The Glass Bijouterie

Lame Duck

2008-03-17T09:38:00.000-07:00

There was a great bit on The Daily Show a few years back: Jon had Rick Santorum on the show, and before the interview began, he announced that he had challenged himself to come up with a statement they could agree on. As best I can remember it, it was: “Ice cream is a delicious treat, but when eaten before dinner, could spoil one’s appetite.”

Feeling adventurous, I decided to see if I could up the ante, with a greater number of statements about a greater douchebag. In honor of the final year of Bush’s interminable administration, I’m going to challenge myself to come up with 10 (oh yes, 10!) statements that he and I could agree on. Wish me luck.

I like America.
Terrorism is bad.
I love my spouse.
I was born in Connecticut.
Dogs make wonderful companions.
Cherry blossoms are pretty.
Sometimes I just feel like dancing.
The coast of Maine is a lovely place to vacation.
I hope Hillary Clinton does not become president.
I am terrified of Dick Cheney.

Wow. That was tough. I think I need a nap.

The Birth of a Recipe

2007-11-04T15:09:00.000-08:00

Today I have invented a new food. I am very excited.

It was a "necessity is the mother of invention" kind of discovery. I had a jar of salsa in the fridge with just a little bit left, not enough to use in a meal, just a snack-able amount. So I went to the cupboard for the bag of tortilla chips, and found that too was nearly empty: All that was left were the little broken bits of chips at the bottom of the bag.

I tried to dip these broken pieces, but they were too short, and the salsa level was too low in the jar. I dumped the salsa in a bowl, and tried again, but still the chips were too small for dipping. I looked at the remaining chips, which looked an awful lot like Corn Flakes, and TA-DA! Idea!

I poured the broken tortilla chips into the bowl of salsa, grabbed a spoon, and mixed them lightly; enough to cover the chips with tomato-y goodness, but not so much that they got soggy. And I ate it like a bowl of cereal. And it was pretty fuckin' good.

Seriously.

Smackdown at the Danbury Library

2007-09-07T06:37:00.000-07:00

I have quite a few posts on here about the antics of the rude, ignorant, or mentally imbalanced people of Chicago. It's only fair to include the misbehaviors of the people of Connecticut when they put on such a spectacular display as this one.

Last month I was back in my home town visiting family. Like every trip to Connecticut, I spend a day or two at the Danbury Library with rolls and rolls of the local newspaper on microfilm, printing out birth and marriage announcements and obituaries for my massive genealogy project. I planned on being at the Library when they opened at 9:00, but ran into a couple snafus and didn't get there until 9:45.

The automatic doors by the parking lot didn't open, so I walked around to the front entrance at the corner of Main and West Streets. There I saw one guy, maybe 35, in ragged clothes, sitting infront of the entrance, reading the newspaper, and a woman, maybe 60, standing a few feet away, pacing in unsettlingly close circles. The guy looks up from his paper and says to me, "They're not open yet." I look at the schedule on the window and see they don't open until 10:00. So I stand awkwardly with these people, waiting for someone to unlock the door.

A few more people show up and nestled into a waiting spot. One guy, an Asian man of about 40 with no teeth, recognized the first guy sitting against the door, and they struck up a friendly conversation. "Hey, man, what's happening?" and all of that. The Asian guy was very difficult to understand, between his accent and lack of teeth, but I was getting the gist of their conversation. Then an old man, maybe 75, in a light blue plaid shirt, mesh baseball cap, and pants hitched up his waist comes shuffling towards the library. He had a raspy, monotone voice very similar to Bob Einstein's (aka Super Dave Osborne, aka brother of Albert Brooks) and pale blue eyes that were utterly expressionless. From 10 feet away from the entrance, he starts yelling in that raspy voice:

"What is this? You! Go home! Get out of here! What is this, the Viet Cong? Jesus, what's wrong with this country where people like you can get in? Go back to Vietnam! Get outta here! You're lucky I wasn't in Vietnam! I would have blown you up! Nuked the lot of you! I would have cut you up into little pieces and thrown you in the ocean!"

The toothless Asian man just grinned wickedly, and gave the old man a taunting nod. The old guy continued to rant, and finally the Asian guy said:

"You want to cut me? Want to cut me here?" -- he gestures to his throat -- "or here?" -- he gestures to his balls.

"Hey, knock that off, there's a GIRL present!" the old guy yells.

I realize I'm the only person he could be talking about. I made a face at him that said I wasn't the least bit interested in him defending my honor. At this point I notice there's a black guy in Army fatigues also waiting for the library to open, and he gives me a sympathetic smile. The Asian guy keeps grinning with amusement, reaches into a pocket on the leg of his cargo pants, and says:

"Here, you want to cut me? Here! Take it!"

He pulls out something that looks like a gardening tool or a bottle-opener, and gestures it towards the old man. The Army guy is galvanized and looks ready to take down either guy in a heartbeat. Then on perfect cue, an old lady in a floral shirt and stretchy pants comes from inside the library and unlocks the front door. The Asian guy re-pockets his weapon, the old man starts muttering to himself, and everyone else breathes a sigh of relief and quietly enters the library.

Inside the library, I sat down at a table and drafted a list of which microfilm rolls I will need based on the dates on my retrieve list. The old man shuffles up to me and starts talking absently:

"I just want you to know that's not the first time I've seen that guy. He's been getting on my nerves for a long time now, but I've been following him. I've been following him everywhere for the past few months, keeping very close tabs on him."

Normally I'm too chicken to say anything to people, let alone crazy people, but somehow I came out with a sarcastic: "Was it worth the effort?"

He stammered a bit but came back with: "Did you see him pull a knife on me? Did you see that thing?"

Now I'm enjoying this, so I said, "Yeah. It looked like a gardening tool."

"Oh, no," he said, "That was a very dangerous weapon. I don't expect you to know things like that, but I'm an expert on this sort of thing."

And then he shuffled away, continuing to mutter to himself about the Viet Cong.

And then suddenly I start blogging all the time

2007-09-04T14:37:00.000-07:00

What is a question that people ask you that always gets on your nerves?
“Why don’t you smile?” I’ll smile when I have something to smile about, asshole.

Name something you have in common with all your siblings.
DNA, childhood experiences, black cats.

What number of alcoholic drinks is your limit?
Care to find out?

Do you fold your underwear?
Please. It’s chore enough washing my underwear.

Name something random that you would do.
I would do random things randomly.

Name something that made you laugh today.
The song “Cheer Up, Murray” from Flight of the Conchords. Which I sent to my semi-boss, Murray.

What is on your refrigerator door?
Melted popsicle drippings. It’s really gross.

Name the closest thing to you that is green
Panties.

If someone who didn't know you had to guess your name, what hint would you give them?
It rhymes with “Tabbouleh.”

Name something you have to do tomorrow.
I’m sure I’ll have to shit and piss at some point.

Do You Own An iPod?
It is green, and has a banana sticker on it that says “Brain Power.”

Do Any Of Your Friends Have Children?
Irina, Bruce and Susie,…not too many.

Do You Get Along Better With The Same Sex Or The Opposite?
Sigh. Opposite. I’m not a woman-hater, I’m really not!

Do you sleep on your side, stomach, or back?
Yes, yes, and yes – I’m sorry, did I just push you out of the bed?

What did you do last night?
Wrote some more of the screenplay, added some new entries to my obituary scrapbook, did naked things.

What big concerts are you looking forward to?
VH1 Deceased Divas: Judy, Ella, and Patsy. Can't WAIT!

What did you dream last night?
Damn, I wish you had asked me that this morning. I totally would have remembered, but it’s gone now. (And you know it would have been good!)

Do you know anyone who's married?
Self. Also husband.

Who was the last person you drove with?
Joanna drove me to the airport in Connecticut.

What's the last movie you watched?
We watched Rushmore again. My god, what a great flick.

Have you ever fallen asleep with someone of the opposite sex?
I make a habit of it.

What's one thing you wish you could be better at?
People.

People Playlists Continued

2007-09-03T12:35:00.000-07:00

JOANNA

1. "A Whole New World", Brad Kane and Lea Salonga
2. "You Oughta Know", Alanis Morissette
3. "One of Us", Joan Osborne
4. "Name", Goo Goo Dolls
5. "Spiderwebs", No Doubt
6. "As I Lay Me Down", Sophie B. Hawkins
7. "Crazy", Patsy Cline
8. "Don't Know Why", Norah Jones
9. "Red Neck Woman," Gretchen Wilson

1: The Aladdin soundtrack was the first CD purchased for our household. Joanna and I thought we were hot shit because we owned a CD! But we had to share it, and there were fights...

2 and 3: 1995 was the year of Alanis and Joan. In a rare compromise, Joanna and I agreed we would each buy one album, and we'd share. But then there were fights... (Also, "You Oughta" must be included, because it is the source of the greatest mis-heard lyric ever: Joanna thought the line was "It's not fair to deny me of the cross-eyed bear that you gave to me.")

4, 5, 6: These were songs Joanna had on CD, that I would listen to when she wasn't home. And sometimes she would catch me with them. And then there were fights...

7: This was a top-contender for my "Dad" list, but it belongs here because one of the few things Joanna and I could agree on was that Daddy's country music sucked, and what kind of stupid woman would sing a song where she kept calling herself crazy? We were united in our hatred of something other than each other.

8: I had a burned copy of this album that I accidentally left in the CD player of my parents' computer while I was visiting from college. Joanna found it, listened to it, loved it, and sheepishly asked me if she could keep it.

9: We both developed a nostalgic taste for country music in our 20's, but we had rebelled against Dad's music for so long, we both kept it under wraps. A few years ago we were in the car with Mom and Dad, this song came on the radio, and we both started faintly singing along. There was this double-take between us: You like this song too?!?!

*****

TOM

1. "River of Dreams", Billy Joel
2. "It's Not Unusual", Tom Jones
3. "Criminal", Fiona Apple
4. "Bitch," Meredith Brooks
5. "Because You Loved Me", Celine Dion
6. "My Heart Will Go On", Celine Dion
7. "Don't Speak", No Doubt
8. "One Sweet Day", Boyz II Men and Mariah Carey
9. "Brown Eyed Girl", Van Morrison
10. "Piano Man", Billy Joel
11. "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover", Paul Simon
12. "I Will Remember You", Sarah McLachlan

1: We're in Sara's basement, painting the backdrop for our Odyssey of the Mind skit, and singing this song.

2: The finale of Mars Attacks, which we loved when it first came out, and which will always be remembered as the movie where my Mom burst into applause. Twice.

3: The summer this was out, Matt had just bought this CD, and wouldn't shut up about a.) how great the album is and b.) how funny looking he thought Fiona was. Matt was playing this over and over at the pool party in Tom's backyard.

4: This was the anthem for the summer of '97. And also '98. And '99. How could we not like a song called "Bitch"?

5 and 6: If I had a copy of "The Prayer", it would be on here too. Tom and my favorite sport was handicapping and watching the Oscars, and Celine Dion sang at three of the four telecasts from our high school years. We loved to hate it, and hated to love it. (And we have thumped our chests in the finales of diva ballads ever since.)

7: Because we were the only high schoolers on earth who thought this song was a delicious riff on the mantra of Dianne Wiest's Oscar-winning performance in Bullets Over Broadway.

8: This song was played at damn near every high school dance, so Tom would sing the Boyz part and I would sing the Mariah part in a satirically histronic performance at the edge of the dance floor, that would ensure us unpopularity throughout high school.

9: Also played at every single high school dance, because the school always hired the same nerdy kid to DJ because he was cheaper than a real DJ.

10: Several times, while at a large party, we orchestrated everyone into holding hands, swaying, and singing along with "Piano Man." Because...um....well....uh....the reason being...

11: One of the last great high school moments. We were in a pizza restaurant in New Milford, waiting for our pizza to arrive, and this song came on the muzak. Without any planning or spoken agreement, we all started bobbing our heads in unison, and we managed to get through the whole song in silent choreography. After which we busted out laughing and it became legend.

12: Ah, our senior prom theme song. The sort of thing that would have made us blubber like babies if we weren't all itching to get the fuck out of high school.

People Playlists

2007-09-02T16:24:00.000-07:00

Today's mostly-unprovoked project is people-themed playlists. I pulled songs that I strongly associate with people I know very well and grouped them by person in my iTunes player. Here's two of them:

DAD

1. "O Sole Mio", Dean Martin
2. "On the Road Again", Willie Nelson
3. "Stand By Your Man", Tammy Wynette
4. "Ring of Fire", Johnny Cash
5. "Love Letters in the Sand", Patsy Cline
6. "The River", Garth Brooks
7. "Take it Back", Reba McIntyre
8. "Imagine", John Lennon
9. "King of the Road", Roger Miller

1: Dad's an Italian guy, hence he can sing "O Sole Mio." It's also one of his favorite songs to sing in the shower, or while he's taking a piss. He really likes to sing while he's taking a piss.

2: This is one of those songs that Dad will sing along with whenever he hears it. But he has a hilarious inability to remember lyrics, which means he's pretty much singing just the words "on the road again" and the rest is a bunch of la-la-la's and mumbles.

3: Sometimes he'll come out with this song, and Mom will snipe about how sexist it is, and they'll have a play fight about it.

4: Dad has a bunch of Johnny Cash albums, and played them all the time when I was growing up. I remember this one the best because on the album cover, Cash is standing in front of this trippy vortex graphic that looked like he could very well fall into a ring of fire.

5: Patsy and Johnny are probably Dad's two favorite singers. I could have picked quite a few different Patsy songs, because an album of hers was one of three cassette tapes Dad kept in the car and played on loop on long car trips. But this song wins because it's another one of Dad's peeing songs, which gives "Love Letters in the Sand" a whole new subtext. (Love letters in the snow?)

6: The other two cassette tapes were a concert by the West Point Military Band (which I don't have on my iPod, and never will), and The River. Dad would literally ask for a hush over the car when this song came on, such was his reverence for it.

7: Dad's radio is always tuned to Country 92.5, so I heard the latest country hits every Sunday on the way to and from church. This is one I really got to like when I was maybe 11 or 12.

8: Dad had this album on a 33. He played it for me when I was very young, and then years later, bits of the song came out as I was trying to make up a song (maybe when I was 8 or 9). So for a few years I literally thought I had written the song "Imagine", until he played it again one day, and my mind was blown -- How did John Lennon know the song I wrote???

9: Nowadays when I fly back to visit my parents, it's usually Dad who drives me up to the airport to go back to Chicago. Many times this is a long quiet trip, because we don't have all that much in common, and are often at a loss for common topics of interest. We were driving north on I-84, approaching Hartford, "King of the Road" came on the radio (92.5 of course), and we both sang along for the entire song. That might be my favorite Dad moment ever.

*****

SCOTT

1. "New York State of Mind", Billy Joel
2. "I'll Do Anything", Jason Mraz
3. "This Love", Maroon 5
4. "The Summer Wind", Frank Sinatra
5. "Alcohol", Barenaked Ladies
6. "Sooner or Later", Madonna
7. "Kerosene", Miranda Lambert
8. "Just Like a Pill", Pink
9. "Man on the Moon", R.E.M.
10. "Got to Begin Again", Billy Joel

1: We're in a bar, and the guy sitting next to us pumps the jukebox with quarters and back-to-back Billy songs. So we get into a conversation about our favorite songs (can we pick just one?!?!), and the three of us sang along with this whole song together.

2: This was the theme song for the character he played in my final film in college. If I could afford the rights to it, I would have played the opening bars under his character's first appearance in the film.

3: I'm a little fuzzy on this one; I know this song kept coming up in Directing III, but now I can't remember why.

4: The night we wrapped my Directing III film, we went to a bar across the street from the shooting locations, and I played this on the jukebox. The night he wrapped his film, we went to the bar that was adjacent to HIS shooting location, and he put this song on the jukebox for me. Who'd a thunk the bastard could be sentimental?

5: Because he loves to get me riled up about how much he drinks. (And he has played this exact song to illustrate his love of the stuff.)

6: We both hate Madonna. A lot. But we both have this song because of Sondheim.

7: Scott, you probably don't even remember this song, but I played it for you once, and you described it as "Tampon-y." (Shaking head in disbelief...)

8: This was playing in Nick's Uptown the first time he and Josh tried to get me to play pool. And I sucked. Hard. So you might say pool, for me, is just like a pill. (Insteadda makin' me better...)

9: I'm proud of this one. Lately he had been talking my ear off about what a great album Automatic for the People is. (Not that I didn't agree.) So then once he was telling me about the moon-landing-was-a-fraud theory, and I said, "Well, if you believe they put a man on the moon...." and it wasn't until I said "up his sleeve" that he realized I was fucking with him.

10: Me and him drove our Directing III teacher crazy with our constant bickering. One exchange went something like this:

Him: It's called "Got to Begin Again."
Me: What album is that from?
Him: It's a rare one, you've probably never heard it.
Me: I have a lot of Billy albums.
Him: You don't have this one.
Me: Try me!
Him: Cold Spring Harbor.
Me: I don't have that one.
Him: Told you.
Me: Whatever, asshole.
Teacher: What the hell is wrong with you two?!?!

*****

To be continued...

Mitch Hagan

2007-06-04T07:06:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a guy named Mitch Hagan. Up until a recent point in his life, he owned such CD's as Dido's No Angel, Keely Smith's Keely Sings Sinatra, and two R.E.M. albums: Green and Monster.

I know this because I was thrift store shopping yesterday, and had the eerie experience of finding every CD I pulled from the shelf had a personalized "Mitch Hagan" label on it.

This strikes me for two reasons. First, I would think if you're the sort of person who puts personalized labels on your every possession, you would also be [anal/paranoid/etc] enough to peel off said labels when you donate these items to a thrift store. Second, I have precisely the same taste in music as Mitch Hagan's former self. Does this mean that I, one day, will metamorphose into the current Mitch Hagan, decide I no longer like R.E.M., Keely Smith, or that "Thank U" song, and return these discs to the thrift store from whence I purchased them?

What do you think, Mitch? Are you out there?

A Smarter Kind of Spam

2007-05-25T06:42:00.000-07:00

We're all used to pretty stupid spam, with subject lines rife with spelling and grammatical errors, punctuation in place of letters, and promises of larger body parts and smaller bodies. (Lately I've been getting a lot titled: "Obesity is dangerous -- Stop it!" It's kind of upsetting.) Today I got three pieces of spam with titles so elegant and literate, I felt compelled to write them down.

*One could very well apply every cited criticism of practical HTML to the English language.

*Don't copy anyone else's material, as you don't know how it was generated.

*All books will be considered, evaluated, and ultimately published with this editorial mission in mind.

The first two I would like to see in fortune cookies. The last one would make a great topic sentence for a writing exercise. If you're so bored that you're reading my blog, then your homework assignment is to write an essay starting with spam title #3.

The following is an unrelated matter, which I have titled:

17 YEARS LATER.

It was 1990. I was a thoroughly neurotic 9-year-old with a hopeless crush on Jonathan Knight. That's right, Jonathan Knight, the least-idolized member of New Kids on the Block. (Or maybe Danny was the least idolized. At any rate, every single female I've ever met who is in my age group who had the misfortune of being the right age at the right time to be swept up by the NKOTB craze, was in love with either Joey, Donnie, or Jordan. That's me, though: Always drawn to the quiet sensitive guys. I'm such a nerd.)

So in 1990 (and I only know this was the year because I just looked it up on allmusic.com) I was at the Danbury Fair Mall with my mom and my sister, and we were in a music store that had -- omigod -- a new album from the New Kids! It was called "Step by Step," and it promised to have at least one song that Jonathan sang lead vocals on (omigod!!!) and I simply had to get it. The cassette tape cost $7, and I had $7 in my wallet. This freaked me out, because I had never, ever spent all of my money before (and $7 was several months of allowance money), and frugality couldn't have been more deeply ingrained into my psyche, even if my mother could reach into my genetic coding and hard-wire me with a DO NOT SPEND MONEY program. To my surprise, my Mom actually told me I could get it if I really want it, so long as I understand that it's my money and I'll have to start saving my allowance again. Wracked with guilt, I brought the cassette to the cashier, and then it turned out there was something called "tax" which made the tape cost even MORE than $7, so Mom chipped that in. I felt sick for the rest of the day. Oh, the fiscal irresponsibility of it all!

But to think it would all come full circle 17 years later. I was in a Caribou Coffee (because Fuck You, Starbucks), and the trivia question of the day was: "What musical group was Mark Wahlberg's brother in?" And for providing the correct answer, the cashier took 10 cents off the cost of my iced coffee. Only $6.90 worth of NKOTB trivia questions to go...

Fellas

2007-05-17T13:00:00.000-07:00

I was walking to the train yesterday, and there was a guy hanging around the entrance to the station. He said "hi" to me in this really smarmy voice, one that hadn't a note of friendliness to it, but instead was all "Hey, there's a piece of ass walking by." So I shot him a dirty look and kept walking. His response: "Wow. I heard Illinois was an asshole city, but geez!"

Fellas, my advice to you is this.

First, Illinois is not a city.

Second, Don't do that. Ever. Do you really think any female is going to be enchanted by a complete stranger talking in a dirty old man voice? We ladies have sat through many seminars/lectures/etc at the various schools and clubs we've attended and the various jobs we've held about being street smart. We've been taught since we were teenagers not to engage with creepy guys on the street for our own personal safety. We are not going to flirt with you under those circumstances. Ever. So stop acting surprised when we don't.

And as for me personally, I don't flirt with anyone with such a poor grasp of geographical heirarchy.

That is all.

Lincoln, Lincoln, I've Been Thinkin'

2007-05-07T07:37:00.000-07:00

This weekend we went to the Springfield, Illinois, the Lincolniest spot in the Land of Lincoln. Here we are being really, really stupid at the museum:

A little girl exclaimed, "That man is as tall as Abraham Lincoln!"

It was really hard to stand close to her with that hoop skirt.

After which, Sojourner Truth did MY hair.

And here is my personal favorite, with the Colbert-inspired title "My Black Friend Frederick":

Excellent!

2007-05-02T18:17:00.000-07:00

Had a good hearty laugh over this one:

Thanks, Yahoo!

Adventures in 9-5-ing

2007-04-11T11:35:00.000-07:00

This morning my train was on fire. I was sitting in the center-facing seats by the doors, and the doors opposite me suddenly caught fire, with orange flames leaping up around the standing passengers. The whole car filled with smoke, and since there was no emergency button on our end of the car, we hollered to the people on the other end to alert the driver. They were pretty slow on the uptake, and one dude said, "Just hang on, we're almost at the next station," with the kind of impatient tone you would use on a small child who is insisting there are monsters under the bed. They didn't know how close the fire was to the people in the car, but they were sure it couldn't be that big a deal. Assholes. Nobody got burned, but everyone was at least 15 minutes late for work.

On my lunch, I was killing time in various stores because of the monstrous weather. There was a pair of earrings in TJ Maxx that I had been eyeing for months, and finally decided to buy them. They're sterling silver with turquoise, coral, blue lapis, and some kind of lime green stone; I am a sucker for all things multi-colored. The earrings were in a display case, so I had to ask the girl at the jewelry counter to unlock it for me. "Which one?" she asked. "The multi-colored ones," I said, pointing to the only pair of earrings in the entire display case that had any color at all. She pointed to a pair of plain silver earrings: "These?" "No," I said, "The one next to them." The girl looked at the earrings on either side of the plain silver ones, and had to decide if the "multi-colored" earrings I spoke of were the ones to the right (pink, red, green, blue, and turquoise) or the ones on the left (plain white.) She pointed to the plain white ones and said, "These?" See if you can guess which ones are the multi-colored earrings!

Finally there was the couple outside the Palmer House. A woman comes running out of the hotel lobby wearing ridiculously unstable stiletto heels, and between her bad choice of footwear, the inch of slush on the ground, and the slippery marble sidewalk, she skidded, slipped, and fell flat on her back. Figuring the 6' tall guy with her was going to help her up, I grabbed her personal items that had fallen: her hat and a nice gold pin that could have been ruined in the slush. The guy, who I'm almost certain was her husband, gave her a look of utter hatred and sneered, "Get up!" She warbled a bit that she had hurt herself, and he begrudgingly offered his hand to pull her up. Still shaken, she held onto his arm to steady herself, and he snapped, "Let go! Let go of me, now!" She composed herself and looked around to make sure she had everything, and asked, "Where is my hat?" The guy growled, "I don't know where your goddamn hat is!", just as I quietly handed it to her. He yelled at her some more as I slinked away, and all she could do was sheepishly babble her apologies for falling.

What Easter Means To Me

2007-04-08T11:46:00.000-07:00

My Aunt Kathy gave me a stuffed bunny for my very first Easter, who I named Kitty Bunny. (I have no idea why.) Kitty Bunny was silky smooth and a rosy shade of peach when I received her in 1982. Today she's rough and worn, a sickly shade of gray, with the pom-poms that used to be her mouth long-fallen off. But she's a trouper, that Kitty Bunny. Happy 25th Birthday to my oldest and dearest stuffed animal.

St. Patrick's Day Outrage

2007-03-19T08:58:00.000-07:00

I’m at a bar on St. Patrick’s Day; needless to say, it is mobbed. I’m waiting an understandable eternity to order a drink because there are about 50 people trying to get a drink at once. Ethan gives me some money to get an Amstel Light for him. I finally muscle ahead to a point where I can touch the actual bar. I see there are two female bartenders, and one guy who seems not to be a bartender; he’s hauling coolers of ice and boxes of replenishing stock, but isn’t taking drink orders and seems to be avoiding eye contact with the people craning their necks to place an order. But then he nods towards me and asks “What can I get you?”, still giving the impression that he’s not a bartender, but will help out anyway because the place is a loony bin.

I order one Amstel Light and one Fuzzy Navel. He hands me the beer, and I pass it back to Ethan. Then he asks me to repeat the second drink order. I have to yell into his ear because it’s so noisy. He looks awfully confused, but reaches down and pulls up a jug of Tropicana orange juice. He still looks confused, and before pouring any orange juice, he goes over to the blonde bartender, and asks her questions while pointing at me. She looks at me and points to me as well. The guy walks to another part of the bar, then carries some empty boxes away, and when he comes back, he has completely forgotten about me.

The blonde bartender notices I’m still waiting and asks, “What did you order?” I tell her a Fuzzy Navel, and she nods. She hands out a few more bottled beers that people had ordered, and starts making something with cranberry juice and vodka. She places the cranberry vodka in front of me. I say, “No, that’s not mine.” She holds it up high and yells to everyone in the area, “Who ordered this?” No one responds. She dramatically chucks it in the garbage, points her finger in my face, and asks, “What did you order?” Again, I tell her a Fuzzy Navel. She yells at me “THAT’S WHAT I JUST FUCKING MADE YOU!”, and as I start saying, “No, it’s orange juice and … ” she storms off.

So the guy who is not a bartender still has a better idea of what a Fuzzy Navel is than the actual bartender. And both of them forgot to ask me to pay for the Amstel Light. Suckers.

Stupid Things That Make Me Mad -- I Hate Them So Much!

2007-03-14T14:37:00.000-07:00

Apparently age 25 is the tipping point between wanting to seem older and wanting to seem younger. I’m nowhere near feeling old. Sure, my metabolism has gone to shit, and I recently had my very first “back in my day” moment: I saw some Girl Scouts hawking their cookies in a very obnoxious manner, standing in people’s way and yelling “BUY GIRL SCOUT COOKIES!” I was immediately offended, because back in my day we were specifically instructed not to be bothersome sellers. We were to ask people once, nicely and politely, on a one-to-one basis. Or, we were to set up a card table with a colorful poster that did the talking for us. We were not to get in people’s hair like those “Jesus Saves” people, or “Save the Children” people, or “Save 25% at Penny’s” people, or “Jesus Saves 25% of the Children” people, or whoever it is I’m dodging every day on the street corner. It’s a shame, too, because I want to support the Girl Scouts, as the only gender-specific Scout program that isn’t paranoid about The Gays being in their ranks.

Yet still I find myself wishing I looked older.

Yesterday, some white-collar solicitor showed up at my place of work, telling me he can offer my company savings on office supplies, and giving me his business card. I’ve never gotten a straight answer from anyone in a position of authority on what to do when these annoyances show up. I know I’m not supposed to say yes to anything, but I’m not sure if I’m supposed to talk them down or just take their business card to make them go away, and chuck it in the recycling bin after they leave. I despise having to verbally joust with a salesperson who has been so thoroughly brainwashed to Talk the Talk, so I usually go the latter route. So I’m trying to make this guy go away with some non-committal “I’ll pass along your business card” bullshit, when he pulled something far worse than any of the other tools who bothered me at my desk have ever pulled. He smiled a well-oiled smile, reached into his coat pocket, said, “You know what? This is for you,” in the condescending tone of voice one should reserve for talking to 5-year-olds, and handed me a chocolate bar with his company’s logo on the wrapper. He gave me a fucking piece of candy. I’m surprised he didn’t try to pull it out from behind my ear.

I was in a department store and one of the roving salesman asked me, “Can I help you with anything, young lady?” Young lady! A “Young Lady” is a female child who has just done something wrong. I’ve been called “Young Lady” for not eating my vegetables, or taking something without asking, or any number of scold-able offenses committed … when I was a fucking child. Even homeless people do it to me: A guy selling StreetWise making a plea to each person who walks by will say “Ma’am, Sir, Ma’am …Young Lady” as I pass. Do I look like a damn child? Today one of the bosses at my place of work called me “Missy.” That word goes at the end of the sentence, “You’re in big trouble,…” It seems people can’t just address someone younger than them as a regular, fellow human being; there must be some sort of qualifier that immediately identifies them as younger, of lower status. Why is that?

Oh, shit. I know why.

Because there are women who will go apeshit if you call them “ma’am.” Damnit.

There’s just no winning that conundrum. But why do people have to be immediately categorized? Why does a person have to make a judgment on another person’s gender and/or age in order to speak to them?

I wonder where the cut-off is between which personal characteristics are appropriate to use as a form address for a complete stranger, and which are inappropriate. For instance, let’s say you are an obnoxious, not-in-my-day Girl Scout who is pestering people on the street to buy cookies. If you see a male person walking by, you might say, “Sir, would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?” No problem there. If you see a person in police uniform, you might say “Officer, would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?” Also harmless. But if you see a guy walking by wearing a yarmulke, and say, “Hey, Jew, would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?”, that would not be acceptable. Oh, the peculiarities of manners!

New England-ier Than Thou

2007-03-08T09:05:00.000-08:00

In honor of avoiding this god-awful thing I'm typing at work, here are some pictures of Connecticut I have recently taken:

The Green in New Milford. I've been to many a town fair on this lawn. Where I probably crapped in many a diaper.

The Warner Theatre in Torrington. Saw it for the first time last year. Nifty old building.

The Yankee Pedlar Inn in Torrington. I stayed there last year. There were so many quaint sights, I ruptured a few blood vessels in my eyes.

Greenwood Avenue in Bethel. The town motto is: "Bethel -- A Pleasant Surprise!"

Fairfield County Courthouse on Main Street in Danbury. Where my grandfather and his first wife got divorced!

The New Milford Library. I looooved running around this building when I was little. And also last Christmas.

The Town Hall on The Green in New Milford. My marriage record is located here. And it was a former home of a signer of the Declaration of Independence. That's Connecticut for you.

St. Peter's Church on Main Street in Danbury, where all family weddings, funerals, baptisms, first communions, confirmations, etc took place. Let ye who enter fear its holiness.

That was my guided tour of the adorable yet insufferably boring place I grew up. Come back soon!

Entertain Me, Please

2007-03-01T14:17:00.000-08:00

Do you have any weird sleeping habits?
I have long, vivid dreams that often end with me screaming and/or punching and kicking in my sleep.

Would you rather sleep with someone else, or alone?
Given my answer to the previous question, sleeping with someone else can be dangerous. But I do, and I love it. Every once in a while it’s nice to have the whole bed to myself, though.

Do you consider yourself creative?
Not lately. What the fuck, brain? Where’d you go? Was it something I said?

Do you know how to play poker?
F.P. tried to teach me to play some kind of poker while I was half asleep. Eventually I began weeping into my cards, and possibly fell asleep on my pile of chips.

Have you ever been awake for 48 hours straight?
That will never happen. A couple months ago I was awake for almost 24 hours, and I was falling asleep in the middle of sentences.

What's your favorite commercial?
Commercials are evil. Which is why it’s so vexing that the Wes Anderson credit card commercial is so fucking awesome.

What type of food do you eat the most?
Marinara and mozzarella. I put them on everything. On my ice cream, in my coffee…

Boston Red Sox or New York Yankees?
Don’t you have any non-partisan jerseys? “May the better team win”?

How often do you remember your dreams?
Most often. Especially if I’m asked, “Honey, who were you punching last night?”

Can you name 5 songs by NSYNC?
Mmm Girl You So Fine
I Wanna Get All Up in Your Bidness
Baby Baby Baby Oh Baby
Honey Shake That Thing
Girl, You’re the Only Girl For Me, Girl
(One of those has to be real, right?)

What's the one thing on your mind now?
I NEED A NEW JOB I NEED A NEW JOB I NEED A NEW JOB

Do you believe in love at first sight?
Not at all. Everyone I have ever loved, I hated first.

Do you like bananas?
I have bananas! Come on, have a banana, honey, it’s good for you, you need fruit. How about a sandwich? Grandma make you a sandwich? What kind of sandwich you want? I have ham, Grandma can make you ham?

If you could sleep with one famous person, who would it be?
Jim Halpert or Michael Bluth. But alas, they do not exist.

Have you ever sung in front of the mirror?
How do you NOT?

Why do you fill out surveys?
Because long-form creative writing doesn’t really happen at work. And I’m so bored I could cry. And I need a new job.

Would You Buy This Rug?

2007-02-27T12:14:00.000-08:00

Doo Dee Doo Dee Doo

2007-02-15T12:14:00.000-08:00

SCHMALENTINE'S DAY

Do you celebrate?
Nope. I thought I would give a shit about it once I had a significant other, but I have yet to.

Who's your valentine this year?
Ooh, tough one. The husband has made a strong showing this year…

What are your plans? Bill has a thing on Wednesday nights, so I’m looking forward to an evening to myself.

Is he/she your bf/gf?
Not any more; I married his ass.

Do you love him/her?
By golly, I think I do.

How long have you 2 known each other?
Since June 25, 1997

How long have you been together?
Since February 21, 1998

What does he/she look like?
Some say Don Knotts, some say James Woods, some say the old Blues Clues guy. Has Adrien Brody-like ability to make a large, angular nose very cute.

Have you had sex with him/her?
By golly, I think I have.

What's your favorite love song?
Too many! Key songs at our wedding were “True Love” (Patsy Cline AND Dean Martin’s versions), “Bridge Over Troubled Water” by S&G, “They All Laughed” by Fred Astaire, “When You Say Nothing At All” by Alison Krauss, “I Can’t Believe That You’re in Love With Me” by Dean Martin, “How Sweet It Is” by Marvin Gaye, “From This Moment On” by Ella Fitzgerald, “At Last” by Etta James, and “Come Rain or Come Shine” by Ray Charles.

What's your favorite romantic movie?
Too many! I’m in love with C.C. and Fran from The Apartment, Brandon and Lana from Boys Don’t Cry, Aaron and Jane in Broadcast News, Ennis and Jack in Brokeback Mountain, Daniel and Julia from Defending Your Life, Bob and Charlotte from Lost in Translation, Ronny and Loretta in Moonstruck, Jeff and Clarissa from Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Harry and Sally when they met each other, and though it’s not a movie, Jim and Pam on The Office.

Have you had your first kiss with your valentine yet?
By golly, I think I have.

Would you rather get flowers or chocolate?
Give me a bouquet of irises and a really kick-ass mocha latte.

Teddy bear or poem?
Give me a vintage Pound Puppy (if you found it in your parents’ basement, that’s cool) and play me a nice song.

What would be the perfect date?
First of all, it would have to be in nice weather so I can wear a cute dress and sandals instead of padding myself with layers and clomping in snow boots. There would be some sequence involving consumption of sushi, petting of dogs in the park, getting Italian ices, doing something conducive to conversation and playfulness (I do NOT talk or make out during movies, so shut up and watch quietly!)

Pink, white, or red?
All of them. But not today; I am defiantly wearing all turquoise.

Sweethearts or sweet tarts?
Are sweethearts the things with “Be Mine” and such on them? Those taste like shit. I can’t remember what sweet tarts are, but I probably don’t like them. Give me anything chocolate and I’m happy. Except chocolate-covered ants. Gross.

Any firsts this Valentine's day?
It is Ruby’s first valentine’s day. She celebrated by licking her little kitten crotch and pooping in a box.

Will it be better than last years valentine?
Who knows, don’t remember.

How much do you like your valentine?
Oh, I suppose I’m a little sweet on him.

Does he/she know?
You know what? Fuck you! Not everyone is in 8th grade. In fact, I would go so far as to say there are far more people in the world who are NOT in 8th grade than there are IN. So there.

Will you try anything new this year?
Probably. I don’t need to plan months in advance to try something new.

What do you value in a boy/girl?
Ability to catch spiders in the bathroom, open sealed jars, act in my films. Must love movies (smart ones), dogs, traveling, and food. Must be a smart-ass. Must be emotionally capable of a give-and-take relationship. Must not be a neat freak. Must be okay with the fact that I collect toys, and will do so until I am old and dead.

Does your valentine hold these qualities?
Yes, yes, many yeses, almost always, he does since he met me, yes, HUGE YES, another HUGE YES, absolutely, yes, and squeamishly yes.

Boys. (I'm such a Girl.)

2006-12-15T10:20:00.000-08:00

I actually kind of enjoyed filling out this stupid thing. Mostly because I'm waaaaaiting for the Christmas Party where there will be free food and booze, and the time just won't go by fast enough.

***

WRITE THE NAMES OF 5 MEMBERS OF THE OPPOSITE SEX

Sure, why not. W, S, J, T, and E.

ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS

Are you older than #1?
Not by a long shot.

How did you meet #2?
He played a coke-snorting, blow-job-getting gangster in J’s Directing II film.

Last time you saw #3?
The last time the open mic wasn’t friggin’ cancelled!

Does #4 look like a celebrity?
Michael Cera from Arrested Development!!!

When will you next see #5?
Probably the 26th, if Widow Brown’s is open for Trivia Night.

Has #1 ever given you a gift?
His eternal SOUL. [Wicked laugh.]

Ever been on vacation with #2?
I want to take him on his first trip to NYC soooo bad!

Do you know #3’s parents?
The biggest fans of my directing ouvre!

What is #4’s middle name?
E

Ever date #5?
For a few months in 1996. What crazy kids we were!

Does #1 have any pets?
He is the father of my Zinnia and my Ruby, and also that other weird cat that lives in our house.

Favorite memory of #2:
Waiting in the hospital / Beating him up in the lobby of his building / Staying up all night being really stupid

Does #3 have a good sense of humor?
A brilliant one when he is working alone or with intellectual peers.

Stupidest thing you ever did with #4:
The 11th grade Anastasia Romanoff video. (I was the DeNiro to his Scorsese back in the day…)

Name an inside joke with #5:
It involves a mysteriously sticky deck of playing cards.

Is #1 boyfriend material?
He is a cotton/polyester/boyfriend blend.

Ever get drunk with #2?
Not often enough! He’s my favorite drinking buddy.

Is #3 cute?
He has the dreamiest green eyes I’ve ever seen!

An ideal day with #4:
Watching the Oscars together!!! I can’t believe we never have!

Have a nickname for #5?
Gramps.

Ever seen #1 naked?
Hmmm, let me think. Why, yes! Yes, I have! Whaddya know about that!

Been romantically involved with #2?
You’re not the first one to ask that question, Mr. Survey Person.

Taken a picture of #3?
He’s been in 4 of my films, and I snapped a picture of him wearing magenta silk briefs. It’s intense.

Dirtiest thing you did with #4:
Saw Quills together. Poop-tastic.

Intimate detail about #5:
He has a false tooth, but everyone knows that

Think you’ll still know #1 in 10 years?
Damn straight!

Would you do anything for #2?
Yes, if it is genuinely for him. If he asked me to eat worms or streak a hockey game, then no.

Could you introduce #3 to your family?
He has flown to my home state, crashed at my parents’ house, and danced with my Mom and my Grandma.

If you never met #4:
I would be at least 50% less silly

#5 is the guy in my life who:
I don’t see that often but he cracks my shit up.

Only Dorks Dream Like This

2006-11-27T13:01:00.000-08:00

I had a series of dreams last night. This is the stupidest.

I was at some kind of work-related function where my boss needed to have everyone fill out a form to prove they attended, and these forms would also be used when taking the head count when we had to load onto the bus at the end of the day. (I know, it sounds more like a field trip than a company outing.) The boss gave us a brief speech about how the company had fallen on some tough times, and luckily these forms were donated by another company, to spare us the expense of paying for our own head-count forms. (What an expense that would have been!!!)

I start filling out the form, with my name and address and telephone number, unsure why they need this information again when it's already on file back at the office. Then the form starts asking what my favorite type of music is -- Easy Listening [Harry Connick Jr., Frank Sinatra]? Alternative/Punk [Green Day, Bowling For Soup]? I wonder why my boss gives a crap what kind of music I listen to. Then I realize these are the exact sort of groupings they have on those CD club membership forms; choose 8 free CD's, buy 1 at regular price, get 4 more at just a dollar each! (And choose your favorite genre of music so that you can receive the monthly selection!) I start telling my co-workers that this is just a scam, that our boss will sell our private information to some stupid CD club, and we will be inundated with junk mail and unwanted CD's we'll have to pay postage on to return. They all just shrug. First of all, they didn't notice anything out of the ordinary on their head-count form, but even so, this is the only way we can get a safe and accurate head count before leaving, and we simply have no choice. I tear up my card and abandon the group.

That's me. Creating injustices in my subconscious. And standing up to them in my dreams.

Radio Waves of the 90's

2006-11-01T15:23:00.000-08:00

Today I have purchased a hilarious CD. It was on super-duper clearance, and it is titled, ahem, “Radio Waves of the 90’s: Alternative Rock Hits.” Cowabunga.

Even though I hated high school with a burning passion – so much that 9 out of 10 bad dreams I have involve being stuck in high school for some reason – I’ve developed a peculiar fondness for the music I grew up with. I was bored to death in high school, often lonely and miserable, and stuck in the sleepy grayness of semi-rural Connecticut without the means to get to a commuter rail into Manhattan. But shaggy rock and glossy pop were free on the radio, and they were comforting when nothing else was. And the few good memories I have of high school – few, but very sweet – often occurred with some sort of music playing.

I have a song for each of my high school ex-boyfriends, and these make me extremely uncool, but who the fuck cares; I’ve got a whole separate rant in me about the current obsession with putting your iPod on shuffle to show off how hip you are (“No skipping embarrassing tracks!” Bite me.) They are “I’ll Make Love to You” by Boyz II Men, “Another Night” by Real McCoy, and “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now” by Celine Dion. And yes, if you put my iPod on shuffle, eventually you would get all three of those. Do I think these are outstanding examples of musical composition and performance? Hell no. But they’re fun and take me back to some of the most giddy, cow-eyed moments of my life, and even in my crankiest moods, that is a fun place to go.

So with this ridiculously slapped-together compilation CD, which was $5 with tax, I got three miniature time capsules. I had asked a guy to the Freshman Semi-Formal, and he turned me down, saying he had a basketball game to go to that night. At the dance, I decided to call him from the pay phone, to see if he really was at a basketball game, and sure enough, he answered the phone. I was pissed, but I went back into the dance, and “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” by Deep Blue Something was playing, so my friends and I starting silly-dancing to it and I felt a lot better. “Closing Time” by Semisonic was always playing on the radio whenever I was in a car with my friends, and it was the sort of lyrically-limited song you could sing along with even if it was your first time hearing it. (Also, the last line, “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end”, was the senior yearbook quote for about 10% of my graduation class. Sheep.) And “Roll to Me” by Del Amitri was a song I taped off the radio – I always had a blank tape cued up in the stereo to make scrappy but effective mix tapes – and it became my high school fantasy: The guy who would somehow come into my life, a “soul so in despair” like me, and we would save each other from the loneliness of being The One Who Does Not Belong.

And guess what? During my junior year of high school, he did.

Strangeness on a Train

2006-10-11T07:28:00.001-07:00

This morning I boarded the Red Line, and what luck, there were a multitude of empty seats. I sat in the single, aisle-facing seat at the far end of the car, pleased I snagged the best seat in the car. All the seats around me were empty except for this one guy sitting across the aisle from me. He was clearly homeless, and he was sitting on a stack of newspapers...and a piece of crinkly white paper that was tinged brown...and then I breathed in....and understood why this section of the car was empty. Once I noticed the smell, it was overpowering. I practically gagged. I don't like when people are rude or mean to homeless people, when they make a big deal of avoiding them, but this smell was too pungent to remain seated out of politeness. I got up and walked to the other end of the car, and found an empty seat. The people on this other end of the car gave me that look that says, "I've been watching people make that same mistake all morning."

As the ride continued, I saw more and more people fleeing the almost empty side of the car, making faces and covering their noses and mouths. The conductor got on the intercom and said (as best I can tell from that screechy sound system), "Passengers, please to not switch between cars. Do not switch between cars, passengers." First of all, was she talking about the extremely dangerous move of passing between cars while the train was in motion, or going out the main doors when the train was stopped at a station and jogging down the platform to the next available doors? She said it as soon as the train started moving again, so I wasn't sure. At the next stop, she announced, "Passengers, use the FIRST available door; do NOT pass an open door, passengers." At this point I wondered if the conductor had no idea why people were fleeing this car, or if she knew, and just had no patience for it. It reminded me of a school teacher pleading with the rest of her students that somebody has to sit next to the poor, lonely, smelly kid, so can someone please be nice and sit next to him?

As the train was approaching Belmont, the smell grew worse. It seemed to be embedding itself in the clothing of anyone who walked near it, so each time someone fled that end of the car, they brought a little smell with them to the other end. At Belmont, the Brown Line was pulling in, so I decided to switch trains.

I stood on the Brown Line and saw the Red Line pull away and out of view. I remembered that the Brown Line was having severe issues lately with track work, and if I rode it all the way to the Loop, there might be serious delays. I couldn't afford to be late for work. I looked out the window and saw another Red Line train coming up from behind, running parallel to the Brown, and I reasoned that these two trains will be pulling up to Fullerton at the same time, so I can switch back to the Red in order to be reasonably on time. So I did that, and as I sat down I breathed in and smelled the stench of human feces. I looked around and noticed a few familiar passengers. I had gotten back on the same train. I couldn't believe it. It must have pulled ahead of the Brown at Belmont, then stalled on the tracks, and then caught up at Fullerton. The first thing that came to mind was the episode of The Simpsons when Homer is driving a car off a downhill cliff and jumps out of the car as it accelerates down the hill, but manages to roll back into it just as it flies off the cliff.

At North and Clybourne I got out and moved to the next car, conductor be damned. Now I'm at work, and I can't get that smell out of my nostrils.

My Brain Doesn't Give Itself a Break

2006-09-18T07:06:00.000-07:00

Why am I tired all the time? Because I do not rest when I sleep.

Last night I had two dreams, and I can't remember which came first, so I'll just pick one.

1. I was watching a documentary film, but this being a dream, I was alternately watching it and a part of the action as it was happening. At the start I sat down to watch the true story of a group of exceptionally precocious small children who were staging a protest against [some horrible entity, I can't remember what it was]. These children -- and I'm terrible at guessing ages, so maybe they were between 4 and 8 years old? -- organized, discussed their concerns for the greater good, developed a strategy, made a solemn promise to themselves and to each other to carry it out no matter what, and took a deep breath as they bravely accepted the knowledge that they may not come out of this alive. Alternately, I was watching this on film, and I was one of the children.

On that fateful day, the children (sometimes including me) woke up, had breakfast with their families as though it were any other day, pretended to go off to school, and then snuck off to a common location. They reviewed their plans one last time, exchanged hugs and encouraging words, and then scattered to their posts around a building where they formed a human shield. (Though I don't remember the cause, it wasn't as simple as saving a nice building from demolition. It was something in the building that was at stake, but anything more specific has been lost in the journey from Crazy Dream World to waking up.) The children bravely stood their ground, none of them cracking as the bulldozers and other agents of danger to [the thing] descended upon them. They were convinced that no human being could look a small child right in their pure, winsome face and crush them to death. In the moments where I was not shielding the building, and instead watching this documentary, I realized that the documentarians didn't do anything to save the children, they just stood there and filmed. I realized that these filmmakers who were on the festival circuit, tearfully paying tribute to the real heroes of their film as they accepted their various jury prizes, just stood there running footage as the worst of it happened.

Just before the final showdown between the destructors and the brave children, the P.O.V. suddenly switched to inside the building. Now I was among the people inside, terrified for what might be happening outside. When we heard the first crashes and booms, everyone howled in anguish for who might have been struck outside. There was a blur of dream chaos where I'm not sure what happened, and then suddenly I was watching the end of the documentary, which closed on a title for the one child who was killed in the incident. I was relieved there weren't more deaths, but I still burned with the idea that these filmmakers could put an "in memoriam" at the end of their film for someone whose life they chose not to save.

2. I am a senior in high school. This is one of my most frequently occurring nightmares: That I am stuck back in public school -- sometimes as far back as pre-school -- and it usually involves me being one credit short of being allowed to advance, the requisites to achieve it being either literally impossible or more horrible than I can bear to endure (say, another year of calculus), and I am stuck there forever.

This time, I arrive at school and see posters everywhere that all classes will be shortened for an hour-long "special assembly." As I study the poster, I see there is this blue corporate logo all over it. (Now that I'm awake, I'm not sure if it was a logo for a brand of spring water or toothpaste. Or maybe it was mouthwash, the halfway point between.) From the statements made on the poster, I figure out that this assembly is nothing more than a live-action commercial: sales reps will be coming into the school and pitching their product to students for a full hour, at the expense of classroom time. I am outraged, and I turn to anyone who will listen that this assembly is bullshit, and has no place in a public school, and we should all refuse to go. But I got the same apathetic response from everyone: "Eh, I'll get free stuff." No one agreed the school was right to do this, but the promise of freebies was the last word on ethics they needed.

In the next scene, it was actually my science teacher who was telling everyone in the laboratory classroom to "Listen up!" for today's lesson. He said, "Let me know if you're going to be listening or not," in a sarcastic, threatening tone of voice that said no one had better dare think this is actually choice, people. So as he drew his breath to continue, holding a chart comparing the differences between brands of [whatever product it was], I brashly declared, "No, I won't be listening." He looked at me with furious surprise and snapped, "Excuse me?" With nagging fear of punishment, but the overpowering knowledge that I was right, I said, "No, fuck it. I'm not going to." With that I picked up my science textbook and began reading it. The teacher was stewing with anger, and I just laughed to myself that my science teacher is angry at me for studying science during classtime. All eyes in the room were on me, and as the teacher continued his paid sales pitch, there was always someone who stole a disbelieving glance at me, then turned back to the teacher in fear.

Aftermath

So after two socio-politically agitating dreams, I wake up, go to work, and receive an inter-office email titled "FWD: FWD: FWD: BOYCOTT THIS STAMP LIKE THE PLAGUE." Boycott a plague? Good luck with that! Anyway, it is one of the most racist and Christian-supremacist emails I've ever read: We as patriotic Americans must boycott a Ramadan postage stamp, because of the "vicious Muslim attacks" on America. It lists the "Muslim" bombings and plane hijackings, calls the Ramadan stamp a "Christmas" stamp, slams Muslims for not believing in Jesus and for not wanting the ten commandments on U.S. property, and declares that "To use this stamp would be a slap in the face to all those Americans who died at the hands of those whom this stamp honors."

[Shudder.]

So I was definitely in the right mind write a pointed response to this garbage. [See the second to last full paragraph.]

Spaceballs

2006-09-15T13:36:00.000-07:00

I have three formative childhood movies. Two of them are the Ghostbusters films. The other is Spaceballs.

I was introduced to Spaceballs by Grace, one of my very first friends. We met in third grade, and I don't remember how we got to know each other, but I do remember the first sleepover I went to at her house, her 9th birthday party. First, she popped in a VHS tape of a Billy Joel concert that was on HBO or something, and she went nuts over him. (The party bags we would take home the next morning contained a cassette tape of his album The Stranger. Grace's Dad worked for a marketing company and he was able to get stuff like that for free. I was so excited -- my first grown-up album! Move over, Hop Like a Bunny, Waddle Like a Duck!) Grace kept promising that after her parents went to bed, we would watch Spaceballs. I didn't know what that was, but it sounded dirty, and I couldn't wait.

Finally, Grace's parents went upstairs for the night, and Grace snuck the tape from their VHS stash. She was so excited to be introducing us to a new movie that she narrated the whole thing. ("Hey, you guys, watch this part, it's hilarious!" ... "Wait, hold on, here comes the best joke!") It had more bad words, more toilet humor, and more sexual innuendo than any movie I had ever seen. We were all in paradise. This was the best movie ever made.

I can't tell you how much time we spent quoting it, re-enacting it, and just giggling like idiots over it throughout the next few years. In 6th grade, we did this completely bullshit, entirely science-free science project in which we pretended to be clones, and recited the "Prepare ship for ludicrous speed" scene in perfect unison.

A few years ago, maybe some time in college, I saw Spaceballs again. My heart broke. It was stupid. It wasn't funny, and it was so terribly lame. What happened? How did this movie change so dramatically in the past 10 years?!?! I was terrified to go back and watch the Ghostbusters movies again -- would they too be ruined for me? (Thankfully, they haven't, and few things fill my heart with such nostalgic joy as the Ray Parker Jr. theme song, or any given line from either film. It's my cinematic equivalent of comfort food.)

Somehow, Turner Classic Movies decided to air Spaceballs, and Bill recorded it -- we now have a hard-drive recorder, and it still feels weird not to say "taped" -- so he could see it for the first time. He was really looking forward to it, fully anticipating it to be so-stupid-it's-funny. We even ordered a pizza; Bill said it seemed like it was a "good movie to eat pizza to" -- a phrase I'll have to keep handy for future use -- and he didn't even know there was going to be a Pizza the Hut character in our immediate future.

Within the first 15 minutes, Bill went from stupid-excited to "Uh...I can be done with this any time you are, honey." But then we had a blast making fun of it, slapping our heads in disbelief at Mel's hoary Borsch-Belt humor. I laughed many times, but I wasn't really laughing because it was funny; more like I was remembering how this made me laugh when I was 8, 9, 10, [11, 12, 13...]. It was part nostalgia, part "I can't believe I thought this was funny."

There were a few bits that still cracked me up, like Dark Helmet's post-ludicrous-speed moment, his "playing with your dolls again" scene, and "Spaceballs: The Flame-Thrower!" I still think the movie sucks, but it made for a fun evening, and it's awfully convenient to have a movie that serves as a time capsule for my childhood.

Hidden Agendas

2006-09-05T13:49:00.000-07:00

I'm a girl who grew up on hand-me-downs and thrift store clothes. My attitude towards clothing was always purely functional; as long as an item is not stained (though you can always try bleaching it) or torn (though you can always sew it back together) or no longer fits (but don't be too fussy about it), it will continue to be worn. This was learned from Mom of course -- she who still wears her old maternity clothes that still fit her. (Shudder.)

I'm slowly growing out of my excessively-frugal clothing habits. I realized in college that I could get rid of clothes just because I had grown to hate them and/or the way they looked on me. I realized after graduation that I don't have to buy everything at the thrift store, that I am not a shallow and materialistic person if I buy myself something new. (The most amazing thing about shopping for clothes new instead of used? If you try on something that doesn't fit, there is probably another one just like it on the rack, but in a different size! Freaky!)

I still have a little trouble reasoning with my penny-pinching self when I need some new clothes. Today I went to the Payhalf for some fall clothing, and my inner Second Hand Rose was hollering, "Can't you wait to find something at The Brown Elephant?" (Apparently, even shopping at Payhalf is splurging.) Once in the store, I was immediately aware of the fashionability of me versus the other shoppers: Those people look hip, while I'm wearing an out-of-good-clothes, must-do-laundry outfit. But I kept a good attitude: I will pick up some nice things that will look nice on me and I will feel good about leaving the house wearing them.

But suddenly, unforeseen trauma! Hidden agendas in sizes S, M, and L! I was looking at a cute pair of chocolate-brown cords that looked like they would be nice to my hips, and after I had slung a pair over my arm, I noticed they are from Jessica Simpson's line of clothing! Ugh! (I am sick to death of the aggressive pro-Jessica Simpson agenda in this country!) I just want a comfortable pair of pants that will get by the dress code at work, I don't want to form an alliance with an entertainment industry nuisance. For a lack of non-celebrity-endorsed corduroys in a dark color, I bought them. I feel a bit unclean.

Then I picked out one of those bell-sleeved, empire-waisted shirts that I see everywhere and which I've been anxious to try out. It has one of those John 3:16 labels sewn at the nape of the neck. Come on, now! Jesus cannot possibly have a favorite line of clothing! Immediately my brain identified the worst-case scenario, that if I buy this shirt, I will be funding some evil "Christian" organization that bombs Planned Parenthood buildings and pickets gay funerals. For lack of information from an internet search on "Janette" apparel, I'm going to say that my shirt will not kill anyone or destroy contraceptives or upset a grieving family.

When I paid for my mini-wardrobe ($125 dollars for two pairs of pants, two shirts, and a jacket! Oh, the spending!), the cashier enthusiastically informed me that these aren't just any pants, they're Jessica Simpson pants! Isn't that great? She bought herself the same pair!

Bruno Kirby 1949--2006

2006-08-16T08:32:00.000-07:00

These are some of my favorite lines he has spoken onscreen:

"You know what the title should be? 'Yes I Can, If Frank Sinatra Says It's Okay.' "

"You made a woman meow?"

"No one has ever quoted me to me before."

[Carmine says, "Lorenzo! Due espressi, per favore!"]
Victor [explaining]: " 'Two espressos', he says."

"What'd you use for protection, paper or plastic?"

"No, that was, 'I like your ass, can I wear it as a hat?' !"

Wonder Boys, indeed

2006-08-15T12:33:00.000-07:00

Five and a half years later, Michael Douglas says this about Wonder Boys:

"[It] was a huge disappointment personally. I loved the movie and we didn't even get critically acknowledged as far as awards go. I thought it was a fucking disgrace. I'll be honest - it really hurt my confidence. It was a punch in the gut. "

The writer of this piddly article on IMDb concurs the film was "ignored by awards ceremonies and audiences alike."

Okay.

This is my stock in trade, and I can tell you off the top of my head precisely how they are wrong. Dead wrong. (No, actually, just wrong.)

Wonder Boys was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay; this alone puts it on Oscar's unofficial "Top Ten" list, since there were just 10 films to split the Picture, Director, and Writing nominations. It also won the Oscar for Best Song. (Remember? Best Song was a two-way crazy-race between Bob Dylan channeling Vincent Price and Bjork channeling water fowl?) Furthermore, Wonder Boys was nominated for the Golden Globes for Best Picture, Best Screenplay, and Best Actor for Douglas. Douglas should even have a tangiable reminder in the form of his Best Actor [plaque/statuette/whatever knick-knack] he won from the Los Angeles Film Critics Awards, one of the three most prestigious critics' awards in the country. The L.A. critics also gave their Supporting Actress award to Frances McDormand for this same film. Finally, the script earned a Writers' Guild nomination for Best Adapted Screenplay. That's quite a respectable showing for the Oscar season scramble, definitely among the 10 most honored of the year. And anyone who read that article online was two clicks away from the full list of awards. See!

So he can suck it.

Ah, Crazy People!

2006-08-08T07:07:00.000-07:00

What a hilarous way to start the day.

I was walking to the train, and at at the first major intersection, a guy approached me: a white guy in his 30's, fairly clean looking, wore fairly clean clothes (of the skater variety), had shaven about a day ago. He said, "Excuse me, Miss. I just got out of the hospital," -- and he held up his hand to show me a vaguely hospital bracelet-looking strip of plastic around his wrist -- "I got beat up last night and had to spend the night in the hospital," -- he said with no visible bruises or scars -- "Can you spare 25 cents so I can pick up a prescription at Walgreens?"

What prescription would that be, 20 milligrams of Asskickacil? (Do not take Asskickacil if you are pregnant or operating heavy machinery.)

Somebody must have been sitting at my desk, possibly using my phone, either after I left work yesterday or before I got in today, because there was a multiplication problem scribbled on the top page of my post-it notes. It's clearly not my handwriting, but more importantly, the problem is 25 times 5. Not only was this person incapable of computing 25 times 5 in their head, but they actually wrote down where they carried the 2. I should charge this person $1.25 for use of my post-it note, say that it is only payable in quarters, and see how long it takes them to count out the change.

Today, I am a beeech.

This Picture is Awesome

2006-08-03T07:43:00.000-07:00

I now have three anonymous comments on this blog. I suspense is killing me; who are ya?

I just took some shots of my Fisher-Price Little People collection (I love my new digital camera), and I'm crazy about this shot.

In cinematography, this might be called a color chaos composition. Outside of cinematography, you might get beat up for calling it that.

In 7th or 8th grade, one of my mom's co-workers gave her a zip-lock bag full of Little People, because she had heard I collect them. It was an awesome gift, though it did leave me with a few doubles. (No two people in that shot are exactly alike. Ones that appear to be the same are either made of different materials [wood or plastic], or have different faces.) I told Tom that I had some doubles, and he said he did as well, and we could trade.

We could have traded the next day in school like sane people, but we were going to see each other that night at CCD (a.k.a. Catechism, Sunday School [except it was during the week] -- basically Catholic instruction we were signed up for through church, which was necessary to make our Confirmation), so it was agreed the trade would take place then. And still, we could have traded before or after class, but we chose to trade during class. So there was a lot of whispering and hand signals, and fake-accidentally dropping pencils to swap. The whole time our teacher (who was the nicest, coolest CCD teacher ever, so I feel kinda bad), knew we were up to something but couldn't figure out what. From that trade, I got a few of the construction workers in the back right corner.

Years later, during our senior year of high school, Tom came to journalism class with a large shoebox taped shut and handed it to me: "It's a present for you." It was his Little People collection. Something like 15 people, and a bunch of animals, vehicles, and furniture. I carried that box around with me all day, and displayed a few on my desk for every period of the day. (I don't remember if this actually happened, but I like to think that in at least one class, while I arranged a handful of Little People in the pencil groove on my desk, a teacher went on a long-winded lecture about how us seniors will be transitioning into the real world, you'll be in college before you know it, you are adults now, blah, blah, blah. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you, I was thinking of a name for the farmer.")

And now I am pissing away time at my adult, real world job by writing about my fondness for toys. Sweet.

I Am Never This Happy

2006-07-28T07:22:00.000-07:00

Pinch me, would ya?

Things just have a way of coming together this week. In fulfillment of earlier prophesies mentioned, I got an Italian flag for my desk at work, and it is rigged to hang from my pencil cup by a series of binder clips and rubber bands. I realized this won't do much to help the person who thinks I'm Mexican, because the Mexican flag is exactly the same as the Italian flag, plus a swooping eagle in the white field. (I may have dark hair and eyes, but I'm pasty as hell. So much for being a quarter Siciliano.) Also, my Shy Violet doll arrived in the mail, and she is exactly as I remembered her, and filled me the warm gooey feeling inside that I had as a gloomy little kid cheered up by her toys.

Then something crazy happened. See, I collect Fisher-Price Little People. I had a modest collection when I was a kid, which I must have sold at the family tag sale in a moment of gross misjudgment. Since 7th grade or so, I have been rebuilding my lost collection (and doubling it a few times over) from pieces harvested at other tag sales, thrift stores, flea markets, vintage toy shops, and eBay. Well, my parents are moving out of their house into a condo, so my sister drove down to clear all her stuff out of her bedroom (to take to her apartment or give to Goodwill -- everything must go.) In a box of junk in her closet, she found two surviving Little People, a blonde girl in a blue dress, and a freckled fireman. Originals! Not somebody else's originals that I adopted as my own, but ones from my actual childhood! And it was a complete surprise; they just arrived in the mail unannounced, on the same day as the Shy Violet doll. I got THREE new toys in the mail in one day, so I'm a little daffy today. (Yes, I'm inching up on 25 years old and I collect old toys. Deal with it.)

Far more important than toys, though, is that I finished my first short story in FOREVER. I actually made it through the first draft without beating myself up over it and giving up. And, fittingly, it is about a girl and her sister selling their toys at their grandparents' tag sale. It was a blast to write, remembering all the goofy things from pre-, during, and post-tag-sale, and combining the most memorable snippets from years of tag sales into one representative weekend. My grandparents would be so thrilled to see me publish something, and I don't know if this one is a publishable level of good, but just sending it to them made them so proud (and, I think, quite amused to see and hear themselves on the page.)

But life gets better still, because a certain someone who is long, long overdue to be happy and loved, has been made quite happy and is on the way to sort-of-kind-of-don't-jinx-it being in love, and I am absolutely giddy with excitement for him; I would be turning cartwheels if I were capable of such a thing.

I'm sure I'll come off of this high tomorrow when my sweet gentle Zinnia will turn into a wrathful, flesh-slicing beast as we take her to the vet for a gingivitis check-up and a nail clipping. I don't know. Maybe even bleeding at the hands of my cat won't bring me down.

DENIED -- The Return!

2006-07-25T11:52:00.000-07:00

How exciting! I remembered to grab a length of DENIED stickers and stuff them in my purse. Because yesterday I saw that same "Chicago to Mexico in 30 Seconds" ad on the side of a large parked tourist vehicle, some kind of fake trolley car. I slapped that baby with a DENIED sticker, and slapped it good.

So I find that if I wait a couple of days between posts, I accumulate interesting stories for a good post instead of, "Hmmm...let's see...how about a narrated tour of data-sorting an Excel spreadsheet?" (Sorry about that.)

Such as last Friday, when a woman at work called me a Daigo! My ethnic-slur cherry has been popped. This woman is always saying derogatory things about Italians, such as when she said "God Bless You," in the you-just-sneezed way, upon the pronunciation of my last name, or when I was able to pronouce a different multi-syllable surname, she sneered, "What are you, Italian?" So on Friday, she says in conversation, with utter contempt: "My son-in-law talks with his hands -- He's Italian! They all do!" I smiled and said in a good-natured tone of voice, "You've really got it in for my people, huh?" She rolled her eyes at me and groaned, "Friggin' daigos." Without even thinking, the words "Oh my god!" escaped my lips, as in, "Oh, my god, you actually felt that was acceptable to say, and right to my face!" I need to run to the travel store down the street and get a miniature Italian flag to display on my desk. (Hopefully, it won't be interpreted as a response to the World Cup.)

Today has been a day of racist and Christian-supremacist forwarded emails. The problem with exchanging email addresses with the oldest people in your family, the people who are the last generation to remember the precious family stories that need to be shared and retold, is the dramatically-increased probability of receiving nasty, obnoxious forwarded emails. I do not believe pro-America means anti-every other country. I do not believe it is a sign of devotion to your faith to shit-talk people of other faiths. I do not find security in my sexuality or the sacredness of my marriage through gay-bashing. I do not need to slam other ethnicities to feel good about my own. By hey, maybe I'm just QUIRKY like that! Argh. And it's very rare that I don't know it's coming; any email with a subject heading that starts with "Fwd: Fwd: Fwd: Fwd:" can't possibly be good news. But I click on it anyway, and fill with rage and despair. There are days when I feel plucky and write pointed responses to this garbage (which never changes the mind of the sender, but at least gets me off their "Would Appreciate Racist Humor" forwarding list.) Today is not one of those days.

So on this crappy day, I got a friendly reminder from eBay that the auction for the Shy Violet doll I'm watching will be ending soon. Good old Shy Violet, that doll I loved dearly and who disappeared at some point in my childhood, whose picture I use as my profile image no less (that's not MY doll, just a picture I found on the internet.) Winning the bidding war (at only $10 with shipping) has been my afternoon pick-me-up.

And hey, she's colored.

Blogthings Smackdown

2006-07-19T11:29:00.000-07:00

If you troll around on blogs or myspace and whatnot these days, you can't avoid running into a blogthing quiz. "What is your power color? What city do you belong in? What is your summer of 2006 anthem?" They are the pinnacle of what I refer to as the Co-Opted Individuality Culture, where people (let's face it, mostly girls) think they can develop a true individual self through the products they buy and the cutesy labels/pre-packaged identities they give themselves. If you think you can distill your personal essence, or discover new dimensions to your soul, by answering six questions that will determine "What Flavor Jellybean Are You?", then congratulations, you have been co-opted. I hate to admit that I sometimes get sucked into these things, even as I openly critique them for their oversimplifications and wrong-headed assumptions. But this one REALLY pissed me off.

I took a quiz called "Are You a Lady?" and scored 33% Lady. A few navigations later, I found the "Are You a Gentleman?" quiz. I scored 36% Gentleman. Does this mean I'm 31% hermaphrodite? (Oh, the gender confusion! Pardon me while I reassess my genitals.) Actually, blogthings would have me believe I am 64 -- 67 % classless troll, because this was all about manners. Now, I was the gal in college who filled up her academic requirements with classes such as "Women and U.S. Society" and "Gender and Culture", so it was on pure instinct that I printed out the questions for the male and female quizzes for furious analysis.

The following statements appeared on both quizzes [and the quiz-taker must check off all statements that apply]:

*When it's up to you to tip, you always leave at least 20%.

*You never talk on your phone when in a restaurant or at the movies.

*You don't tell sexist or racist jokes.

*You do not interrupt people speaking to you.

Now, these are just plain good manners. But "You do not discuss religion or politics at the dinner table"? That's no fun! [It's just not a Mom's-side-of-the-family get-together without Mom and her sister and brother hollering at each other over prayer in school or the Pledge of Allegiance!]

Here are some choices that were gender inversions of each other:

*You don't reveal your age or weight unless absolutely necessary / You never ask a lady's age or weight. (Because the worst thing in the world is to be middle-aged and fleshy. Unless you're a guy. Then you can be as ancient and fat-ass as you like.)

*You never ask a gentleman how much money he makes / You never talk about how much money you make. (Because women don't have jobs! "Oh, Mr. Man! What's it like to have a career?")

*If a gentleman offers to pay for a date, you politely accept / If you ask a lady on a date, you politely insist on paying. (Because again, women don't have jobs!)

Here are some choices for the ladies that are just plain ridiculous:

*When in doubt, you dress up; you would never look too casual for an event.

*When in doubt, you dress modestly, saving sexier clothes for the right occasion. (Careful, ladies. Not too casual, not too sexy. How about a collared, long-sleeve dress, with a lace-trimmed burlap sack on your head?)

*You don't discuss your past relationships with the person you're dating. (Are you crazy? That's mandatory! If a "gentleman" tells a "lady" he dumped his last girlfriend because she hung out with her guy friends, that is the lady's cue to run for the hills!)

*You carry the smallest purse possible, depending on the occasion. (So purse size is an affront to manners? I'll remember that next time I'm in the company of someone who's pissing me off. Instead of saying, "Fuck you!", I'll just say, "Guess what? This big-ass purse isn't even FULL! Take THAT!")

Here are some choices that weren't necessarily gender inversions of each other, but they were the same choice number, as if one had been replaced by the other:

20. If you are on a diet, you do not discuss it at the dinner table / You never chew with your mouth open. (What if my diet is based on my religion and/or politics? Can I discuss it then?)

25 [final question]: You don't allow your friends to drive drunk / You never ask if you look fat.

There you have it ladies. Let the fellas worry about everybody getting home safe. You just keep your mouth shut about those extra 10 pounds.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to drink milk straight from the carton, scratch my crotch, belch, put my elbows on the table, sneeze without covering my nose, and ask some unescorted gentlemen their age and weight.

Those Modern Chicks Are For the Birds

2006-07-18T07:19:00.000-07:00

FOR THE BIRDS

I talked to my grandparents this weekend. They had heard there was a fire on the subway in Chicago, upon which Grandma remarked, "Those damn terrorists." It was actually just an electrical malfunction. This makes me wonder how much the News Machine is trying to make everything sound like potential terrorism (Be afraid! All the time!), and how much my Grandma is just personally worried about terrorists. She was very relieved when I told her it wasn't terrorists.

Grandma is not stupid when it comes to politics; she's not one of the easily herded elderly. In 2000, she voted for Nader because, and I quote directly, "This two party system is for the birds!" For the birds! In 2004, when the, uh, republican candidate was seen with a box-shaped protrusion on his back during the debates, and he blamed it on a "badly tailored suit," Grandma said, "Bullshit! Even your grandfather and your father wouldn't go out in a badly tailored suit, and he would, with all the money he has?"

So I hate to think my Grandma has been taken in by the fear-mongers. (The terrorists could strike rural Connecticut! Possibly in your garden or tool shed! Wrap your pets in duct tape!)

ONE OF THOSE MODERN CHICKS

I did not change my last name when I got married. I had a whole list of reasons. The main reason was that I didn't want my identity to disappear: You can't find Violet Lastname anymore, because she doesn't exist, and you would never know to look for her under Violet Otherlastname. It felt sexist that I should have to change my name. My family name is all but extinct, because the Lastname men have a knack for producing daughters. It's also well-known among the old-school Italians of Danbury: "Are you the Lastnames of Liberty Street?" I'm mostly Italian, and Bill's last name is Polish, so the idea of suddenly having a Polish last name felt, well, foreign. I'm glad I kept my name for all these reasons, but it has also been the source of some excellent conversations.

Me: It's pronounced "Lastname", but my ancestors pronounced it "Cognome."
Woman 1: Wait, but I thought you're married?
Me: I am. I kept my name.
Woman 1: Oh, so you're one of those modern chicks?

Woman 2: But I thought you're married?
Me: I am. I kept my name.
Woman 2: I hate that!

Woman 3: So, what does Mr. Lastname do for a living?
Me: Actually, "Mr. Lastname" is my Dad.

and most recently:

Me: [singing] "Willlllllll-lliammmmmm! Willllllll-lliammmmmmmm!"
Bill: Stop taking my name in vain!
Me: I didn't take your name at all! AW, SNAP!

The Best Way to Sort DVD's...

2006-07-17T07:27:00.000-07:00

...is no longer the way my household sorts DVD's. Sigh.

Because I am a full-blooded film geek, I sorted them alphabetically by director, and chronologically within the director. That is just cool, and I will fight anyone who says otherwise. Here is how our shelf went:

Allen: Annie Hall
Anderson: Bottle Rocket, Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums
Arteta: The Good Girl
Ashby: Harold and Maude
Benigni: La Vita e Bella
Bergman: The Freshman
Bird: The Incredibles
Brooks, A: Real Life, Lost in America, Defending Your Life, Mother
Brooks, J: Broadcast News
Cholodenko: Laurel Canyon
Coen: Raising Arizona, Miller's Crossing, Barton Fink, Hudsucker Proxy, Big Lebowski, O Brother Where Art Thou?
Coppola: Lost in Translation
Curtiz: Casablanca
Daldry: The Hours
Forsythe: Local Hero
Gilliam: The Fisher King
Guest: Waiting for Guffman
Hallstrom: What's Eating Gilbert Grape?
Hanson: Wonder Boys
Jenkins, P: Monster
Jenkins, T: Slums of Beverly Hills
Lee, A: Brokeback Mountain
Lee, S: Do the Right Thing
Leone: Once Upon a Time in the West
Lumet: 12 Angry Men, Dog Day Afternoon, Network
Mendes: American Beauty
Minghella: The Talented Mr. Ripley
Mitchell: Hedwig and the Angry Inch
Mulligan: To Kill a Mockingbird
Nichols: The Graduate
Payne: Election, About Schmidt, Sideways
Peirce: Boys Don't Cry
Pulcini & Springer-Berman: American Splendor
Polanski: Chinatown
Reiner: This is Spinal Tap, Stand By Me, When Harry Met Sally
Reitman: Ghostbusters, Ghostbusters II
Sayles: Lone Star
Schlesinger: Midnight Cowboy
Scott: Blade Runner
Shyamalan: The Sixth Sense
Soderbergh: Erin Brockovich
Wilder: The Apartment
Yates: Breaking Away
Zwigoff: Ghost World

[Disclaimer: This collection is FAR from a complete representation of our favorite movies. These are ones we happened to find at a good price. We have not deliberatly omitted Life Aquatic from the Anderson collection or Citizen Ruth from the Payne collection, we just haven't collected them yet. And we have entire directors unrepresented, so if you're thinking what kind of person would have Shyamalan but not Hitchcock on their shelf, you can just bite us, because we have taped a ton of Hitchcock off of Turner Classics (in the proper wide-screen presentation), while I think we found Sixth Sense at a yard sale.]

So even though my method was totally awesome and hard-core, Bill was never able to find the disc he was looking for, and was frequently aggravated, so I alphabetized them the regular way, from About Schmidt to Wonder Boys. I guess it's kind of amusing to see Lost in America next to Lost in Translation. Still, may the classic method live on, in anyone who reads this and is inspired by greatness.

Me Mooning Over Actors

2006-07-14T08:52:00.000-07:00

Every year I write a magazine-style column with my predictions and personal favorites for the Oscars, and I guess my Mom has been reading them, because she just sent me the Parade Magazine interview with the man I've been pulling for three years running, Paul Giamatti. Which was sweet, even though Parade Magazine is absolute garbage. Oh my goodness, he's an actor, but he eats lunch in a deli! Wearing jeans! Just like us regular people! Can you imagine? From Giamatti's direct quotes, he sounds like such a cool guy, but the writing style of the interviewer was beyond irritating. First of all, is it possible for any of these fluff-journalists write about Paul Giamatti without insulting his looks? He is not ugly. He is an ordinary-looking guy whose class and intelligence put him over the top into the Modestly Handsome category. And the same can be said of Philip Seymour Hoffman, who also gets pointlessly dissed for his appearance. (Hey, dumbasses, they're not models, THEY'RE ACTORS.)

In fact, while I'm at it, I'm going to reiterate my earlier stance that ALL of the actors nominated at the most recent Oscars are damn nice-looking guys. In each category (Best Actor, Best Supporting Actor), there were three guys who are straight-up blazingly hot (that's Terrence Howard, Heath Ledger, and Joaquin Phoenix for Best Actor, and George Clooney, Matt Dillon, and Jake Gyllenhaal for Supporting), one guy who's Distinguished-Grey handsome (David Strathairn; William Hurt), and one guy who's so awesome and talented that his attractiveness is skewed from ordinary to charming (Mr. Hoffman and Mr. Giamatti.) Enjoy some unauthorized photos, in collage form:

I make a lot of collages.

A Flibberty Jibbet?

2006-07-13T07:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was feeling particularly show-tune-y, which I haven't been in years. I was in 7th or 8th grade when I first raided my mother's LP collection, and played them over and over until I could sing the entire score [or at least all the leading lady vocals] from My Fair Lady, West Side Story, The King and I, The Sound of Music, Guys and Dolls, Camelot, Carousel, South Pacific, Oklahoma, and more I can't think of at the moment. (I have this recurring fantasy that I'm competing in a "Show-Tune"-Off. Usually the judge says the name of a show and I have to sing at least one song from it, beginning to end. Even if there were someone crazy enough to stage such a competition, I wouldn't win because my mother's LP collection doesn't go past 1970. They would ask me to sing from Rent and I would warble, "Five-hundred twenty-five thousand six-hundred ... pancakes.")

As I was picking my brain for the sequence of lyrics for "The Impossible Dream" and trying to remember whether the "funny/honey" or "candy/brandy" verse comes first in "I Enjoy Being a Girl" [and Bill was asking, "Can't you do this AFTER I leave?"], I remembered an odd conversation I had with Mom during that 7th or 8th grade Broadway phase. I was showing off my new expertise by pointing out that both West Side Story and The Sound of Music have a song called "Maria."

If you are unfamiliar with these songs, here are some unauthorized lyrics.

WSS: Maria / I just met a girl named Maria / And suddenly that name will never be the same to me / Maria / I just kissed a girl named Maria / And suddenly I've found how wonderful a sound can be / Maria / Say it loud and there's music playing / Say it soft and it's almost like praying / Maria / I'll never stop saying Maria [ -- by Stephen Sondheim!]

TSOM: How do you solve a problem like Maria / How do you catch a cloud and pin it down / How do you find a word that means Maria / A [flibberty jibbet???], a [will-o-the-wisp???], a clown / Many a thing you know you'd like to tell her / Many a thing she ought to understand / But how do you make her stay / And listen to all you say / How do you keep a wave upon the sand / Oh how do you solve a problem like Maria / How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand [ -- by Oscar Hammerstein II!]

Mom hummed a snippet from each song, thought about them briefly, and then told me she hopes I aspire to be the sort of person from the latter song rather than the former, an individualist rather than a mere object of adoration.

Is that cool?

I mean, on one hand, the firm values of creativity/individuality/rebellion/etc that Mom stressed on me are the reason I am who I am, and if I didn't learn to value those things about myself, I probably would have gone berserk and I'd probably be in an asylum or whorehouse or coffin [or suburb! Ahhh!] But it kind of felt like, I won't be the girl guys are attracted to -- I'm going to be the crazy chick. And I look at my string of botched attempts at boyfriends [before Bill], informed by the head-on philosophy of "Who needs pretty when you're ECCENTRIC!", and how I made an ass of myself, how the fellas turned away in embarrassment and looked around for someone more ladylike to dance with. But maybe, in more recent years, for each time a guy has told me, with at least some admiration in his voice, that I'm "not like other girls," I have my inner Maria Von Trapp to thank.

And what the fuck is a flibberty jibbet?

The Sketch That Got Away

2006-07-12T12:23:00.000-07:00

I set out to write a comedic sketch. I generally don't do this; when writing I want the freedom to not be funny. (Besides, my sense of humor is too low-key to advertise as comedy. Audiences would demand a refund.)

I wanted to write the character I sort of developed during my disastrous run taking improv acting classes. (I am way to hard-wired shy -- and too hard-wired with a writer's brain -- to be an improvisational performer.) The only scenes I did that were remotely good were when I reached into my inner Judy Garland. The character came out three different ways in as many scenes: In one she was a stage mother with an untalented daughter, and they were gutting and carrying a deer carcass for some reason. In another she was getting tipsy with her songwriter after a concert. In the last, she and her leading man were shooting a terrible film and misbehaving between takes. All the scenes were varying degrees of train-wreckish, but I got some damn interesting stuff out of them, and I thought I could write a kick-ass scene (for a yet-to-be-determined project) with the character, the ideas, and the glistening polish of Revision.

It's not funny at all. I actually wrote melodrama. I'm surprised at myself. I'm kinda pissed off about it, only because I've been trying to kick my own butt to write for so long, and then when I get something interesting I can't even use it, because I'm 20 years too young for the role. (If it were a sketch it wouldn't matter, but if I wanted to, say, make this a one-act play or something, it would have to be cast more realistically.)

O cursed creativity! Why must you thwart me so?

I guess I'll just go home, put on my most glittery red cocktail dress, and sing along to Judy Garland Live at Carnegie Hall until something strikes me as funny. (Besides the sight of me wearing my glittery red cocktail dress and performing "The Man That Got Away" in front of my cats. [Which is an even more impractical sketch, because there's no way I could drag Zinnia and Ruby up onstage...] )

My Brain Tripping On Its Own Acid

2006-07-11T07:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I got home, and Ruby, my sweet little kitten, wasn't there. I knew she wasn't going to be there, because Bill had just dropped her off to get her little kitten uterus taken out, but this is her first time away from home since we adopted her last month, so it made me sad.

This situation just has to be the explanation for the thoroughly fucked-up dream I had last night.

I dreamed I had just given birth to a baby boy. I couldn't believe I had, because I didn't remember the birth, but I told myself it must have been one of those complicated ones where I had to be knocked out for the whole thing, so don't worry about it. I was surrounded by people who were throwing name suggestions at me. (Proof that this was a dream. I would have picked out a name months in advance; that's the only part of parenting I'd be good at.) I was holding the baby briefly, and then the people started passing him around and examining him, as if that would bring out the right name. ("Hmmm ... Squirmy legs ... He's a Brandon, no doubt.") I mentioned that two of the names I was leaning towards were Gavin and Caleb. (Further proof that this was a dream. Not my favorites at all.)

Then someone said I should name him Loy, because that name means "my brother." (I don't think this is true in real life.) As soon as this was said, my stomach turned into knots, because I suddenly remembered I had another kid that I completely forgot about. I furiously picked my brain for details. Was it a girl? If it was, I would have named her Clara. (Actually true in real life.) The name rung a bell -- I did have a daughter Clara. But how long ago was that? Last week? A year ago? I realized that I probably just put her down somewhere and forgot about her (the way I do with water bottles, when I take off my earrings, etc), but it couldn't have been in my house because I would have noticed her by now. I came to the sickening conclusion that right now she could be anywhere, lying on top of a stack of books or something, and certainly dead. Then I tried to talk myself out of it. Someone had to have found her. People adopt babies found on doorsteps all the time. Surely if there was a baby left in a bookstore or coffee shop, SOMEONE with maternal instincts would have cooed "oh, you poor thing" and taken her home to be loved as their own. But I was terrified to say anything, lest I remind everyone fawning over my baby that I misplaced my first one. (Waking life commentary: So my husband and all my baby-obsessed friends didn't notice that Clara disappeared either?) I kept quiet, until I announced to everyone that I have decided to name him Danilo.

So. This post is for the next person who tells me I should have kids.

Let It Be Known That I Suck at Pool

2006-07-10T06:54:00.000-07:00

In fact, anything that requires physical dexterity and precision is pretty much a lost cause. (Oh, wait, but I play the clarinet. How does that work?)

A valiant, perhaps foolish, effort was made to teach me to play. For my first five or so shots, I didn't get the cue ball to hit a single ball. The first time I actually hit one (which didn't go anywhere), I bought myself a drink. (Clink = drink. That would have made an awful drinking game; I would have been the only sober one at the table.) And yet a valiant effort was still made to teach me to play. Dear Teacher: Bless your heart, but I will always suck at pool. Here is all I learned:

*Don't play pool in a skirt. Especially not a short one.

*Don't drag the cue on the ground as you approach the table. You will be laughed at.

*Don't play pool if gym class made you cry.

*The purple ball is the prettiest.

You know what would make pool WAY more fun? Instead of six pockets, each table would be outfitted with six Hungry Hungry Hippos. Just think of the calls: "Seven, corner Hippo." Infinitely cooler. I would play that game any day of the week. I submit my architechtural drawing:

So that happened. But on the flip side, I am AWESOME at Spit. That is a great game. No Hungry Hungry Hippos needed there. The first time I played Spit was in maybe middle school; Sara taught me to play the day she took me out on her parents' boat on Lake Lillinonah. Ever since I have been molding young Spit players, be they friends, boyfriends, and everyone inbetween. Dear Pupil: I'll make a mean player out of you yet.

Today I am singing Jason Mraz on loop and itching for a deck of cards.

Snarking From the 39th Floor

2006-07-07T11:47:00.000-07:00

Taste of Chicago, or, How to Make the City's Best Food Taste Like Shit.

Every year something like 100 different restaurants set up in Grant Park, and prepare their food outdoors, in crappy make-shift tents, in mass quantity, yielding poor quality food sold at a higher cost than at the actual restaurant. Now, I can understand tourists falling for this thing, but why the residents? Why eat a humid slice of Giordano's while standing between screaming children and a row of port-o-johns, sweating and swatting away insects, when you can get it in the restaurant (or to go) any time of the year? Why does straight-from-the-Dominick's produce seem more glamourous when exchanged for tickets? Exchanging tickets is only fun when you've played 20 rounds of Skee-Ball for them, and you receive a misshapen, neon-colored stuffed animal for your efforts.

Get Outta My Town

Some douchebag spends his 60th birthday in Chicago and it makes the paper. Take that shit to Houston or Kennebunkport, don't come here. None of us voted for you.

The Next Generation?

A furor erupted this year when the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences made one of the worst, if not the single worst, Best Picture choice in their 78 years, annointing the shrill, uneven Crash instead of the eloquent, uniformly excellent Brokeback Mountain. A few characters at the center of the finger-pointing aftermath were loopy curmudgeons Tony Curtis and Ernest Borgnine, who proudly announced they cast their ballots without having seen That Gay Movie. The film community called for stricter guidelines, that Academy members should have to see all the nominated films or abstain from voting. The subtext, though, was that these two and many like them are old farts who don't even watch movies anymore let alone make them.

Just a few days ago, the Academy announced the newest members invited to join the elite organization. One of them was Dakota Fanning. F'chrissakes! Was this a calculated move, to counter-act the critism of the dinosaur demographic? Great, so now we have voters whose idea of progressive filmmaking is Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, AND those who wouldn't have been able to see 4 of the 5 most recent Best Picture nominees because her mommy doesn't let her watch R-rated movies.

It's Friday

... and I made myself some new wallpaper for the work computer. If you download this, set it as your wallpaper, and stretch it to fill the screen, the colors will blur and blend in a funky way. Makes me want to go swimming. (Oh, man, now I wish I was swimming!)

Vacation, Day 3: Vacation

2006-07-06T11:06:00.000-07:00

Road trip to Providence! We figured if we're going to be making all these trips back to Connecticut for family milestones, we might as well try to get some vacation out of them. I have barely been to New England outside of the bubble that is northern Fairfield County, so I decided to give Providence a whirl. It's a city, it's on the water (fresh seafood!), so why not?

There is this ridiculous crap-hole just before the state border called Olde Mistick Village. It's not the actual village of Mystic, just a tourist trap of expensive knick-knack stores in a fake-historic buildings, so you can buy souvenirs to always remember the time you ... bought souvenirs. The only reason we stopped there was because we thought it was a rest area, and we had to take a wicked piss. Those weasely bastards put the bathrooms at the far, far end of the fenced-in faux-village, so we had to walk the winding path past Ye Olde Saltwater Taffy Shoppe, Ye Olde Seashell Shoppe, Ye Olde Hippie Clothing Shoppe, Ye Olde Pokemon Shoppe, and about 10 other Ye Olde Overpriced Garbage Shoppes before finding a nice porcelain hole to pee in.

Providence is quite a nice-looking city. We drove around and found ourselves on the Brown campus. For lunch we were hoping to find a clam shack of sorts, but ended up at a little Thai cafe. This neighborhood has a street very much like the strips Bill and I have walked in other college towns like Madison, WI and West Lafayette, IN: It's got the used vinyl and CD store, the used bookstore, the used clothing store, the bead store, the cheap jewelry store, the sushi joint, the overstock junk store like Uncle Fun, and a coffee shop at every intersection ... oh dear god, it's the Olde Mistick Village for the college student demographic! (If only they had a souvenir penny-flattening machine with Pabst and pot leaf imprints.)

We were meeting Robert and Anthony in the city, but since they wouldn't be there for a few hours, we drove a couple miles north to Pawtucket, where Bill's great-grandparents are buried. (No, I do not go on vacation without collecting obituaries and tromping through cemeteries.) I had the name of the cemetery, as well as the section and plot numbers, so I figured we were good to go. Then I realized I didn't have an address for the cemetery, so we drove in circles until the cemetery suddenly appeared before us, it's stone monuments glittering white in the sun! What luck, right? But was this the Catholic Cemetery? We drove towards the gate, watching headstones go by with names like Palermo, O'Malley, Krszyszyzsyk -- aw, hells yeah, it's Catholic! We got to the gate, saw it was the right cemetery, and drove in to discover the place was HUGE, and the section numbers were in no order at: Section 1, 60, 23, D, M, 45, A. But we didn't drive around that long before we got to the right section. More good luck! Now all we have to do is find plot 279. The plot numbers were actually in order, so we followed the 200's up to maybe 273, and then there was a patch of uninterrupted grass about four plots wide, and then the numbers picked up at 283. If they were buried here, the stone was either missing or sunken below the grass. "We're probably standing right on top of them," Bill said. He got the tire iron out of the rental car and jammed it into the ground looking for the stone. He hit something hard, and the tire-iron scraped against it noisily ... but it was just a small cluster of rocks. The cemetery office was closed, and we had no resources left, and then Robert and Anthony called to say they just got in, so that was it. I was thwarted. All that good luck for nothing.

We walked around the city with Robert and Anthony, and ate dinner at McCormick and Schmick's. From our online searching, it seemed Hemenway's was THE place to eat, but they were closed for the day, so the second THE place to eat was McCormick's. We ate some glorious seafood; the rare yellowfin tuna medallions were smoooove. All of a sudden, as we were sampling each other's monkfish and stuffed clams and scallops and raspberry salmon, Peter Dinklage walked by! Holy crap! THE Peter Dinklage! Screen Actors' Guild Award nominee Peter Dinklage! (For The Station Agent!) He went from the bathrooms to the front section of the restaurant. Bill did a fake walk-around to see where he was sitting; his back was to the entrance, so if anyone was going to recognize him, they wouldn't see him until they were leaving. We had a whole discussion on the ethics of approaching celebrities. (Flattering? Rude?) He was still there as we were leaving, but it seemed like he was having a pretty intimate dinner, so we decided not to bug him. A quick search at the internet station back at the hotel revealed he was shooting Underdog in Providence.

For the rest of the night, we saw the fireworks over the capital dome and went out for some drinks (had my first mojito, now in my repertoire of favorite drinks), and the whole time Bill kept saying "Peter Fuckin' Dinklage!" We had a good time with Robert and Anthony. Oh, I should probably mention that Bill and Robert are first cousins, so technically we had wall-to-wall relatives on this trip, but this was totally different. Bill and I are both the odd-one-out in our families, so when we "discover" new relatives who are like us, it's very exciting; Bill and Robert didn't see much of each other in the past, so getting to know each other as a friends rather than that-person-who-is-related-to-me-for-some-reason has been cool.

The next morning we drove to the rental car place to take a shuttle bus to the airport to take a plane to Chicago to take the L-train to our apartment. (Still didn't take a boat.)

Vacation, Day 2: My Family

2006-07-05T11:39:00.000-07:00

We drove from the Hartford area to Norwalk, for my grandfather's 85th birthday bash. (He won't be 85 until the fall, but this was the best weekend for relatives across the country to travel.) It was held at -- gulp -- a yacht club, and I have no idea why; we aren't that crowd of people at all. They have a strict dress code of no jeans, and my Uncle Dom loves his jeans so much, he has already purchased for himself a specially-made casket lined with denim. But I guess someone got him to wear khakis. (Amazing, because he attended his mother's funeral in jeans and flannel; you would have guessed he was going deer hunting.)

The club was on a small peninsula on the Long Island sound. It was guarded by some snappy nautical flags and tennis courts occupied by toned and tanned blondes in blindingly white mini-skirts. This seems to be what people think of when they think of Connecticut, but this is completely foreign to me. (The part I grew up in is woodsy and semi-rural.) Bill and I crept around the outside like we were afraid a pack of Yalies would appear and shoo us away with canoe paddles.

We met the coolest people there, Vivien and Zoe. Vivien's parents were neighbors of my grandparents when they lived in Greenwich, and my mom and Aunt Jane used to babysit for her. She stayed at my grandparents' house when her mother was dying. Her father remarried and moved the family to France, but Vivien hated it there, so she stayed with my grandparents until they found some relatives in the states to take her in. Mom and Aunt Jane hadn't seen Vivien since she was a little girl, so it was an emotional reunion for them. But Bill and I really hit it off with Vivien and her partner Zoe. Such fun, sweet, smart people. We ended up hanging out with them for most of the day.

It was a brunch with an open bar, so Papa was pretty tipsy when he got up to address us. (He had the disclaimer beforehand: this speech will be drunk and completely off the cuff.) He told an old people joke that is only funny when delivered in his voice, and then when he tried to say something serious, when he started to say how fortunate his life has been, he got so choked up he couldn't talk. (Mom says she has only seen Papa cry three times previously: When his mother died, when he danced with my mom at her wedding, and when we threw him and Grandma a surprise 60th wedding anniversary party.) It was the first time ever that absolutely all of my grandparents' children, their spouses, grandchildren, their spouses, and great-grandchildren were all together -- that's a crew of 24. And even though Papa was overwhelmed by his blessings to the point of tears, that didn't stop certain people from needling my sister about being the last grandchild who hasn't married yet. She is the youngest grandchild, she just graduated college, she and her boyfriend have been together less than a year, so there is absolutely no reason for her to be married already. Her boyfriend is an awfully good sport about it, even the painfully tactless inquiries of "Have any announcements to make?" (This was also milked at a wedding on my dad's side last month, especially after Joanna caught the bouquet.)

My parents cut out pretty early, because they always get tired out so easily. I sort of felt guilty about not leaving with them, since they get so depressed about how little they see if me, but I see my cousins even less. I've gotten to really like my cousins. When I was a kid, they were scary and intimidating, because they're all between 10 and 15 years older than me, so they seemed more like aunts and uncles. But the age difference is nothing now that we're all adults. Also I'm new enough to adulthood that I feel the need to emphasize I am Not A Kid Anymore, that I am not an extension of my parents but my own entity. And who wants to leave a party early when pizza lies in the near future?

After my hopes of asserting I'm not a baby anymore, Bill and I arrived at my parents' house, where my mom was wearing the dress she hand-sewed for herself when she was third-trimester-pregnant with me.

To be continued...

Vacation, Day 1: His Family

2006-07-05T08:29:00.000-07:00

Friday morning Bill and I woke at the ungodly hour of 4:45 and lugged our sleepy selves to pick up the Foster bus to take us to the Blue Line L-train to take us to O'Hare Airport to fly us to Bradley Airport and took a shuttle bus to the rental car place to get a car to drive to his parents' house. (If only we could have taken a boat for some reason.)

Bill's plan was to grab some lunch from Franklin Giant Grinders, hurry to his parents' house, and eat during the England-Portugal game. (He is crazy into soccer; I couldn't care less.) But Franklin was actually showing the World Cup on their TV, so we got to eat at tables like civilized people, and we were able to share in the delight of seeing a girl wearing a t-shirt that said "You betta check yo self before you wreck yo self." (By the way, I would like to plug the deliciousness of their grinders. The first time I went I got eggplant parm, and this time I got chicken parm, and both were chock-full of saucy, cheesy goodness.)

We arrived at his parents' house, and Bill barely kissed them hello before turning the game on. Since I had no interest in the game, I picked up the local newspaper on the coffee table, and read what has become my favorite sentence of the week, and will probably remain my favorite for the month at least: " 'The world is not exactly brimming with idealism,' said the accomplished violinist." That was our punchline for the weekend: Follow any sentence with "said the accomplished violinist." (This same paper once did an article about my father-in-law, with this same ear for juxtaposition. Stuff like "A long-time baseball fan, he enjoys frequenting the Foxwoods and Mohegan Suns Casinos. A grandfather of 11, he noted, 'There is a lot of traffic on my street.' ")

After the game was over, we got to do what I wanted to do, which was go to the Hartford Public Library, and print obituaries of Bill's dead relatives off of microfilm. (My primary non-career-related hobby is genealogy. Which has been and shall be the source of many death-themed activities.) Nothing makes you feel more like a Crazy Person than cursing at the obituary page from 1921 because they neglected to note the passing of a Polish farmer from the outlying rural area. We also drove around a bit looking for a local historic landmark, the Buttolph-Williams house, because the name Buttolph is awesome.

Back at the house, Bill's brother Stephen and his girlfriend Terri-Anne came over for dinner and a game of Trivial Pursuit. Bill invented a marvelous word. The question was, "How many strikes do you get in a game of [conkers? I can't remember the name]?" Bill asked rhetorically, "I wonder if that means per turn, or for the whole -- " and, failing to come up with a word like inning or quarter, said, " -- flurggen?" Later, my father-in-law was chiding Bill about a restaurant dinner from years back: "We go out to dinner, and Billy orders the most expensive thing on the menu! He says, 'Oooh, bouillabaisse, I love bouillabaisse!' Unbelievable! Then your mother and I think we're finally going to get the check, and he says, 'I'll have a cappuccino.' I said to him, 'I'll cappuccino YOU!' "

If this entry were some sort of workbook from a grade-school language arts class, I think it would have something like this at the end of the lesson:

VOCABULARY POWER

"Let's play a few flurggens of conkers," said the accomplished violinist. Buttolph replied, "I'll cappuccino YOU!"

To Be Continued...

Hair-Touching Lady

2006-06-30T06:39:00.000-07:00

The Hair-Touching Lady rides the southbound Red Line in the mornings. She is about 45 years old, has a helmet of ratty, graying brown hair, wears giant round glasses in front of dazed blue eyes, has a faint moustache, her lips protrude forward, and her back is hunched. Her eyes wander, seemingly without registering any of her surroundings, and her hands are always playing with each other -- sometimes softly and slowly, sometimes like two wrestling kittens. But she is completely silent, seemingly incapable of speech. She chews on her fingernails and scabs, sometimes swallowing what she has harvested, and sometimes spitting it into her lap. She wears the sort of old novelty t-shirts and terrycloth shorts that can only be found at the Salvation Army; the first time I saw her, her t-shirt said "My other boyfriend is cuter."

On that first encounter, I sat across from her as a tall woman with long, frosty blonde hair sat next to her. The Hair-Touching Lady's eyes fixed on the pale yellow mane, and widened like it was the first familiar sight she had seen in days. In a trance, her hand glided towards the hair. She uttered a single word in an unsteady voice -- "Pretty" -- and stroked the woman's hair. The blonde reacted immediately; in a calm but firm voice she said "No" as she grabbed the Hair-Touching Lady's hand and forceably returned it to her lap. The Hair-Touching Lady hung her head with a sense of shame, and began furiously wringing her hands.

Another day I saw the Hair-Touching Lady, she was jolted into consciousness upon the sight of dredlocks. These thick black braids hung down to their owner's waist, and gently swayed with the rattling of the train. This time the Hair-Touching Lady stood up, taking shaky steps, and again whispered "Pretty" in her unpracticed voice. She ran one hand down the length of the braids. The woman shrieked "Get off me!" and threw out an arm to swat her away. The Hair-Touching Lady guiltily reatreated to her seat, and again her hands scolded each other in a flurry.

I've seen the Hair-Touching Lady maybe 4 or 5 times, and each time she has made contact with another woman's locks. Once I realized too late I was sitting near her, and my hair was still glistening wet from the shower. I was sure my shininess would make me the next target, but then another woman sat down in front of me, so she became the catch of the day. What I've always found fascinating is that though her Pavlovian reaction to long hair seems to be the only fragment remaining from a shattered mind, she manages to get off at the same stop every time. As soon as the train pulls out of Addison, she stands up and waits in the doorway, and gets off at Belmont without fail.

This morning was the first time I saw the Hair-Touching Lady in months. I sat on the other end of the train car, but kept my eye on her. I looked around for someone with long and/or unusual hair, and bingo, saw a woman with a head full of skinny braids down to her butt, clearly extensions with blonde woven into brown, and finished with wooden beads. No sooner did I spot her than she stood up, and though she was seated equidistant from both exits, she chose the doors directly across from the Hair-Touching Lady. Her eyes lit up when they fixed on those braids, her lips parted, and one hand floated up and lingered in mid-air. But she didn't stand up, and the beaded braids stepped off at Wilson unmolested. For the first time, the Hair-Touching Lady got off at Belmont without her fingers touching a single strand of hair.

I WROTE A HIT PLAY! (I mean, poem)

2006-06-29T08:57:00.000-07:00

Yeah, Rushmore, baby!

The open mic was a smashing success: I got lots of laughs and applause, just the sort of evening I needed to get back into the swing of performing. Scott liked my first piece better, but since that one was about me getting drunk and stoned and kissed by some European guy at a party, that was to be expected. My second piece [only did two] was about my psychiatric evaluation in 2nd grade -- they thought I had Tourrettes Syndrome, when I was actually just lonely, unchallenged by my schoolwork, and bored out of my mind. There's a passage in my piece about the one class project I loved:

Okay, last week, we made picture books, and I went ALL OUT on that shit, man! I mean, my story, about the museum that came to life, blew all the rest of those well-adjusted bumfucks RIGHT out of the water. And the drawings? My god, the drawings! The girl who sits next to me, the one who gets along well with her peers, did the whole thing with one pink crayon -- you call that EFFORT? The tender, loving care I put into sweeping strokes of rubber cement, in the binding with stitches of yarn -- I made ART last week, motherfuckers! You gave me an "external demand" and I delivered the goods!

and then it ends with:

Look, I am 7 years old, and I have never heard of the Bender Visual Motor Gestalt test, and I don't know what your ink blots have to do with...ANYTHING. No, I don't find my joy in "Alabama, Alaska, Arizona..." and the three phases of matter, but I wish, Mr. Gemmell, that you would read my story about the magical museum, because I know if you did, you would ask me to write another.

Afterwards this one guy said the sweetest thing to me: he caught my attention as I was leaving and asked, "Can I read your story about the museum?" Aw! I told him it's probably long gone; I don't have it, and though it may be in the darkest recesses of one of my parents' closets, I'm pretty sure they already gave me the box filled with every single story I wrote and picture I drew from my first 8 or so years of life. I have a vague memory of the stitches coming undone and the rubber cement de-adhesifying [Is that a word? It is now], and the whole thing becoming unsalvageable. But maybe I'm thinking of something else.

So I would say the evening was worth all the sleep I lost from staying up way past my bedtime. (Falling asleep at the reception desk; today the "face of the company" has droopy eyelids and yawns a lot.)

For My Next Poem, I'll Need a Volunteer

2006-06-28T07:42:00.000-07:00

Tonight I am going to my first open mic in well over a year. I don't have any new material, so I'm going to bust out my three biggest hits. Actually, I have four greatest hits, but it seems like a lot to do four, so here is the fourth poem. For the full effect, read this while lounging on a couch, preferably across someone's lap, fucked up on your substance of choice.

***

I was asked to make a good impression.
You know,
Because I don't have any female friends
And I need to learn
To get along
With members of my species

So Sarah, they tell me
Is really sweet.
I mean, really sweet
Just the sweetest girl
You'll ever meet.
And I don't like her already
But I go anyway
For self-improvement, I guess
And who knows
Maybe they're just giving her
A bad name.
But no.
Sarah is
The sweetest
Nicest girl
I'll ever meet
And it's just a nightmare

For instance:
I like the word "douchebag."
It's fun to say.
And in my experience
Using the word "douchebag"
Regardless of the context
Gets a good laugh.
Well, Sarah doesn't like the word
"Douchebag"
And she really
Really doesn't like the word
Motherfucker.
And that's fine, that's not everybody's bag
But I just can't figure out
What kind of mothers
Raise their daughters
To never have
Any fun.
I mean
Sarah is worried
About her hair and complexion
And the glossiness of her lips
Every 15 minutes
And I want to know
Who told her she's ugly
And can't just kick back
And have a fucking--
Excuse me
And have a conversation.

For five minutes
I want
More than anything in the world
To be Sarah's friend
And tell her she can have messy hair
And a shiny nose
And still be okay
And still be a nice, sweet girl
Without pretending she's stupid
Because I know she's not
And she can speak up for herself
And not be a bitch.
But I want to be somebody's friend
Not somebody's teacher
And I don't think she'd pay half a mind
To a mouthy, blowsy
Utterly tactless nut
Like me
Anyway

Sort By Column E, Descending, Then By Column F, Ascending

2006-06-27T07:04:00.000-07:00

I love a good spreadsheet. I'm an artsy-fartsy girl at heart, but there is a sizeable chunk of my brain that hums with delight when data sets are sorted alphabetically and/or numerically. Any project that can combine my love of the storytelling arts AND sort-able factoids will keep me amused for hours.

Possibly my dorkiest project ever is a massive Excel spreadsheet, transcribed from the Internet Movie Database, charting biographical data of every single Oscar-nominated actor of all time -- and to date there are 817 of them. They range alphabetically from F. Murray Abraham to Catherine Zeta-Jones, and chronologically from May Robson (born 1858) to Keisha Castle-Hughes (born 1990.) And..."data"...."sort"...

Actors in my age range:

1976: Reese Witherspoon
1977: Samantha Morton
1979: Kate Hudson, Heath Ledger
1980: Jake Gyllenhaal, Michelle Williams
1981: Natalie Portman, Catalina Sandino Moreno
1982: Anna Paquin
1985: Keira Knightley

Actors born in Connecticut:

Bridgeport: Robert Mitchum
Darien: Chloe Sevigny
Hamden: Ernest Borgnine
Hartford: Ed Begley, Katharine Hepburn
New Haven: Paul Giamatti
Redding: Hope Lange
Waterbury: Rosalind Russell

Actors of Italian origin:

Danny Aiello, Alan Alda, Don Ameche, Anne Bancroft, Roberto Benigni, Ernest Borgnine, Lorraine Bracco, Victor Buono, Nicolas Cage, Diane Cilento, Valentina Cortese, Vittorio de Sica, Robert DeNiro, Leonardo DiCaprio, Anthony Franciosa, Vincent Gardenia, Michael V. Gazzo, Paul Giamatti, Giancarlo Giannini, Robert Loggia, Sophia Loren, Anna Magnani, Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio, Marcello Mastroianni, Sal Mineo, Liza Minnelli, Al Pacino, Chazz Palminteri, Marisa Pavan, Joe Pesci, Talia Shire, Frank Sinatra, Mira Sorvino, Sylvester Stallone, Marisa Tomei, John Travolta, Massimo Troisi

[Did I miss anybody?]

I mentioned Paul Giamatti twice in one post, so I think I command some sort of prize. But then again, I also mentioned Ernest Borgnine twice, so I'd probably have to give it back.

Happy Annimaversary to Me

2006-06-26T06:38:00.000-07:00

Two years ago today, Bill and I woke up in our hotel bed in Danbury. Bill said, as he had been saying for the past few months, "Marry me!" I said, "I'm gonna!"

We rounded up the stuff we would need for the day and loaded them into the rental car. He dropped me off at the hair salon and drove to the theatre. It isn't like me to "get my hair done," but I can't secure an up-do for shit, and I did not want to be scraping my hair out of my face all day. The very nice, Long Island-y lady who opened the salon early just to do my hair asked what I would like, and she tried to do that -- upswept with cascading curls -- but my hair wasn't long enough. She then started combing my hair backwards, which she said would split the hairs down the middle to give me more volume, and I watched in terror as my hair got bigger and bigger. But 100 bobby pins and half a can of hairspray later, it was all sleek and tamed, very similar to this.

My sister picked me up and drove me to my parents' house, where Mom had just arrived with my gawwwgeous bouquet: a vivid purple ball of irises, bigger than my hair. (I wasn't crazy about the idea of having a bouquet, but Mom really wanted me to, so I agreed on the condition that it be blindingly purple. "How about some baby's breath?" she asked. Nope -- solid irises.)

Then we drove to the theatre. This was the theatre where Bill and I first met, exactly 7 years and 1 day earlier. We knew we wanted to get married on that stage from whenever it was that we decided to get married. (Neither of us can remember when that was. There was no proposal, no ring, just an eventual mutual understanding that this was the best thing in the world and we should, to paraphrase Mr. Show, marry the SHIT out of each other.) We got into our "costumes" in the dressing room, and, just like we had done 7 years earlier, peeked through the slats of the door to see the "audience" gathering in the lobby.

From the dressing room, Bill went up the actors' stairway and appeared onstage. When everyone was seated, Dad led me through the audience entrance and down the aisle, to Patsy Cline's lush, reverent recording of Cole Porter's "True Love." It was very weird to see our families (one world) all seated in this theatre (a completely separate world), looking around at each other and reading the joke-filled programs (I'm sure they thought "A wedding in three acts" was cute, but I imagine they scratched their heads at "Specially chosen speakers talk about the couple, both prolonging the ceremony and creating the illusion of formality.") Mostly, I was struck that as I walked down the aisle, my family was looking at me like I was an adult rather than that weird little kid.

My 82-year-old grandfather (a Justice of the Peace) stood at a podium on the stage, and Bill and I sat in two chairs to his right. We wrote Papa some great jokes for his opening monologue: "By the way, if you're here for the show, it doesn't start for another three weeks." (Delivered in his slow, gravelly, Brooklyn-ese voice with bone-dry humor, it was awesome.) Our friends Dennis, Tom, Jaime, and Danny -- who were hired under the pretense of being "roast-masters" -- gave very funny (but also sweet) speeches about us. I think the biggest laugh came, though, when Bill and I exchanged our vows: For some reason, what I wrote down on the card a few weeks earlier looked completely foreign to me, and in mid-vow I asked Bill, "Did you change this?" We cracked up laughing a bunch of times, put the rings on each other's fingers, and Papa joined us -- to quote the program -- in secular matrimony. We walked down the aisle to Dean Martin's swingin', martini-sippin' recording of Cole Porter's "True Love."

We got a little lost driving from the theatre in New Milford to the reception in Danbury, because we tried following Mom and Dad's car through the back roads and made a wrong turn. My parents noticed we were no longer following them shortly after they passed a sign for a HUGE MULTI-FAMILY TAG SALE. They were convinced we had stopped there, and that rumor had spread to all the guests by the time we showed up at Anthony's Lake Club. (No, we didn't stop at the tag sale, but once I got that picture in my head -- perusing a dusty box of old paperbacks on somebody's front lawn in a flowing white wedding gown -- I kind of wished I had.)

The reception was a bummer because we didn't have enough crazy young people in attendance. The many elderly relatives were not dancing. My relatives were mostly fussing over my cousin's 4-month-old twins. We were especially disappointed because of how much effort we put into choosing the songs that we burned to CD (and played in lieu of a DJ. In the wisdom of Albert Brooks, DJ's are the second worst people on earth -- after incurable lepers, but before curable lepers.) Our first dance was to Alison Krauss's "When You Say Nothing At All," a song which has special significance; it was the only song on a mix tape Bill gave me on our first date that I didn't totally hate. The only detail of the wedding my father insisted on -- an ultimatum that was first given to me when I was probably 8 years old -- was that I dance with him to Al Martino's "Daddy's Little Girl." It is possibly the sappiest song ever recorded, so as a chaser (and also as a shout-out to Freaks and Geeks, the greatest TV show of all time) we followed it with Joan Jett's "Bad Reputation." We had a special dance for my grandparents because they had celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary that year, and cranked up some more Cole Porter with Artie Shaw's cut of "Begin the Beguine" (from their first date.) The last song -- Ray Charles crooning "Come Rain or Come Shine" -- came and went without anyone noticing.

Bill and I crashed at our hotel room that night, amazed that the whole thing actually happened. "Marry me!" he exclaimed. I said, "I already DID!"

I Love the Paint Program

2006-06-23T06:43:00.000-07:00

It's Friday, I'm at work, and I have sapped my long-form creativity for the week. So please enjoy the silliest items in my "My Pictures" folder.

1. My grandfather, who is awesome, has taken up digital photography in his 80's, and though he is a self-professed non-artist, he does have a good eye for composition. He was taken by the pattern of fallen leaves in his backyard, and emailed this picture to all his children and grandchildren, asking would this not make a lovely pattern for a dress? Here is my crude approximation -- I think my mother hand-sewed this dress for herself in the 70's:

2. On a particularly boring day at work, I did some google image searches for coloring book pages, and I stumbled upon an online Bible coloring book. I have no idea who these people are or what this story is about, but the caption came to me as if God Himself were wisecracking in my ear:

3. Finally, an oldie but goodie. If you can time-warp back to, what, October 2005? Something like that. Anyway, I didn't embellish the black eyeliner in any way, I swear.

Happy Weekend!

DENIED

2006-06-22T06:52:00.000-07:00

I worked in the admissions office of my college for three years. I was a work-aid student employee, or whatever the official title is, but because I was sharper than the other kids stuffing envelopes in a storage room, I was promoted to the file room. For three years, every single application sent to the college passed through my hands. I placed every application in a manila folder, with delightfully colored alphabetic labels for the first two letters of the last name. We also had stickers for the semester and year of intended enrollment, but most curiously, we had several rolls of stickers that said DENIED. At any other college this would not seem odd, but our esteemed institution of higher learning employed an open admissions policy. I don't know who ordered them, and what the hell they were thinking, but we never touched those DENIED stickers. Almost.

I decided fun must be had with these DENIED stickers, because that is how my brain works. If I was flipping through an Entertainment Weekly, and there was a full page ad touting a reality TV show as "must-see", I slapped a DENIED sticker under this claim. If I was wearing a band-aid, I might snazz up the look with an outer layer of DENIED. (In fact, I think there were days when I couldn't get ahold of a band-aid, and used the DENIED stickers on my numerous paper cuts.) If I was feeling especially silly, I might slap one on someone's shirt, and declare them to be DENIED as a human being. When I was no longer eligible to be a work-aid student employee (I was part-time in my last two semesters), and I came to that Last Day moment of truth when you have to decide if you like the place enough to not steal an armload of office supplies, all I took with me was a couple rolls of DENIED stickers. Farewell, dear admissions office; we have served each other well.

I always think of my DENIED stickers when I see a particularly vexing advertisement. (And by the way, I much prefer to pronounce it "ad-VERT-iss-ment." I also prefer "LI-bree" to "LI-brare-y" [and, god help you, "LI-berry"]. I wish I was watching Mary Poppins right now.) There are buses around the Loop with ads for that Rice-a-Roni crap that claim "Chicago to Mexico in 90 seconds," for the bland-tastic Ugly American who considers a powdered "siesta blend" in a box to be not just ethnic food, but a trip to a whole other country. Who needs to see the Aztec ruins when you can eat reconstituted turds of a bell pepper? I need to keep a length of stickers in my purse, so I can deface such ad-VERT-iss-ments: Rice-a-Roni, your sentiment is so totally DENIED.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

2006-06-21T06:51:00.000-07:00

Come to think of it, I never had to write that essay in all my years of schooling.

So I had a bitch of a time with the "favorite movies" portion of my profile. Not nearly enough space. I tried spilling them over into the "favorite music" field, and still not enough room. So I decided to go for a specific subset, and if you can guess the common thread, we can totally be friends. If not, I'm not going to say we can't be friends. As a film school graduate, I have come to truly despise the sort of person who would say "You don't like Kubrick? Get out of my apartment!" Actually, that exact sentence was spoken to me by one of my dearest friends, but he's just a douchebag and of course I did not leave his apartment. Sucker.

An old nemesis of mine has returned. From 2001 to 2004 I lived in a Chicago neighborhood that was sometimes considered Ravenswood, sometimes Lincoln Square. Every morning I would walk south on Damen to pick up the Brown Line at the Damen stop, and I would pass this two-bit dollar store that I came to hate so much it made my eyes hurt. As far as commercial enterprises go, dollar stores are second only to thrift stores and tag sales for my favorite means of purchasing items. So I was very excited when this dollar store opened; I immediately purchased tiny faux-birthstone earrings (not just August, but February, July, and September) and a bouquet of artificial blue roses. (And if you make a connection between the latter purchase and the title of my blog, we can totally be friends.) My delight was soured, however, when the fat, sweaty, gold chain wearing, creepily moustachioed, miscellaneously foreign guy at the counter rang up my purchase, and tried to get my phone number and email address for their mailing list. (Really? A mailing list for a dollar store? What could the updates possibly be: all irregular Prungles Potato Krisps are still a dollar?) But wait, there's more! He told me a "true story", about a friend of his who was walking along the beach, and noticed there were two sets of footprints behind him, but noticed that during the most difficult times in his life, there was only one ... blah, blah, blah, you've heard this joke right? The punchline is, "It was then that I carried you"? So I say to the guy, ever so slyly, "Yeah, my Grandma has that story on a plaque in her kitchen," and the guy gives me a funny look, as in how could his friend's story possibly be told on a plaque in my Grandma's kitchen.

Anyway, the nemesis part comes in because every morning, this shady (but still sweaty) fella would stand outside his dollar store, and insist on saying hello to every single person who walked by. And by "hello" I mean he would step forward to sort of get in your way, so you were forced into acknowledging his presence, and he would weasel in a conversation. And by "conversation" I mean he would hold out his wares and ask "Newspaper? Coffee? Pop?" (By the way, I was raised in Connecticut by New Yorkers, and just about the only thing I hate about Chicago is this "pop" business. It's soda. You cannot tell me otherwise.) Soon he was on the sidewalk with half his merchandise -- in the swelter of summer he would keep gallon jugs of milk out there with him ... you know, for the busy 9 to 5 type who needs to drink a [spoiled] gallon of milk on the go! After a few weeks of having to dodge this guy EVERY DAY, I decided to walk on the opposite side of the street; I crossed at the start of the block, which was immediatly before him, and then crossed back at the end of the block to get to the train station. He had to have picked up on it, because he gave me dirty looks all the time, and the what's-he-thinking, what-does-he-think-I'm-thinking drove me crazy. When the building was vacant one morning, it was the first and only time in my life that I rejoiced upon the failure of a little guy/small business man/Mom and Pop store. I felt a little evil, but not enough to make me go to Starbucks.

Now I live in Edgewater/Andersonville and work in the Loop. The dank underground newspaper stand in my subway station has opened for the first time in the year that I've been working down here, and lo and behold, the proprietor is another fat, sweaty, gold chain wearing, creepily moustachioed, miscellaneously foreign guy. He stands outside his store, which I cannot avoid walking past, and hollers, rhythmically and emotionlessly, "GOOD morning GOOD morning GOOD morning GOOD morning." I've been accused of being unfriendly -- and generally, this is true -- but I refuse to believe the advances of either of these guys, past and present, qualifies as being "friendly" when the motivation is purely mercenary. In fact, I say it cheapens the genuine greetings and smiles between people who actually give a shit about each other, when you're robotically replicating the appearance of friendliness to fool people into a false sense of community, just so they'll buy a Red Eye or a hot gallon of milk.