swear I followed the cooking instructions word for word, making sure to fill the bottom of the pan with water and leave the netting intact, allowing it to serve as a cage for the animals during cooking. It was hard to tell if the delicious smells wafting from the oven were the turducken or the regular old turkey, so I assumed it was the turducken. Naturally.

But what slunk from the oven door, relaxing in a pool of polka-dotted grease, pocked with little blobs of fat, did not look appetizing. Not at all.

And what was inside amounted to a pinwheel of gray meats, swirling around a pinkish center. There was no telling where one bird ended and the next began, so it was kind of like a hotdog in that way. Serving it intact was next to impossible, as the layers collapsed at the touch of a fork. It tasted like a failed experiment. I opted for my mom's turkey. And while my brothers ate a good amount of turducken (which isn't saying much at all - they've been known to eat dandelions and birthday candles), we finally threw the last of it away a few days later, when it became clear that it was permanently unwanted - a Thanksgiving novelty now taking up space in the back of the fridge.

But Thanksgiving itself? It was good - really good. Matt got off work early every day, and I got to spend some much-needed QT with my family. Plus, the other food made up for any residual turducken disappointment. Next year we're thinking a deep-fried turkey. Or a Cheesy Bites pizza, just to keep things local.

Thanksducken

2010-11-24T14:26:00.009-06:00

I recently came to the realization that I am a work hoarder, a desk collector of memories trapped in a fortress of trash. Piling my keyboard on top of my phone on top of my notebook on top of a bunch of no-longer-needed papers is more or less akin to piling a cat on top of a cat on top of a cat on top of a cat.

Segue…
There is one Italy memory in particular I want to write about, mostly because Matt has taken care of the rest of our stories/experiences in his brilliant Facebook photo album captions. But I’ll save that for next time.

Because it’s almost Thanksgiving.

This year, since work obligations are keeping us in Omaha, we’re hosting Thanksgiving at our place, and my mom, sister and brothers are driving up from St. Louis to join us. I’ve spent the past few days collecting a hodgepodge of ingredients – the side table in our dining room is littered with onions, boxes of orange jell-o, Tupperware containers of cubed, dried bread, and a pecan pie. Thank God my mom will be here or else I’d probably just combine all of those ingredients into one casserole, burn it, and feed everyone cold hotdogs instead.

Turduckling
In the process of trying to console ourselves over our less-than-desirable Thanksgiving arrangement (we’ve both come to associate Thanksgiving with going home, not staying home), we decided to invest in what had long been a holiday joke – a funny idea that never comes to pass. We bought a Turducken. Or so we thought.

Imagine my amazement when, after seeing mail-order Turduckens advertised for anywhere from $50 to $100, the Hy-Vee meat department told me they could order me one for $20. And it would be boneless – a pile of animals, each wearing the skin suit of the other. And therefore, it would be easy to cook and serve and sure, Thanksgiving wouldn’t be traditional, but it would definitely be magical.

Cut to Sunday evening, when I burst through the doors of Hy-Vee, wheeling a cart toward the meat counter, praying that it would be sturdy enough to accommodate such a large entrée. A duck is heavy on its own, but put it inside a chicken, and then stuff it inside a turkey, and then freeze it, and we’re talking pounds and pounds of pure feast. I walked up the counter and whispered, “I’m here to pick up a Turducken,” a knowing grin spreading across my face. I was about to be a spectacle of the best kind.

The butcher shuffled back behind swinging doors and emerged with a small package, about the size of a shoebox. “This must be the box of beaks that comes on the side,” I thought. Not so – this was the Turducken, or rather the Turducken roast. The picture on the front looked like a Swiss Cake Roll made of fowl. I tried to be grateful as I tossed it into my empty cart. I tried to sell it to Matt when we got home. “Doesn’t it look delicious?? And remember, my mom is bringing a backup turkey.” The mutual disappointment was palpable.

Tortilla chip added for scale (also, I'm eating tortilla chips).

But it’s almost Thanksgiving.

And so we will learn from our Turducken mistakes and eat the Swiss Cake Roll with a side of whatever my mom decides to cook using the ingredients I’ve purchased. I’m just looking forward to seeing my family, and to the times when Matt isn’t at work. Staying in Omaha for Thanksgiving may not seem natural, but neither does a duck inside a chicken inside a turkey. That doesn’t mean it can’t be good.

"...there would be perfect focus, as when a stereoscope gets the twin images on the card into perfect alignment."

2010-11-17T09:31:00.016-06:00

Happy, happy anniversary.

"Every time you spell it this way, a dolphin gets run over by a jet ski."

2010-11-11T16:37:00.009-06:00

Now that I've been a copywriter for five years (Five years? Cue exaggerated pull on imaginary tie), I've learned that said profession can make your mind bigger and your world smaller. Bigger mind = full of facts and figures and detailed knowledge of artisan cheese, intellectual property law and everything in between. Smaller world = life revolves around a stark white Word document, a blinking cursor and a twisted love of stringing sentences together, deleting, rearranging, poeticizing, simplifying, and researching the ambiguous, complex and obscure.

Perhaps the most important residents of this really small world are the words themselves. And while I can't claim to handle them perfectly -- I've found more than a few glaring typos in this here blog (I blame sunlight, eagerness and/or wine, depending on the circumstances) -- I've become really possessive of each and every resident, however pompous or trashy they may be. When words are used and spelled correctly, they're like the mailman that hums show tunes and pets your cat. But, when misused or misspelled, they're like the neighbor that listens to Hoobastank in his garage and pees on the side of your house. The lesson? I guess it's to be kind to your words or else they'll park their Camaro on your lawn. And you will be embarrased.

I stole this post from The Oatmeal from a friend on Facebook. Words to live by, or to not live by, as the case may be.

(Image from The Oatmeal)

Food for Thought

2010-11-02T11:10:00.010-05:00

I am not a foodie. By any stretch of the ketchup-drenched imagination. But that doesn’t keep me from appreciating other people who know how to properly appreciate food. Sort of like my tertiary interest in home design is not reflected in my own hand-me-down house. Sure, I hope to be a better cook someday, and I hope to one day create a home that doesn’t look like a small town’s basement-run preschool, but until then, I will appreciate the good taste of others. And when it comes to food, my current favorite food writer is Francis Lam.

Maybe it’s because Francis is slightly self-deprecating and completely willing to delve into territory to which I can relate (Halloween candy, that big hamburger/pizza hybrid at Burger King, White Castle chicken rings). But I think it’s mostly because he’s a phenomenal writer who also knows a shit load about food and can actually cook. As a one-trick pony whose trick isn’t even that good, I’m in awe of anyone who can be really awesome at two completely different things.

Lam’s topics vary from how-to’s (How to use that stale bread sitting on your counter or how to make your own bagels) and did-you-knows, to poignant profiles of Gulf Coast fisherman and glimpses into a world of gourmet consumption I know very little about. Plus, there’s just enough Adam Richmond-style food porn to satiate my need for detailed descriptions of fried cheese.

His latest piece about the executive director of the Washington State Potato Commission’s decision to eat nothing but potatoes for 60 days and blog about it had me snorting at my desk. Lam’s commentary on this guy’s slow descent into starchy madness is (Yukon) gold.

So, if you’re ever bored, or hungry, or in need of knowing something new, unnecessary and fascinating about mechanically separated chicken, I recommend checking out his Salon.com column. It’s a treat.

Who's to say?

2010-10-25T11:29:00.007-05:00

Saturday night, we stopped by Brandon's apartment for a mutual friend's art show, spiked cider and a few handfuls of Halloween candy. After whatever sporting game event program had ended, we caught the last 15 minutes of Saturday Night Live. Usually the burial ground for half-baked jokes and unbearably unfunny recurring characters (I would rather watch grainy home video of a horse being born than sit through another Gilly sketch), this particular 15-minute wrap-up was genuinely good. Actually, really good. Maybe it was the fact that I was gulping my cider (the roof of my mouth is now a roadmap of blisters), but I thought this sketch was particularly hilarious.

*Update – turns out Sex Ed began as Paul Brittain’s one-man show at the IO in Chicago. We were probably on the same bus at one time or another. He probably saw me sneeze into the binding of my book or fall asleep with my mouth open.

In other news…
For the past year, I’ve made a concerted effort to get to the gym in the morning before work. It eliminates that painful evening rush-hour battle wherein I debate gym vs. dinner and television. It’s easy to guess what wins out 106% of the time. On the other hand, when I go in the morning, I spend the rest of the day fueled by self-satisfaction, an overinflated sense of pride and maybe a bagel.

But morning gym requires preparedness – a bag packed the night before with shower accoutrements and work clothes. Surprisingly, I’ve had very few mishaps, and most of them have been minor. Forgot shoes? There’s an extra pair in the car. No shampoo? Use that free stuff in the shower. It smells like Tang and burns the scalp, but it gets the job done. However, today I forgot a bra, which is kind of important when it comes to work attire. My sports bra was sweaty and showed through the collar of my shirt like a fluorescent green spandex dickey. I debated going all the way back home, but that would involve driving with morning traffic too far in the wrong direction. I scanned the locker room for any abandoned B-cups. And then, finally, I went to Walmart, where at 7:30 a.m., the aisles are empty and the elderly greeters are exuberant. I found the sale rack and grabbed the first one I saw that didn’t look like the top half of a mermaid costume.

I bought nothing else and fought the urge to explain my quandary to the girl at the checkout. After a quick change in the store bathroom, I was on my way to work. Comfortable, work appropriate, $5 poorer but one bra richer. If you're ever rooting through my glove compartment, don't be surprised if you find it nestled between McDonald's napkins and insurance documents. Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, there's a spare bra in my car.

2010-10-15T09:20:00.005-05:00

I want to write about our trip, and I will. The visual element is kind of key, so this weekend I'll mine the thousands of pictures of me looking bewildered in front of ancient ruins for a few good summarizing shots.

But first, and more importantly, since this is a record of life events, good and bad, I wanted to take a moment to remember someone… and say goodbye.

Last Saturday night, here in Omaha, Jessica Bedient and her husband of only a month, Tony, were driving home when they were hit by an 18-year-old drunk driver. Jessica’s injuries were severe, and she passed away on Tuesday. Despite having his own injuries – and what I can only imagine to be an irrevocably broken heart – Tony is going to be okay.

And it is all so incomprehensibly sad. The kind of sad that you will never be able to wrap your head around…

I had the pleasure of working with Jessica three years ago, before I moved to Chicago, and she moved on to her current job with the University of Nebraska system. And I say it was a pleasure not because it’s just one of those things you rattle off when remembering someone, but because it was, without a doubt, a gift. Jessica was quite obviously winning at life, and all you wanted to do was stand by and cheer her on. She was so sincere, kind, gracious. Her patience was infinite, her humility inspiring, and her work ethic enviable. We spent quite a few Saturdays working side by side in an otherwise empty office, and while I was there because I am a procrastinator, Jessica was there because something was always driving her to be better – not just for herself but for everyone around her.

In our last conversation at a former-co-worker happy hour in July, Jessica – who I distinctly remember swearing off marriage until she was at least 30 – talked about her wedding with the enthusiasm and confidence of a person who, unexpectedly but gratefully, had found her soulmate. She didn’t give a crap about the details. She just wanted to get married.

And she did. And from the pictures that now adorn the blog Jessica and Tony’s families have started, she looked beautiful.

I say all of this from afar, as a friend/acquaintance. I can’t begin to imagine the pain her family is feeling. One life has come to a screaming halt far too early, and many, many lives have been turned upside down. You will be missed, Jessica, and never, ever forgotten.

Omaha World-Herald article

Life is precious. Be good to the people you love (and everyone else for that matter). And please, please, please, don't drink and drive. It's never worth it.

I move in water, shore to shore

2010-10-11T16:40:00.005-05:00

We are back from a wonderful trip, and I am officially dead weight – just today. Tomorrow I will be better… energized, awake, able to focus on things besides sleep and the TV I missed while out of the country (where I only had access to CNN International’s ceaseless four-story loop and a few poorly dubbed episodes of The Hills). Before we left, I slapped a few songs together for an Italy playlist, but I actually only listened to my iPod once – on the train ride from Rome to Venice. The books were too good. The in-flight movies too… there. Just to give it a second life, here is said playlist. May it act as inspiration for things to listen to, or not listen to. As you can tell, I’m a recent fan of Phosphorescent. And Peter Gabriel covers Bon Iver! And then there’s that song Tune-Yards from the Blackberry Torch commercial. Anyway, here you go. A tiny, tiny list because I'm too tired to figure out how to make it bigger.

TGIF!

2010-10-01T16:25:00.001-05:00

Looking back, mustering enthusiasm for things to come...

2010-09-30T09:27:00.007-05:00

When not picking dandelions in the outfield at kickball, I’ve spent the past few nights sitting on the couch, thinking about blogging. So, finally…

A belated happy birthday to my dad, whom I miss more than I can ever convey, in writing or otherwise. In my dream last night, someone broke into our house, and my dad befriended him, offering him a job delivering packages. This dream can easily be traced back to my paralyzing fear of home invasion, but it also sort of makes sense in that my dad befriended everyone. The leap from random person at Saturday morning mass to fictional burglar isn’t too wide. Anyway, if you read my blog, dad, please just call the police next time. And I love you.

Speaking of dreams, Matt and I used to play the “if you could travel anywhere” game with relative frequency, usually over Chili’s chips and salsa. My anywhere was always Italy… a hologram born of Diane Lane movies and Olive Garden commercials. So when we finally got married and finally had some extra money to put toward a trip, we chose Italy. More specifically, Rome and Venice. The path to our ultimate departure has been fraught with miscommunication, itinerary changes, unexpected expenses and the anxiety that comes with knowing you’re not as excited as you should be about something you should be excited about.

We are worried we’ll get lost. Robbed. Thrown in prison for murder. We’ll run out of money. We won’t pack enough. We’ll pack too much. We’ll miss opportunity, squander time and waste something precious. For two naturally anxious people, it’s all too much to bear.

So I’m trying to be a cheerleader for this trip. We leave Saturday afternoon, and I haven’t packed yet. I mean, I’ve read about packing – tips for throwing away your underwear as you go to leave room for souvenirs. Shit like that. Tonight, I will get real, organizing my folder of tickets and printouts. Stuffing my frame pack full of black dresses, smart sandals and underwear that I will leave strewn about on Venetian streets like a breadcrumb trail, so that when we do get lost or imprisoned, we’ll be able to find our way back home. Hopefully satisfied with our anywhere.

Cover letter

2010-09-21T14:28:00.008-05:00

I've written about covers before, but I thought I'd revisit the topic, as I've encountered two stellar covers as of late. Kid Cudi's "Pursuit of Happiness" is one of my go-to songs for those times when you're going a lazy eight on the elliptical, back peddling slowly and watching a fuzzy episode of "Angel" in between swigs of water. But then my brother showed me a video of a singer named Lissie covering the song at one of her shows, and it's awesome. But switch out the elliptical for a nylon camping chair and the water bottle for a warm jug of margarita mix.

And then I think at one point I wrote about The Diving Bell and the Butterfly and included the trailer that featured Ultra Orange and Emmanuelle's "Don't Kiss Me Goodbye." Turns out iTunes won't let you buy that song on its own, so in a last-ditch effort to include the song on a mix, I found this cover by Max Hirtz and Andrea Brooks.

So, sure there are some really distasteful covers like all of those "Big Yellow Taxi" re-dos, or my cover of Jodeci's "Forever My Lady." But kudos to those who can do it well.

Canvas, totes.

2010-09-14T16:39:00.004-05:00

Thus far, as it pertains to my life, my mom has been wrong about some things and right about others. When I wanted go to overnight Girl Scout camp and she refused to sign the permission slip or fork over the $30 for swim caps and s’mores, standing firm in her belief that if I went, some sort of evil, ambiguous harm would befall me, she was wrong. I would’ve been totally fine. The only thing that may have harmed me would’ve been the crushing load of way more friends.

When I wanted an Adidas jacket, the shiny nylon kind with stripes and toggles – the kind bad kids killed over and popular kids flaunted like engagement rings or master’s degrees, she again refused to humor my desperate need to fit in, this time claiming that said jackets would be out of style by the following winter. And this time, she was right.

Still, I was devastated. My consolation jacket was a little color-block Lands’ End number, all primary reds, yellows and blues. Feminine, no, but timeless – yes, sort of. At least more timeless than a purple parachute with a zipper. Timeless in the sense that I wore it time after time after time… after time. Until the red faded to pink and the yellow was stained with pencil lead and chocolate milk.

To me, my mom’s faith in that jacket, and the enduring nature of the jacket itself, represents the continuous presence the Lands’ End brand had in our unfashionably sturdy lives. Purely a mail-order business at the time, we could dredge the pages of the LE catalog for everything from navy uniform shorts to monogrammed bath towels, modest swimsuits and matching jumpers to be worn for parish directory portraits and again on Christmas. Everything was slightly preppy, somewhat bland and very utilitarian.

And then yesterday happened, and I got a catalog in the mail from Lands’ End Canvas, the updated version of Lands’ End aimed at people my age… people who no doubt grew begrudgingly accustomed to the brand in youth. The pages bear the matted look of an Anthropologie catalog. The clothes are sort of J. Crew-ish, without all of the impractical sequins and satin harem pants thrown in just to keep things interesting. It’s very all-American in a way I’ve come to appreciate as an adult, and the prices won’t make you want to run for the hills, where there are plenty of Wal-Marts (I’m looking at you, J. Crew).

I’ve always wanted to do one of those “look at these things I want to buy” blog posts, but it’s such a silly concept when you consider the fact that right now, in an effort to save for a vacation and pay various overdue bills, we are living hand to mouth (there are free sauce packets in our hands and saltines in our mouths). Why torment myself? Well, simply because I’m that excited to finally come full circle with Lands’ End. To once again understand the simple thrill of a canvas tote, the rough touch of a pique polo. We are at peace, my color-block jacket and me.

Pa Pa Powerized Wheelchair

2010-09-10T12:56:00.004-05:00

I've always appreciated Ryan Gosling. He had a good turn in The Notebook, he was convincing in Half Nelson, and he has a sincere "If you stalked me but never technically set foot on my property, I probably wouldn't press charges" smile. My sister took her Gosling love a step further, describing more than a few of her college crushes with "He kind of looks like Ryan Gosling." Sometimes she was right, but other times her Gosling goggles caused unfortunate lapses in crush judgment.

So Ryan Gosling is a good actor. And undeniably attractive. But I was late to the party in realizing he was in a band (Dead Man's Bones). The video for Pa Pa Power is pretty good, although the jury's still out on the Mad Men-attired hipster early-thirty-somethings that show up at the end and dance with the elderly people. I could've done without that. But gramps and the kids and Ryan can stay.

You can watch it here.

The USS Kirk

2010-09-02T16:39:00.009-05:00

If you want to cry in your car in the 24 Hour Fitness parking lot (or if you just want an aural glimpse of genuine human goodness), listen to this.

"35 Years On, Vietnam Heroes Reunited, Decorated"
NPR.org

For Spacious Skies and Subarus

2010-08-19T13:02:00.022-05:00

Two afternoons ago, I left for a lunchtime errand of supplemental grocery shopping (hummus, bacon, cheese, oatmeal, wine and gum). It had been pouring since early morning - the sky was a raisinish color and the air felt two months too old. I popped in the last of a stack of audiobooks, Nick Hornby's "A Long Way Down" and sat in the Bag 'N Save parking lot. North London accents and rain go well together (even better than oatmeal and wine), and lulled by the wiper's rhythm, I had to force myself to go back to work. Plus, turns out the story is about suicide (well, at this point anyway), and you can only listen to suicide stories in the rain for so long before you need to watch a YouTube video of a Japanese family throwing their cat a birthday party.

The point of this long pointless intro comes back to the audiobooks -- aside from a few floor peanuts and a stack of rest stop maps stuffed between seats, these CDs are the lingering evidence of the trip we took just two weeks ago. It seems like it's been longer than that, but the fatigue and three McDonald's pounds I found along the way are still holding on for dear life. Despite the after-effects and a mind-blowing Visa bill we just received (nearly all of it spent on gas, with a few scary motels thrown in for good measure), I wouldn't trade that trip for anything except maybe a new bed or a house or both.

Matt had originally set the week aside for a camping expedition with his friends, but said friends have responsibilities that we have yet to tackle (babies, mortgages) and the trip began to disintegrate, little by little, until it finally gave a little adventurous cough and died at the end of July. I volunteered to stand in, although the consolation trip would likely be less manly and exciting. Matt agreed to trade in his dreams of trekking up the sides of mountains for dreams of shuffling up to various quirky landmarks, as long as a few battlefields were thrown in to keep things educational. I agreed to squander away most of my remaining paid time off, and the deal was done.

One night at dinner we made a loose itinerary using Google maps to affirm or shatter any impulsive desires. “I want to go back to Montana.” “But that’s nowhere near the Alamo.” “The Grand Canyon is in Idaho, right?” “It’d be nice to see the east coast.” “Just as long as we can make it to Oklahoma in under eight hours.” What resulted was a mishmash of maybe-we’ll-get-theres. And, for the most part, we got there.

After a quick stop in St. Louis to sleep and fill our cooler with Diet Pepsi, we drove to Tennessee, our first stop being Shiloh National Battlefield. Not my choice, obviously, but I have known Matt for eight years now and have come to expect that most trips will include some cannons, some walking to other cannons, and possibly a historical reenactor or two. I can either sit in the car, or I can suck it up, learn something and maybe buy a bonnet from the gift shop.

So, Shiloh was first, followed by:

Memphis – Nice hotel, empty streets, huge onion rings and Ghost River hefeweizen at the Majestic Grille, a theater turned restaurant.

Vicksburg, MS – We stopped in Vicksburg to see Vicksburg National Military Park (another battlefield). Hot as hell. A gaggle of sweaty pre-teens. Cool gunboat.

Baton Rouge, LA – We’d decided early on that if we were going to travel in the southerly direction, a stop in Baton Rouge was necessary. After all, Libby lives there, with her husband Patrick and their two small, insanely well behaved Boston Terriers, Clark and Louise. We have a thing for Boston Terriers, and also a thing for Patrick and Libby, so it was definitely a highlight. They made us a delicious jambalaya dinner followed ice cream and an episode of Hoarders. We slept soundly and hated to say goodbye.

La Porte, TX – An unplanned detour to see the San Jacinto Monument. It’s a tall monument located in the middle of huge tanks of oil and next to a congealed marsh full of prairie chickens (according to the sign), fireflies (millions) and alligators (probably).

San Antonio, TX – Another required stop along the way. I’ve always been baffled as to why Matt had never been to the Alamo. He’s read everything on the subject, seen every film adaptation. I’d come to see it as my personal duty to get him there. Plus, it would give me a good chance to make basement jokes. New ones that they’d never heard before.

Our hotel was only a block away, but by the time we arrived in town, it was closed for the night. Instead, we wandered past a series of garish Ripley’s-themed tourist traps (and believe it or not, they almost trapped me on several occasions) down to the River Walk, where we ate dinner. Feverish in the heat and delirious from 10 hours in the car, we were coaxed into each ordering a Monster Margarita. Turns out the Monster Margarita costs $25 and comes in a stemmed fishbowl, emblazoned with the Texas flag. We were pissed, but 30 minutes later, we were drunk, and all was forgotten.

We went to the Alamo a total of three times. That night to gaze upon its stony glow. The next morning for a more in depth exploration of the grounds (it is smaller and more chaotic than I imagined it to be). And then again that evening, just to make sure we hadn’t missed anything. At 6:00 the following morning, we bid San Antonio adieu and headed for…

Gila National Forest, NM – Our drive to New Mexico involved traipsing across the vast expanse of West Texas. And by traipsing, I mean watching the Mexican boarder weave in an out of site while burning through the audiobook edition of “Empire of the Summer Moon: Quanah Parker and the Rise and Fall of the Comanches, the Most Powerful Indian Tribe in American History.” It was roughly 600 hours long and obviously not chosen by me, but thoroughly enjoyable (albeit occasionally biased toward American settlers). And mountain passes are even more striking when you’re simultaneously listening to tales of the Comanche’s futile (and brutal) fight for their land.

Arriving too late to camp at Gila, we spent the night at a Motel 6, eating Dominos and theorizing about what exactly was going on across the hall. Meth lab? Children’s birthday party? An unsubtle coyote operation? The next morning, we set out for Gila, where we hiked to the park’s famous cliff dwellings. Feel free to disagree with me, but in my opinion, if you’ve seen one cliff dwelling, you’ve seen them all. And I’d seen some about 10 years ago in high school. Therefore, I spent the afternoon easily distracted by lizards and German tourists.

It was at this point that we reached an impasse in our otherwise solid planning. Time was waning, and we could either stay at Gila for the night or press on, attempting to cram as many landmarks, formations and battlefields into one trip. And so it was decided – we’d drive to…

The Grand Canyon – But not before taking a two-hour detour to the town of Tombstone, Arizona… a town of OK Corral-themed gift shops, old-time photo establishments, horse-drawn carriage tours, dusty museums and taffy. We toured the old courthouse and then ate dinner at Big Nose Kate’s, a saloon named after the first prostitute in Tombstone, Arizona Territory (and Doc Holiday’s girlfriend). We sat underneath a TV that played “Tombstone” on a continuous loop. The servers wore modified western prostitute outfits, pieced together from satin Walmart bustiers and fishnets. I stole a menu.

Again, the Grand Canyon – We managed to arrive before the day’s tourist boom, before the busses full of old people and rented Chevy Malibus full of French families on holiday. I single out the French because, as we began to make our way back to the car, we were replaced along the rim by throngs of French tourists. I hope the canyon was grand enough for them.

After leaving Flagstaff, we drove and drove and drove until we reached Amarillo, TX, where we stayed at a very nice SleepInn that will likely be the subject of my first Yelp review. And then the next morning, fueled by make-your-own waffles, we drove some more, making our way to…

Cheyenne, Oklahoma - Home of the Washita Battle Historical Site,

“where Lt. Col. George A. Custer led the 7th U.S. Cavalry on a surprise dawn attack against the Southern Cheyenne village of Peace Chief Black Kettle on November 27, 1868. The attack was an important event in the tragic clash of cultures of the Indian Wars era.”

(Taken from the National Park Service website).

We watched the video and perused the gift shop, where I manhandled plush buffalo while Matt bought a book. There rest of our visit was spent wandering around the battlefield in the hot prairie sun, swatting at dragonflies and reading little signs. The heat was brutal, and after walking most of the grounds, I made my way back to a picnic shelter. There I met a park ranger who informed me that the author of the book Matt had just purchased was to arrive shortly. We waited, and waited, and what ensued was well worth all of the waiting and waiting. Not only did the author show up, but he was accompanied by this guy.

Despite my admitted lack of appreciation for history, I have a huge place in my heart for funny old people, and I loved Ed Bearss. Matt loved him for more cerebral reasons. Right there in the picnic shelter, for the two of us, his author friend and the park ranger, he performed his opening monologue about John Brown from Ken Burns’ The Civil War. Matt had his picture taken with them. And finally, we had to pull ourselves away. Meeting a celebrity can get awkward pretty quickly, so you have to know when to cut and run.

We were already behind schedule, having left Cheyenne late in the afternoon. Our goal was to make it to Kansas City in time to meet up with friends. Some Omahans had traveled southward to spend the day at Oceans of Fun for Monica’s birthday. We’d missed the oceans but were hoping for at least one hour of fun and perhaps a drink or two. But as the miles crawled by, the Garmin began to laugh at us, and we realized we wouldn’t make it… not before midnight.

As we hung our heads in sorrow (not so low that we couldn’t see the road or other motorists), we noticed a KOA campground and decided to stop. I’m honestly not sure where we were…

Somewhere in northeastern Oklahoma – we pitched our still-unused tent and sat, staring at our bug-glazed car, listening to the sounds of the nearby interstate, baking in the heat. We'd laid off anything other than water and soda since our ten-gallon Margarita experience and decided to search for beer. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you’re camping on the side of the highway in Oklahoma? A book, a beer and possibly a raccoon or two. I ended up driving five miles west before I found a Love’s Travel Stop that wasn’t bound by the oppressive rules of the surrounding dry counties.

Back at the KOA and slightly buzzed on lukewarm Bud Light, we left our belongings in the hands of fate and hobos, and wandered past a pen containing two emaciated buffalo up toward the Cherokee Restaurant – a Denny’s-esque relic with a trading post and rotating pie display. After dinner, I bought a car bingo game at the trading post, and we retired to our campsite where we sat, hashing out the events of the past week. Our favorite welcome centers, favorite side-of-the-road oddities, favorite motels, favorite natural wonders, favorite meals.

That night, we slept in pools of sweat and crickets. I kept one eye open, and sometimes two, for the escaped convict that would eventually kill us both and steal my car bingo game. I’m skittish enough in my own home, so sleeping under a mesh ceiling in a psycho trucker’s paradise was enough to keep me from any sort of REM-induced bliss.

We left at 5:00 a.m. for the last stretch toward home. At one point along the way, our horn got stuck and stayed on, blaring for all to hear, for nearly two hours before a kindly tow truck driver took pity on us and charged us $100 to remove a fuse. It was one of those things you tell yourself you’ll laugh about later, even though the physical act of laughter seems repulsive when the entire state of Kansas is giving you the stink eye.

Laugh we did… eventually. Like, five days later. A comical end to an amazing, albeit expensive – gas and hot dogs are expensive! – trip. Matt reached his battlefield quota for 2010. I got to see the Grand Canyon and the state of Oklahoma. We visited old friends and even older hallowed grounds. And perhaps more importantly, we learned the value of spontaneity and the beauty of riding together in contented silence… because there is so much to look at.

“When I think about my relationship with America, I feel like a battered wife: Yeah, he knocks me around a lot, but boy, he sure can dance."
- Sarah Vowell

Don't give the ghost up, just clench your fist

2010-07-30T12:17:00.002-05:00

I watched a few episodes of “Tell Me You Love Me” when it originally aired on HBO, but never understanding where the assorted storylines began and how they ended, I ended up Netflixing it earlier this year. A few of the characters were pretty insufferable – and it’s definitely something you should avoid watching with mere acquaintances (it’s borderline Cinemax fair), but all in all, I found it pretty powerful and true to life as far as the human condition goes. Mostly, I loved a song featured in the last episode. I’ve never been a huge fan of the Killers, but this was my undoing.

To the left, to the left

2010-07-22T10:27:00.004-05:00

My left hand has long been a simultaneous source of frustration and pride, an extra pinky toe you whip out for party tricks but later curse when your shoe is too snug. My great aunt Marge’s constant reminder of my good fortune rang in my ears throughout childhood, nostalgic but mournful.

“I was born left-handed, but the nuns made me write with my right hand. They forced me to be right-handed,” she’d say, looking longingly at her now vestigial left hand, wondering what could have been.

This of course brought to mind images of limp, useless right-hand claws contorted around a pencil, under penalty of ruler slaps or school yard laps, or whatever the punishment was at the time. I understood the root of her message – “Be grateful. No one is forcing you to be normal.” And so I let my freak flag fly at half-mast, tentatively exploring the seedy world of left-handed notebooks and scissors, softball gloves and school desks.

The scissors didn’t work. I had to teach myself to be right-handed in that one particular instance. But in every other area, I began to discover a subtle sense of pride in the quality that set me apart from my immediate family and 90 to 93 percent of the general population. My dad taped a newspaper clipping featuring the names of famous southpaws to my bedroom wall, and every once in a while I’d scan the list for reassurance, confidence and conversation fodder. Dan Akroyd, Tim Allen, Harry Anderson, Fran Drescher, Whoopi Goldberg (who also shares my birthday), Terri Garr, Dick Van Dyke. A lot of sitcom stars, a lot of funny people.

When it came to sports, my left-handedness became an excuse I dropped like all of the softballs that missed my special glove and hit the dust below with a thud. “I’m shockingly bad at badminton because I’m left-handed,” I would inform gym teachers, coaches and anyone else within earshot. “I only made one basket in five years of grade school basketball because I’m left-handed.” “That bowling ball flew out of my hand and on to your foot because… you guessed it.”

Truth is, I just suck at sports. Always have and, much to the chagrin of my outdoorsy, athletic husband, always will. But while I didn’t fool everyone, the mystery of what it means to be a leftie confused some gym teachers into giving me a passing grade.

Over the years, involvement in athletics became voluntary, and I opted for the hands-free variety, like running and sitting. I met more people, and therefore more left-handed people, and it just seemed less special. I thought of it only when I’d end up on the wrong side of a restaurant booth, elbowing my dinner companion in the ribs every time I lifted my fork.

Cut to yesterday when I saw the photo of Obama signing the Wall Street reform bill, his left hand twisted at the same painful-looking angle I’m now used to. “He’s doing that so he doesn’t smear his signature,” I thought to myself. This was followed by a “Hey! I forgot Obama was left-handed!” And then I looked it up, and five of our last seven presidents have been. The Washington Post points out that, statistically speaking, we should only have a leftie leader once every eight presidents. Are left-handers born leaders? There are lots of theories on why left-handed people are the way they are – and what it means when it comes to personality. Some characteristics are good (right-brained creativity), some not so good (you could very well be crazy and/or have an auto-immune disorder).

Whatever the reason and the result of this condition, Obama’s awkward bill signing was a good reminder of the pride I once took in my own uniqueness. Plus, with Michelangelo, Luke Perry and Seal in my corner, I’m in pretty good company.

We should all be so lucky... for real this time.

2010-07-14T16:51:00.004-05:00

My new favorite blog.

Married 72 years! I only have 71 years and four months to go.

Lovefool

2010-07-13T14:43:00.004-05:00

Monahans are, by nature, cold people. Not frigid (although occasionally aloof), but actually, physically cold.

When I was younger, I mostly anticipated our weekly Wednesday night trips to Shoney’s – kids could eat free, and I would pile my chilled, metal salad bar plate high with reckless abandon. But there was a certain dread in knowing that once indoors, away from the humid summer air, the waitress would inevitably seat us near an air conditioning vent or a ceiling fan or the soft serve dispenser, and my dad would ask that we be moved.

While in hindsight it was a perfectly legitimate request – he was cold, and there were warmer spots available, the shame that came with getting up and walking across the restaurant to a new table was almost enough to keep me from enjoying my plate of ham cubes and syrupy strawberries.

Over the past decade, that constant chill my dad experienced has crept into my bones and skin and fingernails with a vengeance. But not only do I feel cold, I’m actually cold to the touch. I’m a pet iguana that likes to sleeps in the microwave. And just as my dad almost always had some sort of extra layer present – a jacket in July, two sweaters in September, I too have my armor. I am obsessively, hopelessly dependent on cardigans.

If I am not wearing one, there is one in my hand, or stuffed in my purse. There is likely one in my car, one on the back of my chair at work and numerous others in my closet at home. The beauty of the cardigan boils down to several factors – it is not a parka, so no one will look at you like they look at those people who wear parkas in the summertime; it is portable; it can enhance an outfit without dominating it; and, if sufficiently substantial, it keeps your arms and torso warm.

Through the years, I’ve accumulated an Imelda Marcos-caliber collection, but for every one or two cardigans I acquire, I’ll loose one. I can only hope that those fallen soldiers are out there somewhere, keeping an office worker warm or a chilly moviegoer comfortable enough to stay for the closing credits. Or even keeping a Shoney’s customer from embarrassing her progeny by moving to the smoking section, just to get away from a drafty window.

Cardigan Hall of Fame

Most angst-ridden: A little navy, wool number I picked up at the Dodge Street Salvation Army store when I was a freshman at Creighton. Its label was stitched with gold thread. I wore it with corduroys and t-shirts of grade school sports teams.

Most worn: A gray v-neck I bought from Forever 21 shortly after moving to Chicago. I know clothing from Forever 21 is supposed to turn to dust when it hits water, but this has been washed and worn more times than I can count. And I am wearing it right now.

Most missed: Kelly green with green buttons from Francesca’s Collection. I loved it, and yet I didn’t love it enough not to leave it in a cab.

All-time favorite: A royal blue, merino wool three-quarter sleeved sweater from J. Crew. It has a small ruffle around the neck. It fell behind the radiator at my mom’s house during my brother’s high school graduation party and went missing for a year. Getting it back was like being reunited with a lost dog, if the dog came back wearing my cardigan.

Most wanted: Something dark orange with pockets for snacks.

The world just blinks

2010-07-10T21:28:00.003-05:00

I know I'm breaking the cardinal rule of blogging by being themeless and scattered, but you know what... I really like this song (Frightened Rabbit has some strange, Scottish power over me). And my sister is waiting for me. Normal blogging will resume tomorrow! Or sometime thereabouts.

We should all be so lucky.

2010-07-01T09:21:00.002-05:00

Then when?

2010-06-23T15:18:00.003-05:00

It just so happens that we are two people who share one bedroom in a three-bedroom house. And because we are neither rich nor hospitable, we do not have a guest room. In divvying up the extra space (because what is marriage for, if not for divvying?), Matt claimed the larger end room for his library, and I got the smaller middle room for my little collection of belongings. My own meager book collection, my blue hobbit chair, my bank statements and trash, our shared stationary bike that sits lonely and neglected in the corner. I gave it a view of the neighbor’s yard to appease it during long bouts of slothfulness.

There isn’t much to do in my room unless you want to exercise or sit in a small chair, so I spend the majority of my upstairs time sleeping and wandering into Matt’s larger, more interesting library. Which brings us to the issue at hand: meth.

Tuesday night, I meandered past the library with a toothbrush hanging out of my mouth to find him perusing Amazon. More specifically, he was looking at a book on meth. A fancy book on meth with vivid pictures and menacing fonts.

“Is that the meth book I’m in?” I exclaimed, Colgate dribbling onto my t-shirt.

“No. Wait – what?” His look was a combination of fear and curiosity. Because small sections of our lives over the past few years still remain a mystery. I'd like to think he was in the circus.

“I’m listed as a source in a book about meth. Google me and it comes up on like the fourth or fifth O.”

[One time* I Googled myself and found that an article I’d written for my college newspaper surrounding the tragic drug-related death of a student and her boyfriend had been used as source material for a book on meth aimed at young adults. It seemed sort of text-bookish.]

Matt proceeded to Google, and there, buried between century-old obits for the Catherine Monahans that came before me and race times I have failed to scrub from the public record, was my name in the source notes of [book name redacted].

“How come you never told me?” Matt implored, his hands scrambling to find a pen and a piece of paper for my autograph.

“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” I said, waving my toothbrush nonchalantly. But sadly, to me it kind of was. The article I’d written was a journalistic high point among many, many low points – dozens of poorly drawn, very unfunny editorial cartoons. The other truth is that said meth book appears to have been written as a collaboration between babies and textbook robots. The cover bears the garish mark of Microsoft paint.

“Well, you should at least blog about it,” he said.

And so I did.

*Approximate

Just set that sack of 10 on my kick board.

2010-06-18T09:08:00.010-05:00

Great article. Equally great comments.

When we were little, we'd be rewarded for making it through swimming lessons with a trip to the White Castle drive-through. I ate White Castle because I hated swimming lessons. I hated swimming lessons because I was chubby. I was chubby because I ate White Castle.

It was a vicious circle, much like a White Castle Chicken Ring.

Gah.

2010-06-17T09:03:00.001-05:00

I messed up my blog (aesthetically). After 3 years with the same template. Bear with me while I attempt to make things right again.

E-mail from Annie W.

2010-06-08T11:26:00.004-05:00

For your Tuesday:

"Uncanny Valley" by Brandon Bird

Live together, watch the series finale of "Lost" alone at a convent

2010-06-04T09:44:00.006-05:00

Jeez, the events of two weeks ago seem eons behind me. This is what I get for failing to blog on a regular basis. Per usual, I'll just have to use exaggeration, distracting similes and falsified facts to fill in the missing pieces.

Lost. On Lost. On the TV show Lost.
I distinctly remember the first time Matt and I watched an episode of “Lost.” And by distinctly, I mean vaguely. We were visiting my family in St. Louis for one reason or another, and after a hearty meal of casserole, we found my brothers hunkered down in our walk-in closet of a family room, watching some new bullshit sitcom about castaways and polar bears. At that point, a third of the season had already passed, but we slowly, reluctantly began to tune in to see what this trend amongst fanboys and survivalists was all about. And so it goes that we finished the first season eager to watch the second.

And the second, eager to watch the third.

I was caught, like a wild boar between a spear-toting plane crash survivor and the ocean’s cold abyss, in the grips of an inexplicable crush on Ben Linus. And Matthias was similarly trapped under the spell of Kate Austen. If I were to guess, it was because he has been told, by numerous friends, relatives and strangers at restaurants, that he looks like Dominic Monaghan. And, in addition to playing Charlie on Lost, Dominic Monaghan happened to be dating Evangeline Lilly, who plays Kate. So, you know, of course.

For reasons mutual and individual – for him, the complexity, the adventure, the literary allusions; for me, the Ben; the Sawyer; the Desmond; the Dharma-issued canned peaches; the comfy, retro hatch; the moments so painfully poignant that a few times I found myself sobbing through previews for next week’s episode.

As it happens, Matt and I broke up just shy of season three’s end. And having watched it every week together since that first fateful encounter in the family room, it seemed fitting that we would watch the season finale together before going our separate, undetermined ways.

The episode? “Through the Looking Glass.” You know, “not Penny’s boat”? The one where Charlie dies. It was all very disturbing and meta for me. For the next two years, I swore off Lost completely.

I even changed the channel during Lost commercials. It, like Charlie, was dead to me.

And then we got back together. And not even a week after our wedding, a mutual decision was made. Although Matt had been loyal to Lost this entire time, we would watch seasons four and five in time for the premier of season six. Jumping back in was easy. My desire to watch was less about nostalgia and more rooted in a genuine interest to be part of it again. In among the helicopters, the mysterious cabins, the sarcastic quips and pseudoscientific ramblings.

Plus, if I hadn’t watched season four, I would’ve missed my favorite episode – “The Constant.” I’m sure it’s everyone’s favorite episode, but that’s just because it’s that good.

We made it through season five with time to spare and watched season six with the fierce dedication of the loyal and DVR-less. When I found out my brother’s college graduation would put me in Boston the night of the series finale, I realized watching the very last episode with Matt wasn’t going to happen. In fact, watching it at all might not happen. We were staying at a convent, so hot water was a hope and expecting access to television was like expecting your potential rescuers to actually rescue you.

TWIST: To make a long Lost story short, I had the good fortune of running into a nun/Lost super fan at breakfast that Sunday morning. She graciously let me watch with her in the inner sanctums of the convent where there was, in fact, a very nice TV. And while it would’ve been nice to watch with Matt, I’m sure he appreciated the utter silence my absence brought – no one yelling “Lupetis is alive!” through a mouthful of Doritos or air kicking as Jack forced ghost Locke over the edge of the cliff.

The end? Nearly perfect. I have no qualms. Lingering questions, sure – that was inevitable. But that night, I drifted off to sleep in my convent bed with dreams of Ben Linus and the satisfaction of relationships, both real and imagined, come full circle.

What do you like to do?

2010-05-19T16:18:00.001-05:00

I try not to give Facebook too much thought, which is difficult, as it caters to my shifty, flakey, shiny brain. A brain that is curious about the inane, and indifferent to most things meaningful. I was proud of myself for leaving my original (or maybe one generation down from the original) list of interests, movies, music, etc. virtually untouched for years. (I can say years because I joined Facebook in early 2005, when it was all college students and unsolicited poking.)

However, given the new format of the “info” page – with its word bubbles, links and pictures, I was forced to reevaluate my idealized self. Or, to be more accurate, I was forced to reevaluate my self-effacing self, which is actually a palatable version of my idealized self. But the thing is, Facebook now forces you to choose for a menu of sorts. And that is where I ran into trouble. Mostly in the activities category.

I can’t legitimately say that just plain “reading” is an activity for me. Reading is an accomplishment. “Starting a book” or “Reading half of a book” – those are my activities. But Facebook doesn’t recognize those choices (although it did give me the option of “functional illiteracy”).

I also tried to choose “microwaving” and ended up settling for “defrosting.” Not the same, but it least it has a picture (the glaring white insides of an empty refrigerator).

There are nine other people interested in defrosting, which is kind of sad and intimate. Brought together by compromise, torn apart by warmth.

Before you take to the internet.

2010-05-14T14:32:00.007-05:00

I have long been a self-analyzer, a self-diagnoser, a self-helper. Not a hypochondriac, it's not the same thing. But whereas Matt can stand by in the face of a potential malady and let nature take its course, I cannot. I have to be doing something. I have to know that should I one day fall prey to an illness, a mental breakdown, a marinara stain on a white tablecloth, at least I've done everything in my power to fix it.

Of course, when I say everything in my power, I mean that I Google the crap out of it. But herein lies the problem. Because most intelligent people will Google a problem once or twice before moving on to more effective solutions. They call doctors. They consult real people with faces and voices. They figure their shit out and move on with life. The remaining people sort of get sifted to the bottom of the search result pile. It's a scary place that smells like Funions and hairspray.

The bottom of the pile is where people go when a neglected cockatoo has eaten their fingers, preventing them from dialing 911. Where pregnant middle-schoolers with iPhones go. Where people with shotgun wounds go to find out if some leftover bathtub caulking will stop the bleeding. The inquiries are thrown out into cyberspace and left hanging until someone equally clueless replies, weeks later, after the caulking falls off and the infection sets in. Needless to say, no one can help you here. They will only feed your paranoia, suggest dangerous home remedies, and do it all without using a single vowel.

The cure? Ignore or treat. Don't Google a symptom more than three times. And don't, whatever you do, put your fingers in the cage.

I returned safely from Vegas with only a slight hand helmet. Nothing major.

2010-05-13T16:20:00.003-05:00

Here we go.

2010-05-06T16:53:00.003-05:00

Heading to Vegas for the first (and likely last) time to celebrate Michaela's upcoming wedding.

I'll post when I return! (Dear God I hope I return.)

My kind’s your kind, I’ll stay the same

2010-04-30T15:47:00.005-05:00

I wish with everything in me that I could relive a few distinct moments, in particular those instances when I was stalled in the midst of a hasty departure by my dad calling after me, “Catherine, let me make you a map.” I’d duck back inside to find him poised at the dining room table with a red Bic pen in hand, carefully studying a larger map of St. Louis. The fodder for his map. My map.

This was a pre-GPS era. It probably wasn’t pre-MapQuest for the rest of the world, but it was for us, when going online involved a 10-minute symphony of beeps, hisses and static as our little Packard Bell clawed desperately at the outer limits of cyberspace. Attempting to create driving directions would cause a definite crash and a potential seismic shift.

If I had it my way, I’d just jump in the old Geo Prism and rely on my memory to get me where I needed to go. I pride myself on a particularly keen sense of direction, and I rarely got lost. But my dad had the foresight to realize that my mind map might one day fail me – that I could potentially leave to meet my friends for a movie and end up at an abandoned strip club across the Mississippi.

The entire process was a lesson in patience. I had places to go, Steak ‘n Shakes to loiter in, Weezer lyrics to overanalyze, cigarettes to not smoke, memories to make. But first, I had to wait in the front hall, sighing and pacing as he drew arrows, sketched landmarks and wrote out street names in his patented all-caps font. The final result was so precise, so endearingly perfect that I’d soon enough forget my frustration over missing the first five minutes of Bowfinger.

In hindsight, I wish I’d saved at least one of those maps instead of letting them get buried and broken under piles of physics books and pools of sun-warmed soda. I can’t say I ever completely depended on them to reach a destination, but they were always next to me for the journey, and that part hasn’t really changed at all.

From Slate:
Wonderful hand-drawn maps from firefighters, club-hoppers, Boy Scout dads, grandmothers, and Alexander Calder.

(Image from Slate)

Happy 30th Birthday

2010-04-27T09:32:00.002-05:00

Like the musical hotdog card hidden in your lunchbox says, we just make sense together. Thank you for keeping me in your heart. Happy birthday!

Lights, psychos, Furbies, screaming babies in Mozart wigs, sunburned drifters with soapsud beards...

2010-04-26T16:25:00.006-05:00

By far the funniest thing I've seen on SNL this season:

Note: I totally screwed up the quote in my headline yesterday. It has since been corrected. So embarrassed...

Spicy Szechuan Chick Lit

2010-04-23T12:27:00.005-05:00

Spicy Szechuan Style Vegetables and Chicken, you are my new favorite frozen meal. Always at arm's reach when the idea of putting things between bread seems too time consuming, too overwhelming, too involved. You taste frozen enough to remind me that I am at work, with enough zucchini to convince me that you are healthier than something with no vegetables at all.
____________________
Speaking of tasteless consumption, this post was actually supposed to be about a book I just read. The other day, I found myself saying to Matt, "I just want to finish this book so I can write a blog post about it and then never talk about it ever again." Having reached the finish line a few days ago, this post is way overdue.

For some odd reason, I got it in my head that I wanted to read Amy Sohn's Prospect Park West. I'd developed this slight fascination with Brooklyn's Park Slope neighborhood's parental culture simply because Gawker sometimes talks about it. I knew the book was an easy read, full of namedropping and metaphors comparing human emotions to expensive objects like strollers and shoes. The straw that broke the Manolo's heel (I don't think that worked, which is why I don't write chick lit) was the fact that it took me approximately forever to finish On the Road, a book that seventh graders can read in one sitting, while texting. All of this created the perfect storm that propelled me to order Prospect Park West from Amazon's marketplace for $6.

And here I sit, still debating whether or not I want my $6 back (it would be enough to buy three Spicy Szechuan Style Vegetables and Chicken meals). I'm no better for having read this fictional romp through an upper-class neighborhood populated by over-medicated movie stars and self-righteous super moms. The plot kept getting more ridiculous as the story lines began to overlap, sort of like the movie "Crash" if you replaced the racial tension with references to sleeping pills.

I bet by now you're thinking a) it sounds like she hated this book and b) this isn't the blog I was looking for. But believe me, I'm grateful to PPW for getting me through a slump when anything more intellectually stimulating was completely out of the question. If I hadn't been reading about playground politics and affairs between food coop workers, I would've been drawing finger pictures in bathroom mirror condensation and wishing I'd spent my $6 on a smutty read instead of frozen meals.

So now I'm back on the literary straight and narrow. Next up: Illumination and Night Glare, an autobiography of Carson McCullers that my sister gave me for Christmas. No condo board squabbles or chardonnay hangovers in that one. At least I don't think so.

Slowly, but surely...

2010-04-22T10:28:00.004-05:00

I have begun dressing like an elementary school art teacher. One piece of the puzzle at a time, I now feel uncomfortable in anything that isn't garishly colorful and unflatteringly comfortable. One jumper and two dangly cat earrings away from a water color dinosaur.

Stove Sweet Stove

2010-04-08T09:18:00.005-05:00

Growing up, we had a wooden toy stove - a really stark, simple toy with sliding panels that allowed us to keep important things inside, like plastic pots and pans, rubber WWF figurines and stolen cans of soup. When I'd outgrown the stove, disregarding the fact that my siblings had not, I made the offhand suggestion to my mom that it would make a good dollhouse. This was bullshit because anyone looking at it would agree that it would make a bad dollhouse. But I was still at the age where I thought building a slide next to the basement stairs and cushioning the landing with Easter grass was a brilliant idea, so, you know...

But my mom, never one to back down from a challenge if thrift is involved, went to work turning the simple stove into an equally simple dollhouse. It had four rooms and an attic with a removable roof. An artist friend painted the front butter yellow with creeping ivy. And before unveiling it to us, my mom filled the inside with Victorian-era Playmobile furniture that looked amazing but tasted really bitter if you licked it. Everything about the dollhouse was anachronistic and mismatched in scale, but we loved it and took special care never to let the people inside know that they were living in a converted oven.

The years gave way to other dollhouses - the kind with staircases, chimneys and porches, but the sturdy stove was the one to survive falls off shelves, dog attacks and small cousins looking for places to hide half-eaten pieces of cake. As far as I know, it's still sitting in the basement, waiting for the day when my robot children or cat children can lay claim to it. And at that time, I'll be able to say, "Gather round robots/cats, and I'll tell you the story of how a fake stove became a real home."

All of this is a segue to a piece in today's New York Times about modernist dollhouses. Intriguing for anyone who likes dollhouses (past me) and modern design (current me, in theory).

Modernist Dollhouses

“The whole world was tamed by men who ate biscuits.”

2010-03-29T16:22:00.006-05:00

The weekend of three movies…

After finally returning the Netflix I’d been carrying around in my car for nearly a month (Herb & Dorothy and the last disc of season five of Weeds), I rearranged my queue to allow for any new releases. Up next in the docket: Julie & Julia and Brothers.

The older and more crotchety I get, the less interested I am in going out on Friday nights. After a long workweek, it just seems like an expensive way to ruin an otherwise productive Saturday. A sober Friday means spinning class and errands on Saturday morning, whereas a drunken Friday means no Saturday morning at all. Just groggy stumbling and scrambled eggs that I will regret eating two minutes after the last bite.

So instead, we took the classy route – we watched a movie about the life and times of a famed gourmet chef while eating Long John Silvers’ famed gourmet fried fish parts. When all was said and done, we were both satisfied by the hush puppies, but Matt was less than pleased with the movie. I, on the other hand, was able to look past Amy Adams’ characters’ vapidity and mullet to thoroughly enjoy the “Julia” parts, the scenes in which Meryl Streep is tall and talented and Stanley Tucci is short and good natured, true to form.

Movie 2: Crazy Heart, seen Saturday afternoon. This was originally a movie I felt I needed to see for street cred. Like it would cancel out the fact that I’d paid to watch Valentine’s Day two weeks before. And when we found out it was still playing in Omaha, we knew we had to hop to it before it was too late.

I’m glad we did because it was great – great music, great performances, about a dozen great shots of Jeff Bridges’ slack, sweaty, whisky-filled stomach. In one particular scene, Bad Blake (Bridges) is making biscuits for Maggie Gyllenhaal’s young son, and he utters the quote I used as a title. So, you know, good biscuit quotes. If you have the chance to see it before it’s out of the theaters, it’s worth the $10 (and the other $10 you’ll probably spend on the soundtrack).

Movie 3: After an evening at The Brothers, drinking good cocktails and playing one particularly bad game of darts, it took everything in me to get outside in the sunlight on Sunday and hobble around pretending to exercise. So when Dana and Brandon reminded me that we’d talked about watching Mulholland Drive that afternoon, I was all in. Just like fried fish and Julia Child go together, so do beautiful Sunday afternoons and David Lynch movies.

I have less to say about this one. It was baffling, as expected. After falling asleep thinking about the various plot points: dwarfs, decomposing bodies, the creepy synthesized score, Justin Theroux, cowboys and the logistics of fitting all things disturbing into one film, I gave in and sought the help of experts this morning. I’m not sure whether the various online analyses confirmed my theory, or whether my theory came out of smarter people’s analyses. Either way, no hay banda!

Silencio.

Awesome for multiple reasons

2010-03-26T15:05:00.007-05:00

Bird and the Bee. Hall and Oates. Super pregnant. Great song.

Spin article about the album

Ah well...

2010-03-24T12:13:00.008-05:00

After growing my hair out until it looked like a dog-chewed Barbie head, synthetic and gnarled, I got a haircut. It was supposed to look like this:

...but I forgot my picture, and my ability to describe things is less than keen. So instead, it looks kind of like this (the one on the right).

Or maybe more like this.

Life, via my hair, comes full circle.

On this St. Paddy's Day eve...

2010-03-16T15:55:00.009-05:00

My mom is barely Irish… like, probably more Na’vi than Irish, but because she’s German and French and Native American (I think) and Brazilian (probably not), and therefore unlabelable, we opted to identify with my dad’s side of the family tree (or, as my mom’s ancestors would call it, the Tree of Souls).

We leached off his 100% Irish status from the time we could eat horseshoe-shaped marshmallows. This was particularly easy for me because I was round, pale and freckled and could have been an overfed extra in Angela’s Ashes. My sister and I took up Irish dancing in grade school, sleeping in hard pink plastic curlers, wearing heavy embroidered dresses, and performing reels and jigs at nursing homes, shopping malls and the occasional hotel ballroom. During an especially awkward stage, I played famed Dublin street hawker Molly Malone in the St. Patrick’s Day parade, my black fingernails clutching her wheelbarrow of cockles and mussels.

After years of tentative planning and speculation, we actually made it to Ireland as a family in 2004. We spent two weeks hauling our luggage from county to county, pointing at signs featuring our last name with the elusive “g,” kissing walls, leaning over cliffs and reveling in the place where it all began – at some point, in a town that now longer existed (having been incorporated into rainy Galway).

In sum, my dad’s heritage became an integral part of our family’s identity. He was buried in his green and navy shamrock tie, while the rest of us donned some sort of reciprocal emblem.

Now I face my first St. Patrick’s day as a Kraemer, having lost the distinctly Irish last name that served as my automatic pass into drunken conversations, my badge of pride every March 17. I have a bit more Oktoberfest clout, but a little less St. Patrick's Day credibility. I’m trying to face it like a man and remember that it’s what’s in your DNA and on your head (Kiss Me, I’m Irish antennae) that matter, but it’s still hard… like the Blarney Stone… or a rock.*

*A difficult traditional Irish dance movement. Also, a pun.

Happy birthday, Chuck Norris

2010-03-11T09:13:00.001-06:00

A shameless marital plug...

2010-03-02T17:48:00.004-06:00

After this I'll be done linking to other people's work and write something of my own, but I thought I'd share something intellectually stimulating first. Matt has always been a veracious reader, but as of late he's become an equally veracious Goodreads user, updating his bookshelf regularly and writing book reviews on an almost daily basis. Because I do not read as... consistently (unless you count food packaging and anything with baby bump in the headline), I haven't even read a fraction of the books he's reviewed. But sometimes I read his reviews anyway, and - if I didn't witness him writing them, holed up in the upstairs office as I frolic around, making messes and indulging in short-lived hobbies, I'd swear these were written by an honest to goodness professional. The kind that gets paid in money (whereas Matt is compensated through the overwhelming adoration of the Goodreads community). Anyway, I thought I'd spread the literary love and provide a link to his page. You might have to join Goodreads to see it, but then you'll be able to make fun of the books I've read (and haven't read), and that's a pretty decent bonus.

Matt Kraemer's Goodreads Page

2010-02-26T09:03:00.002-06:00

This is Annie...

And this is her tumblr. You should check it out! She's way more into pictures, inspiration, conciseness and updating than I am.

You could sense that I was missing Chicago a great deal, couldn't you?

2010-02-25T08:56:00.002-06:00

Thank you, Lauren. You are fantastic.

TCOB

2010-02-24T13:12:00.006-06:00

Ignorance is totally bliss. I love ignorance. But the fallout from ignorance that has gone too far for too long is the opposite of bliss. It's blisslessness. And it's harsh. Left to my own devices, I'll ignore anything I can - obligations, bills, due dates set far into the future. But lately, those months and years of denying reality have come back to haunt me, most recently when some dude in Plano, Texas, opened a cable account on my dime because I would rather stare at the wall than return phone calls from concerned creditor. So while I was putting packs of gum on my Visa, he was watching $7 On Demand movies, probably a dozen a night, all complements of my dumb, blissful self.

With that little incident acting as the cable account that broke my glass castle of denial, I've decided to TCOB. First on the Business of Which To Take Care list was following up with the identify theft. Today I continued to TCOB by taking our new car into the dealership for the so-called Platinum Package, wherein they rustproof and Scotchgard the car for a million dollars. Or rather, they charge you a million dollars at the time of purchase and assume that you will forget. Dealership gets your money; you get rust on your doors and taco sauce stains on your seats. So I stuck it to the man by actually showing up, and actually taking the rental car they'd promised, and actually taking care of business. Next up? Thank you notes, the alternative being a lifetime of awkward Thankgivings and the scorn of the polite and elderly.

Never pick sides, Never choose between two

2010-02-22T21:32:00.003-06:00

"I Think Ur A Contra" by Vampire Weekend sounds vaguely like Joni Mitchell, which I think is why I was open to it in the first place, having been mislead by a split-second conclusion and background noise. You should listen to if if you get a chance. It's wonderful.

Hoarding Possibility

2010-02-15T20:08:00.003-06:00

A few weeks ago, as I rode home from the bar in Adam's car, my head lodged at a 90-degree angle against the ceiling, one of the other 74 passengers mentioned that the 49er was rumored to be closing to make way for a CVS. Drunk on whiskey and my love of convenience, I let out the lone cheer. Everyone else gasped in unison, horrified that I could applaud the destruction of a landmark, the end of an era, simply because it would mean easy access to half-gallons of milk and Cover Girl products. To backtrack a bit, the 49er is a bar in our neighborhood -- dive-ish in nature, host to hopeful bands and patient patrons. It's a cool place, but the truth is, I haven't set foot inside in more than four years, and I'm almost sure none of my friends have either. Their need to protect its bricks and lukewarm beer from the evils of corporate convenience stemmed from pure nostalgia and the idea that maybe, possibly, they might return for a drink one day. In this particular instance, I expressed remorse for my temporary delight and joined team 49er. I haven't heard any more about that rumor since, so it could be that one of my friends just pulled it out of their bored butts.

But it got me thinking -- don't we all sort of hoard possibility? Much like the semi-senile women on TLC keep rotting pumpkins in their bathtubs, cats in their freezers and 300 jars of mayonnaise on the basement stairs, I tend to accumulate a large number of people, places and things I simply like the existence of. I like that restaurant because it's there, and maybe one day we'll eat there... but probably not. I like knowing those rekindled Facebook friendships could maybe possibly lead to in-person reunions one day, but probably not. I like knowing the nooks and crannies of Omaha's more eclectic neighborhoods exist, but exploring them takes energy, so instead I draw satisfaction from their mere existence. I have friends in places I'll never visit, memories of places I'll never return to, reams of possibility I'll never make real. But it's all there, just in case.

I guess I'd liken the 49er to Conan O'Brien. I liked knowing he was there, and even though I admittedly never watched Late Night anymore, when he was bumped from the Tonight Show, I felt that pang of regret knowing I'd gotten by for the past four years on the idea that I could watch him if I wanted to. I imagine the same is true for a good number of people who were With Coco or whatever.

So is there a point? Not really... I'd like to try and reflect on the possibilities I've been keeping in my body-size freezer, throwing some away once and for all and making the others a reality. Because any day now, that rotting pumpkin could become a CVS. A convenient, convenient CVS.

Recommendations of the citrus variety.

2010-01-16T15:10:00.003-06:00

Clementines - You can eat upwards of three in a day and avoid the aching guilt that comes from eating three Pop Tarts in a minute, not that I have ever done that.

The Trapeze Swinger by Iron & Wine - I'm well aware that this song is fairly old. Apparently it's on the "In Good Company" soundtrack, which means it dates back to around the time Topher Grace was still a household name (although he'll always be a household name in our household). I've never been one to stand perched on the cutting edge of anything. I was like 23 by the time I saw "The Cutting Edge." But in my humble and belated opinion, this song is beautiful. If I were planning my funeral and wanted to make people sit through a seven-minute montage featuring pictures of me when I was young and alive and wore over-sized Animaniacs t-shirts, I'd ask for this song to be played (right after the mimes hand out communion).

The Hurt Locker - Not going to launch into a review here. An amazing movie. For a few days after we watched it, I kept mistaking piles of my own crumpled gym clothes for IEDs.

Bloody Mary's - I had one at Applebee's last night that was pretty sub par (for those of you who live outside of Omaha, Applebee's is a restaurant we have here). But I had one at Wheatfield's this morning that wasn't half bad. Either way, I fulfilled yesterday's dream of drinking one within the next 12 to 24 hours.

And last, but not least, Conversations with Walgreens Service Clerks. I had a really good conversation with the girl working at Walgreens this morning. It sort of set the town for an all-around decent day (I shouldn't get ahead of myself since it's only 3:40). But if you have the opportunity, go for it. Even if it means buying another extension cord or getting next year's Christmas cards made.

Picture this.

2009-12-29T17:19:00.013-06:00

In an effort to cut wedding corners, we only invited people who promised us gifts like cruises and horses, we served guests a variety of cheap but salty microwaveable frozen dinners (include a vegetarian option for those willing to remove small bits of dehydrated ham), and we hired our photographer from Craigslist. Craigslist is a wasteland of gently used Danish Modern furniture and serial killers, so I guess you could say we lucked out, in that said photographer was neither a killer nor was she seeking a missed connection or a leather love seat.

Now that the cloud of Facebook photos has dissipated, some beautiful and others candid (mostly of me letting my chin retreat into my neck), I've finally taken the time to look at (and pay for) the actual professional photos. Here are a few of my favorites...

So far, I've received every sacrament at this church. One hot May in sixth grade, we read Lord of the Flies here - a dark, echoing, refreshing alternative to our humid classroom.

I like this picture because it looks like the end of a basketball game.

And this one because it looks like we're in a community theater production of The Crucible.

My cousin Alice - the greatest, most beautiful flower girl I've ever had in any of my weddings.

I like this one in an unfunny sort of way.

They were asked to cheer, but nearly everyone did a passable job of looking sincere.

Riding off into the sunset... or around the block and back to the church parking lot.

One More Sleep Til Christmas

2009-12-24T22:50:00.003-06:00

Since the start of the Christmas season, I've watched four different versions of A Christmas Carol (five if you count the version that takes place in space and has four ghosts and a small amount of time travel). We kicked off the holiday season by going to see the motion-capture Jim Carrey version (my love for Colin Firth has now taken on a third dimension). This was followed by a really, really old version that Matt ordered from Amazon... and then the George C. Scott version. And finally - I say finally because I'm pretty sure I've reached my quota - we spent the latter half of our Christmas Eve in St. Louis watching A Muppet Christmas Carol. It is far and away my favorite. Time to sleep! Merry Christmas.

Babies, etc.

2009-12-22T08:51:00.008-06:00

Over the past month, my friends have taken it upon themselves to repopulate the planet, birthing babies all over town, filling orphanages, setting records, receiving donated 14-passenger vans from generous members of rural church congregations, and using up all of the names I've had on the secret baby name list that I began composing in grade school (#1. Nancykerigan, #2. Bill Guttenberg Pullman).

In reality, only two babies were born to only two of my friends in November and December, but that in itself is a feat -- many of us are still struggling to take care of ourselves, much less take responsibility for the health and well being a new, impressionable life. So with that I say...

Congratulations, Meg and Kael! Brody Daniel Busing is the greatest, handsomest baby I have ever had the privilege of giving a bottle to. Let's hope his keen ability to cover his eyes with his hands will serve him well later in life, when his parents embarrass him.

And congratulations, Katie and Keith! Although I have yet to meet Natalie Ann Hamlin, I can safely assume that she is beautiful, awesome and always up for a cold beer or a lively discussion surrounding the personal lives of high school classmates.

Love you all... thank you for giving me small, automatic friends for Christmas.

When it comes to breakfast, I cannot win.

2009-12-17T08:12:00.002-06:00

I've been on a low-key hunt for an ideal breakfast food over the past few weeks - something delicious that does not require milk... something that can be eaten in the car without an excess of crumbs and can be eaten in front of others without embarrassment or shame. Something wholesome, but not excessive - containing an acceptable amount of fiber without exfoliating the inside of my mouth.

This morning, in an effort to get to work a bit early, I chose car toast... only the bread was too cool and the butterish spread was too cold, and the result was congealed and disappointing.

But onward and upward! I will not let this set the tone for my day.

I don't feel different. Do I sound different?

2009-12-12T12:10:00.005-06:00

I guess marriage only makes you boring if you let it. To be completely honest with myself, I wasn't that exciting before, and now the only difference is that I get to float along in this tedious sea with someone else. It's noon on a Saturday, and I've already eaten the rest of my Mini Wheats, watched two episodes of Lost and trolled the internet for whatever funny videos of post-op face lift patients and Jersey Shore clips I missed during the week. So, you know, the usual.

I've also spent the last few weeks noticing things and making mental notes to blog about them, or at least mention them in conversation or write them in an e-mail (a funny e-mail, one not to be wasted on parents or business). When it comes to Matt, I've noticed that his disdain for dishwashers is far more deep-seated and sincere than was originally thought, almost to the point where I'm beginning to suspect a traumatic childhood run-in with a Maytag. When it comes to life, I've noticed that a singular source of frustration can fester and bubble until sandwiches don't taste good anymore and even e-mailed videos of kittens that wave their arms in surprise aren't as cute anymore, but this only happens if you let it. And when it comes to the bitter, bitter cold of a Midwestern winter, I've learned that Chicago made me smart, at least when it comes to layers (and time management!). Not so long ago, you might've found me wearing Umbros in a blizzard or eschewing hats as merely a decorative way to make your hair look worse than it already does. Now I won't leave the house wearing anything less than everything I own. I have a feeling this also has something to do with me slowly turning into my parents, but that's another story for another day. One that involves Bloody Marys and narcolepsy.

Time to go! More to come.

I have a sadness shield that keeps out all the sadness, and it's big enough for all of us.

2009-10-22T13:28:00.008-05:00

If I've said this once, I've said it twice (this being the second time, or possibly third). When my days lose structure, my mind loses momentum and all of the thoughts I think collect behind my ear until they're spit out as drool and toothpaste.

I've been home since the beginning of September, adapting to the same routine I had during high school summers... only this time I'm getting married, so that sort of changes things. I wake up earliesh and eat Frosted Mini Wheats, which I used to think tasted like little baskets. But times change and tastes change and suddenly not buying the groceries means you will eat whatever is in the cabinet, from celery salt to candy canes.

Wash the Wheats down with weak coffee, peruse various Web sites (celebrity and otherwise), try to hit the gym at the exact time when the youngs leave for work and the olds are still in the middle of their morning naps. This particular gym, chosen for its proximity to my mom's house, serves as a source of mid-day entertainment for wealthy housewives who don't mind handing their children off to gym-employed strangers if it means three hours on the elliptical, and elderly people who have yet to realize that they are too fragile for leg lifts.

After that, well, sometimes I shower, sometimes I eat lunch, sometimes I write form-letter thank you notes for holiday hand towels and measuring spoons. And it's pretty much all down hill from there. Internet. Glue gun. Casserole. Law and Order rerun. Sleep. Repeat. (But to be fair, it is sort of blissful in its own way, and I will miss this unadulterated time with my mom when life becomes normal once again.)
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My youngest brother fell victim to a nasty infection behind his ear, which brought him home from the dorms and into this den of early dinners and hapless DIY endeavors. (Thank you, Paul! You made the last two weeks really fun, and you're getting better to boot!) We went to see Where the Wild Things Are on Monday night, and while it could've been 20 minutes shorter (a little less dirt clod throwing, perhaps?), I really enjoyed it. After all, muted colors, a scrappy child, giant felt monsters with celebrity voices and a twee soundtrack is a formula for guaranteed cinematic success in my book.
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It is raining.
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If you watch Mad Men, you should be reading the Slate TV Club's reflections of the previous night's episode. It will make you slap the side of your head and think of everyone and everything, from neighbor Francine to Don's pajamas, in a new way. It also makes that dreamy, tipsy feeling one gets while watching Mad Men last that much longer, and that is fine by me.
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And finally, if you live in Chicago (or can find the motivation to get there within the next few weeks), I suggest that you go see Mrs. Gruber's Ding Dong School. It's Robot vs. Dinosaur's latest show, and it runs through mid-November at the Gorilla Tango Theater in Bucktown. Full disclosure: I have one sketch in the show, but please don't let that deter you (rumor has it the show is insanely funny). I'll be there on Halloween; I'll save you a seat.

Want to know more? Read Don Hall's review here .

Where I sit...

2009-09-14T20:48:00.009-05:00

Day in and day out, flanked by our diabetic family cat (I had originally written this as "fat" - freudian slip) as he lies on the floor and pretends to preen. The dining room has become my new office. During the day, there are jackhammers and at night just the dull, gurgly hum of a window-unit air conditioner. If I were any more motivated, I'd try for something more comfortable and less... everything I just mentioned, but ah well...

I wrote this piece the other day and found out that it was published (Web style) today. I did not come up with that title, but it works well. My essay aside, Double X is a great blog -- one I highly recommend to guys and ladies alike.

Time to move to another room! My butt is beginning to bear the imprint of the pears embroidered on this dining room chair.

This is not goodbye. It's just a long break between animal crackers.

2009-09-09T11:01:00.009-05:00

Have you given up on me? I mean, if you did, I would completely understand. It's like that raccoon that sat on top of the telephone pole behind your house for a week and then suddenly disappeared. After a while, you just stop looking.

As it happens, I have left Chicago for the more murderous and less expensive pastures of St. Louis, before I proceed to Omaha in November. I normally leave personal details out of my blog posts, replacing them with vague references to feelings and hopes and dreams, but I feel it necessary to explain that I am leaving to get married. And I couldn't be happier... unless PBS decided to run a primetime "Today's Special" reunion episode, under which circumstances I would be happiest. Anyway, I imagine I'll write more about wedding things down the road. This, however, is a time for reflection.

I arrived in Chicago in November of 2007, fresh from a breakup (with the person I'm now marrying) and eager to test my own fortitude in a city I'd always dreamed of inhabiting. During my first few months, I turned one friend into a few acquaintances. I was cold sometimes. Drunk often. Lonely always. I survived on carrots and mustard and weekend visits from friends. And occasionally... just occasionally, I wondered what the fuck I had done.

Fast forward to Valentine's Day, 2008. I was working for a PR firm and hating love and eager to get home to my carrots and mustard when a co-worker, who up until this point had been known only to me as the one girl I think I could probably be friends with, swung by my office and made a joke in passing about spending a lonely holiday at Chili's. We glanced back and forth for a minute before we both realized the sad truth: we had nothing better to do than to make this quip a reality. At 5:30, we braved the wind and walked west on Ontario to a Chili's restaurant otherwise populated by starry-eyed tourists. We drank expensive margaritas, followed by expensive beer, chased by cheap chips and salsa, and talked about where we had been up until this point. Nothing very remarkable, but we were hopeful.

This person, by the way, is Lauren Svoboda, resident person on my list of top Chicago-related accomplishments.

When you spend Valentine's day at Chili's with a person under unexpected and somewhat sad circumstances, you sort of cement yourself to them because you share a secret that you will laugh quietly about every time it crosses your mind. And you will laugh loudly when you are together.

At this point, it was all downhill in an uphill sort of way, as I had finally made a friend that I could complain to and not feel like a burden, call and not feel like a telemarketer, cry in front of and not feel like a zoo animal. When my dad died, Lauren was the person I called to say that, for the time being, I would not be at work. And three months later, when I received walking orders from my employer, she was the person I called once I'd hauled my belongings home and taken a moment to realize the enormity of the situation.

And when I called, I found out that she had suffered the same fate. If, when I am old and a little closer to dying, I think back on my life in phases, like the time I was listlessly detached or the time I was monumentally happy, this will be the time I was poor, confused and thoroughly entertained. We spent our mornings talking about going to the library that afternoon, our afternoons at the zoo and our evenings drinking sugary pre-mixed cocktails, knowing full well that we had nothing to wake up for in the morning, except maybe lunch.

Getting laid off with someone is sort of like going to Chili's on Valentine's Day only slightly more raw. And thus the cement grows stronger.

A month later, we were back to work but not back to normal. At this point, I would mention Lauren's name in conversation with family and friends in other cities and states, as if by osmosis they knew exactly who she was, what she was like and what enormous role she had taken on in my life. To everyone outside of Chicago, she was a ghost and a super hero and a character from the short story I was writing with this portion with my daily existence.

In reality, we spent a great deal of time drinking things and eating things and watching things and talking about things that usually remained off limits to everyone else. Sometimes we would watch One Tree Hill, sip whisky and tap water and wonder where the months and days had gone since October 16, 2008, and when our novels would be published.

I'm not exactly sure what I wanted to get out of my sudden, unplanned and seemingly immature move to Chicago. I wanted to do the writing program at Second City, ride on buses and trains, carry an umbrella and learn to navigate my way through large crowds. I wanted to go to concerts (I probably made it to four) and do vaguely adventurous things. I did not expect to make really good friends, but that's perhaps the one area in which I was most successful. The number is small, but the people are good. And the very best of all is Lauren Svoboda.

So thanks, Lauren, for not only being the sole reader of my blog, but also my favorite person in Chicago and one of the greatest friends I've ever had. I'll see you in October. Save me some triscuits and please be waiting with a hug.

Beautiful

2009-08-20T12:43:00.003-05:00

I know it’s probably odd to emerge from my no-blogging closet to praise a women’s magazine, but I felt compelled to do so. Besides, it’s dark in there, and it smells like old Keds and tennis balls.

I can’t say I stumbled upon this on my own – I don’t subscribe to any of these magazines, and when I buy them individually, I usually opt for Marie Claire because it’s the French version of my sister’s name and I get a few more pages for my buck (granted, that likely amounts to a few more perfume ads and subscription cards, but oh well). Instead, I found this by way of Jezebel, which I hit up daily, usually during lunch.

To preface, I don’t have much of a soapbox when it comes to the way women are portrayed in lady mags. Not because I don’t think it’s fucked up, but more because it seems like the dead horse has been ground into glue, and the fashion industry will always opt for the expensive, the impractical and the emaciated, when given an option. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t pleasantly surprised by Glamour’s use of a not even plus-sized, but a just plain normal model in its most recent issue.

I have these moments that occur from time to time in the locker room at the gym, when I catch someone changing out of the corner of my eye (in an accidental, non-dirty way), and I find myself breathing this silent sight of relief – because that’s how I look. That’s how my stomach looks, or that’s how my legs look, my butt, my back. And that’s exactly how I felt when I saw this picture. That immense sigh of relief.

It’s sad to think that in between those moments, I’ve somehow been convinced that I’m abnormal, slightly bigger or doughier or awkwardly shaped than everyone else. It sucks, and I have a feeling I’m not the only one. It’d be nice to go through life without that distorted sense of physical self brought on by pictorials of skinny Russian models riding tigers or whatever.

So maybe my soapbox needs to be bigger, since it’s virtually impossible not to be an unwitting victim of the images put in front of you. Regardless, kudos to Glamour for taking a look at the world through everyone else’s eyes. I hope it’s not just a glimpse.

Not bitter – just wiser.

2009-07-21T15:43:00.003-05:00

Any real excitement in my life has ground to a halt (case in point: I just spent five minutes attempting to eat Lean Cuisine sauce with my fingers while avoiding the confused and pitiful gazes of coworkers). So when my brother, Joe, announced that he would be making a visit to Chicago this past weekend, I attempted to prepare by putting Jeopardy on mute and drinking half a sugar-free Red Bull. Joe returned from his semester abroad in Chile on Wednesday, and it just so happened that his girlfriend, Meg, would be in Chicago for the weekend. I found out a few days before said visit that it all centered around a 21st birthday celebration… one that I was told I could attend (insert same level of sauce-licking pity here). I coolly expressed indifference, spouting vague “maybe I will, maybe I won’t” excuses as I fought my fears/exhaustion and worked on convincing myself that 26 is only five years older than 21, and five years is nothing… unless you’re a five-year-old or a carton of milk.

As we meandered back from a bar near my house so Joe and Meg could drop off their belongings and touch base with friends, I spotted my roommate Kayla, already somewhat tipsy from dinner and therefore vulnerable and maybe, just maybe, open to an evening of bad decision making. I was in luck, and having found a similarly ancient companion, surrendered to the invitation. Twenty minutes later, we were out of the cab and staring into the steaming mess of drunk that was McGee’s.

It’s at this point that I slipped into observer mode, conducting myself not as a Gap-wearing fish out of water, but as a sociologist of sorts. And I stared unashamedly. At conversations that went from formalities to full-on make outs in just seconds, at girls who’d given up on trying to make their eyes focus hours ago, at Harry Potter lookalikes downing shots of shitty tequila and trying with all their might to exude machismo. When the DJ played “Back That Ass Up,” a staple of my high school years, I wondered what it meant to this crowd. Is it like the “Ice Ice Baby” of my set? Fun and danceable but always listened to with an underlying sense of irony? I never thought I’d feel so strangely possessive of anything performed by Juvenile.

I was brought back to reality when the Doogie Howser of DePaul called Kayla “ma’am,” at which point it was mutually decided that we would call it a night, while Joe and company forged ahead to a four-o’clock bar. A quick Godspeed in their direction, and we were on our way home, tired, drunk and no longer sure of our place in the circle of life.

What I do know is this: I may not be old, but the space between 21 and 26 is a chasm. In it you’ll find lessons learned, a lot of hangovers, a few harsh realities, not as many successes as you’d expect, but not as many mistakes or failures either. Something in it renders you slightly more self-conscious of your own existence, but slightly less concerned with the opinions and reactions of others. Not the girl in the leggings puking in time to a Michael Jackson medley, not the choch in the bowtie whose deck shoes are stuck to the floor, and certainly not Doogie Howser.

Please say it's Breakstone...

2009-07-09T15:59:00.002-05:00

Right now I’m really into reading online reviews of the food I eat… while I’m eating it. Which is sort of stupid and counterintuitive, and more often than not, it dictates my own opinion. It makes sense to read a review before buying a product in the first place. But the other day, as I was about to mosey into the kitchen to heat up a Healthy Choice frozen meal, I decided to humor myself by reading the popular opinion first. The reactions I found were so strongly worded, so impassioned regarding the inedibility of this particular meal, so detailed in their disgust (I think someone compared the flavor to a Glade candle), that I threw it away and ate paper clips.

I just caught myself Googling “best cottage cheese,” hoping to God I’d find that everyone loved the cottage cheese I was already in the process of eating. Thinking somehow that just because I think it tastes like Wite-Out and sand, that someone else will think it’s amazing, causing me to reevaluate my opinion.
No such luck.

(Spoons out last bite of cottage cheese and chases it with a piece of gum.)

Everyone loves a parade (or) Pride and Screwdrivers

2009-07-02T16:56:00.005-05:00

Living in Boystown provides ample opportunity for visits to the lakefront, feasting on noodles and getting downtown without much time or fuss. On the flipside, our neighborhood is just far enough east that sometimes it feels like we’ve broken off and drifted into Lake Michigan, an island of small dogs and Asian food. We don’t have many festivals, novel bars and restaurants or flagship stores to bring in outsiders… except for one weekend a year, when our little Northside island becomes the center of the universe.

We moved to our apartment last year in May, about a month before Pride, and my trial by fire put be in bed by 3:00 in the afternoon with a hangover that woke me up at midnight (the festival is pretty equal opportunity, in that drag queens and straight girls fresh from Nebraska can both drink themselves senseless). This year, I knew what to expect. My mom and brother had been in town earlier in the weekend for a family wedding, and it was an unspoken agreement that she would be on her way home early Sunday morning, before the parade started to roll and her soul started to wilt.

I’d promised Lauren pancakes and vodka as early-morning prep for the afternoon’s festivities. Not wanting to brave the grocery store, I stopped into Walgreens after spinning class and bought the dustiest box of pancake mix I could find. By 10:30, we were downing flapjacks and flat champagne, and by noon, we’d positioned ourselves along the parade route, just feet from my front door.

For the next three hours, we collected a wasteful assortment of beads, stickers and pins. A neighbor with a wagon and a cooler refilled our glasses, and slowly, as my skin continued to bake in an unhealthy (and later painful) fashion, the floats started to blend together. Pat Quinn, school children, a gay rugby team and some guy in a van with airbrushed kittens on the side… they could’ve all been in the back of a flatbed truck together; I’m not entirely sure.

As things began to wind down and the last float passed by, we refilled our red plastic cups and took to the parade route, mixing in with stragglers and spectators. It is at this point that my memory gets even hazier. There were high fives and Mexican food and a final pit stop at Friar Tucks, a bar that looks more or less like a Six Flags concession stand. It was here that I drank expensive beer and cut a sloppy rug on a dance floor the size of a handicapped stall. And then I went home. I bought a horrible movie that may or may not star Annette Benning. I threw up. I went to sleep. And I woke up surprisingly hangover free thanks to the aquarium’s worth of water I’d chugged hours before.

Lauren remarked yesterday that she wishes we could do this every Sunday. I’m not so sure, as I like the peace and quiet of the antique stores and noodles. But before my memory started to turn on me, some of those floats - the ones with families and parents and friends brimming with, well, pride - made me get that lump in my throat that will turn to tears if you don’t wash it down with vodka. Every day in Lakeview East is pretty beautiful, but this one in particular takes the cake.

2009-07-02T15:09:00.002-05:00

HERB & DOROTHY Trailer from Herb & Dorothy on Vimeo.

"HERB & DOROTHY tells the extraordinary story of Herbert Vogel, a postal clerk, and Dorothy Vogel, a librarian, who managed to build one of the most important contemporary art collections in history with very modest means. In the early 1960s, when very little attention was paid to Minimalist and Conceptual Art, Herb and Dorothy Vogel quietly began purchasing the works of unknown artists. Devoting all of Herb's salary to purchase art they liked, and living on Dorothy's paycheck alone, they continued collecting artworks guided by two rules: the piece had to be affordable, and it had to be small enough to fit in their one-bedroom Manhattan apartment."

Subterranean: An olfactory journey

2009-06-26T13:38:00.001-05:00

I work above the eastern end of what is commonly referred to as the Pedway – a series of interconnected tunnels that gives Loop workers a place to walk, eat and travel from place to place when the weather is too brutal in either direction – and gives Potbelly another place to stick a franchise (I’m not complaining). While I have little need for the Pedway most of the time, since I usually bring my lunch and am fortunate enough to have a bus stop right outside of my building, I still troll its dark corners from time to time. Often enough to know it well; sporadically enough to still find it fascinating.

Aside from housing an eclectic mix of businesses – small convenience stores, fly-by-night shops with perfume and Kate Spade knockoffs arranged artfully on folding tables; Cosi, Fresh Choice, Burrito Beach, 16 different Dunkin Donuts; the Pedway also houses an eclectic mix of aromas (odors?). I mean, you do the math: no ventilation + dozens upon dozens of places that cook, melt, spray, fry, process and perm = 40 city blocks of unrelenting nasal assault.

I can’t claim to have walked the entire Pedway, but I’ve memorized my path from Houlihan’s, where I begin my journey, all the way until I reemerge at ground level. So, moving eastward…

(Door), appetizer sampler, coffee, ink, Potbelly (burnt), concentrated sandwiches, coffee, coconut shampoo, overripe produce, Sterno Canned Heat, (door), cigarettes, (door), sweaty kids in summer/melted grape popsicles – a thick, cloying smell (which makes no sense because at this point, I’m walking past some sort of small outfit that makes video presentations for Hyatt), hair relaxer, blow dryer heat, rental cars, curry, steam, (door), cool vacuum of museum air, (door), coffee, Mexican breakfast sandwiches, florist’s foam, (escalator), sunlight.

Things to listen to, read, watch... IMHO.

2009-06-18T14:37:00.008-05:00

Truth be told, I do have an iPod (see previous post). I guess I lied for effect, but in my defense, what I own is more like ¾ of an iPod, if that. If Apple is the parent, the iPod Shuffle is its red-headed stepchild’s MP3 player – small, screenless, pathetic, useful only if you are running and/or blind. But you work with what you have, and I recently went on a rare downloading jag, refilling the old Shuffle with new music for an upcoming bus ride home.

Yawns – Frightened Rabbit
We Own the Sky – M83
Quelqu’un m’a dit – Carla Bruni
Shove It (feat. Spank Rock) - Santigold
Re: Stacks – Bon Iver
Lisztomania – Phoenix

Frightened Rabbit makes this summer feel like last summer. Phoenix makes me recall being in Omaha, stuck in hot rush hour traffic. Listening to the French first lady sing makes me think of pastries. All of these songs come with my recommendation (and my $.99).

I just finished reading The Forever War by embedded NYT reporter Dexter Filkins, purchased in haste from the Phoenix airport and relished on a number of recent rainy days. Regardless of your stance on our involvement in Iraq, Filkins’ story takes it out of the news and into someone’s head (his own). Every single thing he sees and hears is jarring and unforgettable. I feel a heightened sense of awareness regarding this war just for having read his relatively short book. Needless to say, this is another recommendation.

For the ladies: DoubleX is a new blog from the folks that brought you Slate.

And one more - happy Thursday!

You can't trust a moai.

2009-06-18T10:15:00.005-05:00

My brother, Joe, recently informed the world via Facebook that he lost his iPod on Easter Island. That sucks, Joe.

Really, really sucks.

I’d like to take a quick break from thanking God I don’t have an iPod to lose or a Polynesian island to lose it on to wish said brother a belated happy birthday. Now that I’ve traveled down this road of birthday wishes, I can’t exactly miss anyone for fear of exclusion from future Thanksgiving dinners. So, a month behind schedule...

Happy 21st birthday, Joe! I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you, but I trust that you underwent a traditional Chilean drunkening, shot glass in hand and tongue firmly in cheek. As soon as you make your way back stateside, we’ll celebrate in style.*

*Style = Sitting on the front steps, drinking white wine out of chipped coffee mugs and throwing rocks at wild turkeys.

Eating my words, as long as they weren't made in a facility that manufactures peanuts.

2009-06-09T09:54:00.003-05:00

Putting aside one particular incident 22 years ago when a cap full of Mr. Bubble left my sensitive skin raw, red (and clean), I have never been allergic to anything. I am so unallergic that I’ve developed an allergy of sorts to other people’s allergies, lacking sympathy for even the most severe reactions. I’m student body president of the school of thought in which cat allergies are imaginary ailments created by haters; where mold, ragweed and pollen allergies are simply signs of weakness, often accompanying nearsightedness and above-average intelligence. All in all, I’ve always assumed allergies are nothing that can’t be solved by some good old-fashioned exposure. Eyes watering? Rub a cat on your face.

I have since changed my tune. Wednesday morning I woke up with hives that began on the back of my head and ended at my ankles. A trip to what I can only assumed was an urgent care facility and a discussion with a man I can only assume was a doctor produced little more than a verbal prescription for Benadryl and the recommendation that I go see my real doctor. The kind with a license.

By the end of the day, my feet and hands were painfully swollen, and the idea of walking to the next room, much less hauling myself to the airport as I was supposed to do the following day, seemed an undesirable alternative to sitting on the couch, watching HSN and counting my welts. I was fine by Friday, when the extreme temperatures of Phoenix burned away any remaining histamines. So now, while I am hive-free, I am also insanely paranoid because I have no clue what I am allergic to. I had a very benign day last Tuesday, typical in every sense. No weird foods; I didn’t ingest any new detergents or lather myself with any new lotions. As a result, everything is suspect. I could be allergic to English Muffins, Dell Computers, Starbucks Coffee, one of my many threadbare cardigans, Bud Light, water, oxygen, any number of TLC shows about unconventional families, sleep, public transportation… the list goes on.

And now I am left to view everything I touch, eat and wear with shifty-eyed suspicion. A trip to an allergist this morning should hopefully clear things up, and it if it turns out I’m allergic to anything but ketchup or cable television, I should be able to cope. If anything, this lesson has taught me that scratching will make it worse and that maybe, just maybe, allergies are real – within reason. But next time you accidentally step on a bee hive, Thomas J., don’t come to me for help.

You can't always get what you want.

2009-06-01T20:16:00.004-05:00

I had never seen it, but I felt strangely akin to it. I knew enough to know that I would like it, possibly love it, and that it would bring comfort in the way 80s family rooms and Dominos pizza and two-liter bottles of Pepsi bring comfort. Call me crazy or illogically nostalgic, but about three weeks ago, I became determined to watch The Big Chill. So on Friday night, while Lauren browsed the outer aisles of Blockbuster for new releases, I hovered in Drama near the Bs. And when she protested, I reminded her that this has been my lifelong dream for the past three weeks. It was either this or nothing. Truth be told, we ended up drinking and watching Twilight, and The Big Chill was left lonely and unwatched. Until now.

It's actually playing as we speak. So far, my thoughts are as follows: No one drinks glasses of milk in the middle of the night anymore. William Hurt is tall and far more attractive than I had previously thought. Kevin Kline has slender legs. If some unspeakable tragedy brings my college friends together ten years from now, we will all get high and confess, through a series of one-on-one conversations commenced on foggy South Carolina streets and in rainy attic guestrooms, that we have all slept with each other -- and that we are wholly, deeply, achingly unsatisfied with all of it. Everything.

And then the Rolling Stones will swell and we will cry. Because of everything and nothing and the kids waiting at home.

Burying the lead.

2009-05-25T16:55:00.007-05:00

(I actually wrote this on Memorial Day and just sort of left it without hitting "publish post")

Keeping up a blog is sort of like adopting a stray cat, in that you do it with good intentions, but if you fail to provide the cat with food, attention and the occasional pat on the head, it could turn on you, or die, or become so poorly behaved that your friends stop coming over. And at the same time, you want to do everything right because it is better to either have an impressive cat or no cat at all (impressive = the occasional trick/litter-box trained/declawed, at least in the front). A mediocre cat makes you nervous. It stares at you when you watch TV and gives you nothing but guilt and one more hassle do deal with when you want to go out of town.

A friend suggested going the narrative route -- just talking about the day to day. I guess I've been doing that to a certain extent already, but it always feel super self-indulgent to simply talk about the goings on in life like everyone should know and everyone should care.

I've been traveling on the weekends fairly frequently, sometimes to other midwestern cities, but usually to St. Louis. This past/current weekend marked a particularly important occasion for travel, since my youngest brother was graduating from high school. Add to that a friend's wedding and Paul's graduation party, and there was no excuse not to come home. My sister had flown in from Honduras the week before, and Joe was to fly in from Chile on Saturday. I came home Thursday night, Matt flew in from Omaha Friday afternoon. I'm so used to experiencing my family in little bits and pieces now, and the idea of all of us at once in one place for one weekend was daunting, and wonderful and now, for all intents and purposes, it is over. On the last day of a long weekend, everyone just mopes around and does laundry.

Today was especially dismal because it rained. Summer rain in St. Louis makes your backyard feel like a jungle and your lungs feel like ziplock bags. Everyone is physically uncomfortable, so there's no point in saying anything about it. We are all in the same sticky-limbed boat. It was planned from the beginning that we would go to the cemetery today. They just put up my dad's marker, and my mom wanted to show it to us. Due to varied post-cemetery destinations, we left in our own, small procession. The marker is unobtrusive and perfectly fitting:

In the evening of life, we shall we judged in love. - St. John of the Cross

I think this quote may be incorrectly attributed to Madeleine L'Engle a lot of the time, but oh well. Better that than, like, Dr. Seuss or Janice Dickenson.

So the day has continued to be a series of releases and temporary goodbyes. We dropped Matt off at the airport, and when we got home, I picked up where I left off on David Foster Wallace's essay, "Consider the Lobster." Mary Clare and I bought Paul a few books for graduation, which I'm trying to get selfish use out of before I leave.

(I ended this post here, probably to go eat something.)