Then when?

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.

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.

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.

For your Tuesday:



"Uncanny Valley" by Brandon Bird

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

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?

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.

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.

Here we go.

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

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

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...

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

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...

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

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.”

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

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



Spin article about the album

Ah well...

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...

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