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

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

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.

My new favorite blog.

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

Lovefool

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

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.

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.