More fun with Netflix

So, I'm sick today, and watching a lot more TV than reading. I begin to think that the descriptions of episodes of Family Ties available from Netflix are maybe not written by native English speakers.

A few examples:

While Alex is in the shop where Mallory works, they catch Jessie Blake shoplifting. Dad Steven points out Milford home where Jessie lives is not an orphanage but specialized in problem children, often abused.

Alex is in charge of this year's Leland parents students day. His girlfriend Ellen is angry because Alex personally invited her father, corporate lawyer Franklin Reed, whom she rejected as 'foul materialist' years ago.

Ma and Jen hardly notice the mustache Alex grows for the homecoming speech as former valedictorian in Harding High-school. Skippy hopes Mal just uses Nick to make him jealous, but of course she refuses to go with him to the homecoming dance.

and my personal favorite....

Alex committed the surprising error to vent his conviction so he gets stuck following the same elementary car mechanics course as ma Elyse, the architect, who proves more gifted at it.

What I Read on My Winter Vacation: Gather Together in My Name

Once again, your guide to pretending you've read books when people ask.

Angelou, Maya. Gather Together in My Name. Toronto: Bantam, 1975. Print.

I got this book many years ago, when I was a teacher and it was one of the options I had for teaching to my juniors. I neither read it nor taught it then.

Summary with spoilers (highlight to read): Maya Angelou had a really ridiculous late adolescence, apparently, including kind of a lot of criminal activity and a lot of moving around. She works as a cook, a pimp, a waitress, a prostitute, a chauffeurette, and a couple other things. She falls in love with a few real jerks. And when she thinks of it, she cares for her young child.

If you tell people you read this book, they'll think you're: Smart and interesting enough to get past I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. If you then tell them you haven't actually read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, they may or may not be intrigued by your choosing to read just part of the middle of a memoir.

Your informed opinion of this book is that it's: Not all that Christmassy. And beautifully written, though it reads like what it is — the middle of a memoir. Angelou's writing is magnificent — her imagery is flawless and her honest self-appraisal ranges from hilarious to sobering — but the book ends and you wonder, "And then?!"

And while we're talking about it, you know what's similar but better or worse? I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, probably, but like I said, I haven't read it. Honestly, though, I'm not sure it's like anything else I've read.

What I Read on My Winter Vacation: Maudie and Me and the Dirty Book

Here we go, folks. Your guide to pretending you've read books when people ask.

Miles, Betty. Maudie and Me and the Dirty Book. New York: Avon, 1981. Print.

 

This is one of those re-reads I was talking about; in this case, a kids' book I haven't read since I was a kid. It's OK, but not as good as I remembered.

 

Summary with spoilers (highlight to read): An eleven-year-old girl struggles with the pressures of middle school, befriends a fat girl, and reads a book about puppies to first-graders. The children improbably launch into a not-very-graphic conversation about sex. The townfolk are scandalized. Except, as it turns out, not very many of them. In the end, everyone is popular, the narrator gets her first babysitting job, and every apparent catastrophe is really not a very big deal.

If you tell people you read this book, they'll think you're: Eleven. Or in touch with your inner smut-reading child.

Your informed opinion of this book is that it's: Fine. Worth reading if you're exactly like I was in the sixth grade — a good enough reader that it won't take that long, worried about popularity and fatness, eager to babysit.

And while we're talking about it, you know what's similar but better or worse? The Cat Ate My Gymsuit, by Paula Danziger, is like this book but better. Yadda yadda misfit, yadda yadda cool teacher, yadda yadda censorship — but the stakes feel higher and more significant. Plus, the kids are older and therefore cooler, obviously.

Discuss.

Book me, Dano

I've been thinking about this book thing. I had a few extra minutes between things I was rushing between, so I came home and started pulling books off the shelf that:

• I haven't read yet, and
• look vaguely interesting.

And as I started observing:

• the size of the pile
• the size of the books in the pile
• the themes that emerge

... I decided we need some rules.

Here are the rules:

• I won't buy any books. I can read what I own, borrow them from friends and family, borrow them from the library, whatever, but there's no need for me to buy more books.
• I don't have to finish any books I'm not enjoying. Life's too short, babe, time is flyin'.
• I do have to write up every book I start, finished or not, for your edification, ideally in some way that will enable you to pretend you've read it, when your cousin corners you and wants to know whether you've read anything good lately.
• I can re-read books I've read before, but there has to be at least one new book to each re-read.

I'll start reading when my vacation starts tomorrow night. The comments are yours. What do you want covered in the reviews? What rules do I need to add?

Unofficial results

Driving the half-hour home from my parents' house to my own, 23 days before the NH primary, I saw yard signs for:

• Newt Gingrich
• Rick Santorum
• Ron Paul (just one sign, but it was enormous)
• Mitt Romney 
• Jon Huntsman

Sorry, Michele Bachmann, Rick Perry, and Gary Johnson. It's not your year.

Feeling good

You know what feeling is better than when you find something important that was lost that you'd been searching for increasingly desperately for weeks?

The feeling when you finally fall asleep for an accidental nap in front of Murder, She Wrote after the relief of finding it, panic out of your mind because you think the finding it was just a dream and what the hell are you doing sleeping at a time like this, and then realize that it was not a dream, and that the very important thing is, in fact, still found. That, my friends, is the most elated feeling in the universe.

Reading is Fundamental

On Thanksgiving, my cousin-in-law asked me if I'd read any good books lately.

That seems like reasonable conversation, doesn't it? Especially if, like her, you love to read and are always on the lookout for the next good book. Or if, as she's heard about me, you started reading about six minutes after you started talking and never stopped, losing yourself in book after book, flopping down around the house next to whatever bookshelf caught your eye (including the one in the hallway by the bathroom), eventually working in the town library and reading your way through a sizable chunk of the collection there, too. It's totally reasonable Thanksgiving conversation. She and I are both readers, for sure.

So I was embarrassed to have no answer for her. I stumbled around a little but ultimately offered her nothing. She tried to have the same conversation the next day, with similar results.

Here is the truth that I did not say: I read all day for work, and when I am not reading for work, I read online. Books? Lately? I read picture books to my niece sometimes, and every now and then, I pull out something from my collection of favorite young adult novels and re-read that. Sometimes the 1974 Readers Digests in my room at my parents' house. ANd, um, I watch a lot of Murder, She Wrote, which is about a lady who writes books. No, not so much with the "any good books lately." But I have read a seriously startlingly large sample of The Internet.

When I told this story to my sister, she suggested that I should change that, that reading books is good for me. I tried to get her to explain how reading books, specifically, is better for me than all the thousands and thousands of words I read every day for work and pleasure, and before she could make the only reasonable answer to that there is (attention span), her two-year-old distracted her and so I am victorious!

Unless she's right, that is, in which case I lose and don't even know it. So, just in case, I'm giving it a shot. I'm on vacation from December 24 through January 2, and I am going to read a bunch of books and tell you about them.

Don't bother to recommend books to me — or rather, go ahead, but it won't do you a lot of good; I rarely read books on recommendation from other people. But please use the comments to tell me what you want to be sure I include in my (very brief) reviews of books I read on my winter vacation.

Rest

[Here's Part 1 of The Plattsburgh Saga.
Here's Part 2.
Here's Part 3.
This is Part 4.]

The above, in case you were wondering, was mine and my dad's approximate route. "A" is where I live. "B" is Plattsburgh, where the garage was (see how close to Canada!). "C" is Lake Placid, where we had to return the rental car. "D" is Ludlow, where the car broke down. See how not close to "A" it is?

Anyway, back to our story...

Obviously, I called AAA and sent my dad to a sandwich shop to get us some dinner, and then called about half a dozen friends to explain how this thing that could not have happened had, in fact, happened. While I waited, Lee called. Yup.

"Hey, I just wanted to be sure you got home OK," he said.
"You have got some bad timing, buddy," I said.

Eventually, the tow truck came. Here is the difference between Lee (or me, for that matter) and someone who knows something about cars: This guy asked if my car would drive in any other gear. I had no idea. I'd only tried it in drive. Turns out, in second, it worked just fine, and just think how much easier that made hooking it up to the (completely real) tow truck this time. Wonder if that might have worked the first time. I guess we'll never know.

I got home, eventually, thanks to a long drive and a shortish walk. My father and I parted ways, and in the morning, the garage I like here in town checked out my car. The problem was definitely the transmission, they told me, and they don't do transmissions, so they referred me back to the person I'd called a now more than a week before. He was glad to take my car, but it'd be a while before he could get to it now, because he was backed up. I drove my car on over (in second) and expected to be carless for about a week and a half.

A week or so later, I got a call from the local transmission guy. My car was ready! The work had actually been excellent on my car! The problem was an issue with a part! I could come get it immediately!

Which, obviously, I did. And in my conversations with the local transmission guy, he wanted to be very careful to emphasize what a good job the guys in Plattsburgh had done. Top-notch work, the likes of which he'd rarely seen. They had not ripped me off. If I'd left with any bad feelings, I might want to call and let them know I knew how great they were.

I told him I thought I'd been pretty even-tempered, but I was sure they felt bad that I'd broken down three-quarters of the way home, so maybe I'd call anyway. He said he thought John did feel bad about that.

"John?" I said. "Was he the guy who actually did the work on my car?"
"Yes."
"Oh," I said. "I only ever talked to the shop manager."
"Oh," said the local transmission guy, in the same mild, even tone he'd been using. "Since you were up there, he cleaned them out and left town."
"Since I was there?" I said. "I just left a week ago."
"Yup."

Day 30 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful that my car goes like a breeze again. And I am thankful for confirmation of what I am trying harder to believe: Gut feelings are to be trusted.

Penultimate

[Here's Part 1 of The Plattsburgh Saga.
Here's Part 2.
This is Part 3.
Here's Part 4.]


You're probably wondering what happened with my car. Or you wonder how anyone can make a story last so damn long. If so, sorry, because we've miles to go on that tale.

(If you haven't yet read about the car, the story begins here and continues here.)

So, yeah, my car was to be done early the week after Thanksgiving. I'd already asked for the Tuesday after Thanksgiving off for a morning engagement, so a plan formed over Thanksgiving weekend. My father and I would drive in the rental up to Plattsburgh that Tuesday afternoon, then he'd drive my car and I'd drive the rental over to Lake Placid to drop off the rental car, then we'd drive back to my house together in my car. It's a nine-hour trip, and it'd be a late night, but we have a pretty good time together.

Sunday night, the shop manager at the garage in Plattsburgh (let's call him, "Lee") called me from his cell phone. I am not sure I've mentioned yet that he seemed to think, after our interactions in the car and on the phone, that we were buddies — at least. His status as a single (well, divorced) guy had come up more than once. Anyway, he called Sunday night to let me know the car would not be ready until late in the day Tuesday. I was so pleased I'd padded the schedule. We weren't going to arrive in Plattsburgh until late in the day Tuesday, so we were fine.

My mother, who is often skeptical, was skeptical. She suggested I call before we left.

Tuesday morning, I called before we left. The car would be ready, Lee said. We discussed again whether I might pay in cash in exchange for a sizeable discount. I actually lost it at him briefly in the phone when he seemed to be unable to actually explain this "cash discount" to me in terms that made any sense. I told him I thought I'd be paying with a card, instead. (Word to the wise: If you have prevented a person from calling AAA and then shown up incapable of moving her car without her own brute strength, do not later suggest that part of your "discount" is that you are not charging her a "towing fee.")

And then my father and I embarked on a pretty jovial road trip. We called Lee a few times from the road and we reassured the car would be ready. We stopped for lunch. We joked around a lot and told stories.

About 20 minutes outside Plattsburgh, we had a call from Lee. Would it be possible, he asked, for us to maybe spend the night in town?

Some questions are not so much questions.

We went to the shop and he assured us he'd be happy to put us up in the local EconoLodge, but he wanted to be sure the work was really done well. He also launched into a weird diatribe about how much he is trying to do for the community, between the homeless shelter he's trying to build (Note: Plattsburgh does not, in fact, have a million people in it, whatever Lee thinks.).

Luckily, my father is retired and didn't need to get back for anything urgent, so we agreed (as if we had a choice) and headed to Kmart for toothbrushes and toys for Toys for Tots. We had a lovely dinner surrounded by Francophones (because, you know, pretty much Canada). We watched a movie at the hotel yadda yadda amnesia something something January Jones. We slept in until 7:30 and enjoyed the waffles at the continental breakfast, went to the AAA office to satisfy my father's desperate need for paper maps even when I have a GPS. And then we explored Plattsburgh. As we wandered along the shore of Lake Champlain, we got another call from Lee.

"Hey, you," he said as my skin creeped. He was just wondering if it might be possible for me to pay most of the bill on the card, of course, but $300 in cash, possibly — you know, because of the homeless shelter. My father and I talked about it, decided it was clearly shady, but whatever. Sure. We could do that.

And there began several hours of Lee telling us the car was almost ready and then calling us back to say that it was not. At least twice, I was literally a block or less away from the garage when he called to ask for more time. Eventually, he called to ask if we could put the cash in an envelope and label it "Toys for Tots" because "not everyone in the shop needs to know everything that goes on." Seriously.

But through it all, we had a pretty good time. We walked around downtown, looking at the war monument and taking pictures with our cell phones. Although I do not recommend a trip to Plattsburgh just for the Museum of the War of 1812, I do recommend stopping in if you're in town. We went to Radio Shack and TJ Maxx and Staples (naturally, we needed envelopes). My father wrote "Toys for Tots" (complete with quotation marks), which gave us no end of mirth.

And finally, my car was ready, at nearly 3:30 Wednesday — just enough time to get the rental car back to Lake Placid. Lee warned us that it might need a "breaking in period." The car might have a little trouble upshifting. After one more weird joke in which he suggested he might move in with me and my father could start calling him "son," he gave us our warranty, we gave him a credit card and an envelope with cash inside and quotation marks outside, and we hit the road.

When we got to Lake Placid, I asked my dad how my car had handled. He said it was about like Lee had suggested, and otherwise fine. As soon as I got back behind the wheel, I was worried. It felt like it had before it broke down. My father tried to reassure me, and I tried to allow myself to be reassured. We were making good time; we decided not to stop for dinner and power through to Keene.

And then.

And then the transmission died, about an hour from my destination.

When the car stopped accelerating and then slowed nearly to a stop, I pulled over.


Day 29 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for the kind of father-daughter relationship that makes a semi-catastrophe into a fun(ish) adventure, rather than a real catastrophe. I am thankful for stupid, stupid little jokes, for support and apparently limitless willingness to help. I am thankful not to feel like "Daddy's Little Girl" because I have always felt as respected, smart, and strong as any adult in the room, even when he dotes. And I'm thankful he's finally started reading the blog. :)

Conversation

Tonight, I went to the first of four holiday parties (that I know of so far) I'll attend. It was a good one — it always is. As I always do, I talked with some people I knew well, caught up with some casual acquaintances, and had some riveting conversation with brand-new friends*. It sets a really pretty nice tone for the rest of the month and the rest of the season.

And I think I picked up three new readers of this blog — maybe more. Goodness. That never happens.

Day 28 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for readers. And even more thankful for commenters. Speaking of setting tones, you know. Welcome aboard, new folks.

*The phrase "brand-new friend" invariably makes me think "walking with Jesus and Jane." Super-special extra points to you if you also get the reference without googling.

Quitting

I am not quite ready to admit all my moral failings to everyone yet, but I want to post about them nonetheless. Let's see how that goes.

So, for a long time, I've been engaging in a pleasant but harmless activity. Let's say it's about the equivalent of writing this blog (it's not actually writing this blog). But I figured out how to do this activity in a sort of morally harmful way. Let's say it's the approximate equivalent of "writing" this blog, but plagiarizing every entry, almost without exception (it's not plagiarism, either).

And for the whole time I've been engaged in this activity, I have felt crappy about myself, every time. I like to think I'm pretty ethical, and this was strictly nonethical behavior. And it made me feel crummy, often. Also, I have never admitted to anyone that I've been doing it — until recently.

Recently, I told a close friend that I was doing the moral equivalent of plagiarizing this blog, and that I hated it, and that I didn't like myself for it, but that I didn't seem able to stop — I'd go to write a blog post, and then before I even gave myself a chance to do it right, I'd plagiarize it. I'd wanted to tell her about it for a while, but I was sure it would make her think less of me.

And it seems like it didn't. In fact, she pointed out to me that the easiest solution was to do the equivalent of not blogging anymore. And it had honestly never occurred to me before that there was a way out that was that easy. It was so simple, and I just quit the pleasant harmless activity cold turkey. And if I hadn't admitted it, I might not have stumbled on that very easy solution, maybe ever.

Day 27 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful there are easy answers to moral crises, sometimes, and I am thankful for the strength to seek the help I need to find them, sometimes.

Bzzzzkill

I just called my dad.

"Guess who got a MacBook Air today?!" I said.
"Well," he said, "I know your sister did."

Um.

I meant me.

Guess it, er, runs in the family?

(Hey, I know I owe you a bunch of posts. They should be much easier to complete now.)

Things that would not happen in Washington (but would happen in a movie)

We haven't done one of these lately, but I couldn't resist. (See previous incarnations here, here and here.)

This e-mail just received from a cabinet-level administrator at the college:

Hi, all: If anyone is interested in having some, I have a cooler full of fresh venison here today. We have WAY more than we can use (and I mean WAY), and are very interested in sharing with anyone who would like some. If you want to take some, please, please take as much as you want, either for yourself or for others. For those unfamiliar with venison that has been properly prepared, it does not have any strong taste; it’s more like eating filet mignon, but without any fat whatsoever.

I’m only here until noon, as I am headed to a professional seminar this afternoon, so let me know before then. If you can’t do it today, let me know any time, as we always have more than enough to share. I can always bring some in.

Love

Lots of work to do today, and lots of stories to tell you going forward, but I'm hoping to wrap up this month of gratitude, however belatedly.

A Facebook friend shared this blog post today, and this is a largely preaching-to-the-choir situation here, but I thought it was an interesting one.

Here is what I commented there:

I agree with your bigger, grander points, absolutely. Without question. And while I am not perfect in this, I do strive to live a life in which I accept people as they come (though it is harder with mean people. I mean, right?).

That said, I'm more worried about your friend than about your bigger point, because I know how deeply that hurts. "Jacob," if you're reading: I'm queer, and Christian, and I have found supportive, loving people in my life, in places I wouldn't have imagined. I'm sorry people have abandoned you (as some have abandoned me). Those people suck. You deserve better, and I hope you find better. If you friended me on Facebook, I'd keep you.

Belated Day 26 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful to have supportive, loving people in my life, and I am thankful for the ones who can handle it. I am also thankful for those who can't quite handle it, but try. And I am very thankful for those who went before me, both out queers and loving non-queers, who prepped the world to love me a little more easily.



P.S.: The discussion in the comments on that post has gotten largely bogged down in "IS IT A CHOICE?!" Here, in case you are wondering, are the basic arguments in that conversation, always:

• It's a choice and you are damned to hell for it.
• It is not a choice; who would choose such a miserable life?!
• It is not a choice, just like you didn't choose to be straight!!
• Love the sinner, hate the sin.

And here, in case you are wondering, are my responses to those arguments:

• If it is a choice, someone else will be deciding about the whole hell thing; back off.
• I would. I'm not all that miserable. If it's a choice, I would totally choose it; this life has given me far more blessings than misery.
• People totally choose to be straight. See: Every creepy closet case politician.
• You don't have to know whether it's a sin. You don't need this line anymore. You can just love everyone.
• And a bonus: I suspect that orientation is more of a choice for some than for others, and either way, I think it's not a great basis for denying people their civil rights. "Choice" is a red herring.

Update because not everyone reads the comments, though they should: Commenter icanhasyarn, who shared the original post with me in the first place, observes that everyone should also read the follow-up post. So, so, true. For my money, even better than the first one. Go read it. All of it.

From

I am from mountains of books.

I am from the little multiyellow Vicarage on the street too busy to cross.

I am from the goldfinches, the lady slippers, the peonies and evergreens and changing leaves and Mount Monadnock.

I am from blowing out the lights and lost-in-time-and-spaceness, from ghosts of Lucy and Bobby and Charles.

I am from looking it up and generations of genealogy.

From be always kind and good and don't get your hopes up.

I am from eucharist and women's ordination and coffee hour, from you-don't-have-to-believe-this-but-you-should-believe-something.

I'm from New Hampshire, New Hampshire, New Hampshire, even when Wayland and Arlington and Our Nation's Capital were home, but also from Cambridge and Shreveport, Maine and Michigan, peach cobbler and beans and rice.

From first dates to go vote, fixing plumbing with gum, and getting chased — but not chased off — by the bad guys.

I am from piles of scrapbooks, in the Westchester and the house in Jaffrey and the heads of my parents and remaining aunts and uncles and me, from tales never forgotten but rarely told — or often told but too easily forgotten.



...inspired by Whimsy, who was inspired by Clueless But Hopeful Mama, who got the template here.

Aren't you so excited to do your own? Link in the comments, please.

Day 25 of my month of gratitude: I am grateful for where I'm from and how I am who I am.

Alice

I did get home — home to my house, and then home to my parents' house, and then off to my aunt and uncle's for a fantastic Thanksgiving with the extended family around. Thanks, those of you who expressed concern or support, and for those of you who kept me entertained by phone on my drive home.

I have a Thanksgiving tradition of scanning the radio on my drive, looking for "Alice's Restaurant." I don't catch it every year, but I catch it many years, and I caught it this year — the tail end, at least. There was something magical about the whole idea of it when I was an idealistic post-Vietnam Cold-War-Era 15-year-old, and there still is something magical about the whole idea of it now that I am an idealistic post-Cold-War Occupy-Era 40-year-old.

There was an interview with Arlo Guthrie after "Alice's Restaurant," and he talked a little bit about stopping by Occupy Wall Street a little while back. He talked about how many folks, like himself and Pete Seeger, who'd been so active in the 60s, were glad to lend support to a movement that didn't really need their support — a young person's movement with proud old people around it. He sounded proud, more than anything.

And then at Thanksgiving dinner, one of my relatives called Occupy Wall Street "a waste of time." I was surprised, and said so, later. "Well, isn't it?" asked another relative.

And here's the thing: No, I don't think so. I think real changes will happen. I do. And furthermore, I think if the only thing that changes is the narrative, which had been saying that the left wing was complacent while the right wing was riled up, that had been saying that who people in power needed to pander to were the only rabble-rousers they could hear, who were in the Tea Party — even if the only thing that changes is that people know there are folks on the left who are tired of the status quo — I don't think that's a waste of time. I think it's amazing.

I double don't think it's a waste of time for the folks who are already part of that 20% youth unemployment rate. What would be a better use of their time? And no, it's not a perfect movement. What is?


Day 24 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for people who are mad as hell and not going to take it anymore, for folks like Arlo and his dad, for folks who have ideas and are ready to change the discourse.

Lift

[Here's Part 1 of The Plattsburgh Saga.
This is Part 2.
Here's Part 3.
Here's Part 4.]

I hardly know where to start updating you on yesterday's situation, so I will start with the chat I had with my Rock Star friend from my smart phone in the tow truck (edited only slightly for length and clarity):
me: I am on my way to lake placid

  And I am having the most ridiculous adventure

  Including my transmission dying

 And the transmission place coming to tow me

  And them sending a trailer instead of a regular tow truck

  And the tow guy throwing out his back

 And me having to help load the car myself.

 she: what?!?!

  that is nuts

 me: I have also been informed I'll get a discount if I pay cash, so they "can avoid uncle sam"*

 she: awesome

  where are you now?

me: Keeseville? Is that a place?**

  I'm in the tow truck

  Listening to loud rap

  While the tow guy smokes

 The transmission place is in plattsburgh

 she: keenesville maybe?

  awesome

 sorry you're having such wonky transportation issues

 me: I called the transmission place initially to say I was calling aaa

  They said not to

  Turns out, that was to avoid me getting charged

Which I wouldn't have anyway

  Because I have aaa plus

  But they didn't ask

  They just sent a truck

 Car is definitely broken

Unclear what exactly the issue is

  But we assume transmission

 she: that sucks. can [favorite Adirondackian] come get you? are you going to have to spend thanksgiving in a garage in plattsburg?

 me: We is me and the two tow guys

  [favorite Adirondackian] is getting me

  Car may be done tomorrow

  Which would be good

  If not, then friday

  Also, the flashing yellow light fell off the roof, so now it is in my lap

 she: ha!

  seems like a real professional situation you have going on there

 me: Also, the trailer's license plate fell off

 she: sorry that you are having such a ridonkulous time

 me: It would be worse if it wasn't so hilarious

This is something that would happen on sister wives

 she: ha! except then you'd be with your sister wives?

 and also maybe wearing a long jean skirt

 me: No, the sister wives wear regular clothes

  Which is almost weirder

 But yes, i'd have them

  And also fortyleven kids

 she: but then maybe you'd have four other broken down cars to be towing around?

 me: That's what always happens when they go on a trip

  Or move to las vegas

  All the cars break

 often hilariously

she: i am glad you are not a sister wife

  for a variety of reasons  Yeah, it's about like that.

Oh, no, wait, there's more.

• Regarding the tow truck driver: He went to the hospital after dropping me off, and has, so he told me, a pinched nerve and a fractured chest.
• Regarding the weather: Oh, yeah, big snow storm.
• Regarding my car: It's going to cost an arm and a leg (more than the Blue Book value of the Olds, way less than a new car), and it's not getting done until Monday or Tuesday.
• Regarding me getting home for Thanksgiving: Taking a bus would take 24 hours, due to transfers. AAA would tow my car and me back, but since I only have AAA Plus, and not AAA Premium (or rather, did only have AAA Plus — you can bet I've invested in the Premium now), it would cost $3.50 per mile after the first 100 miles. I have talked to every car rental place anywhere, and have finally acquired a Dodge Stratus I can use for the week —from Lake Placid, which is an hour away from Plattsburgh, where my car is. Just for the record, just because the Enterprise website takes your reservation, doesn't actually necessarily mean the Enterprise location you've reserved at has any vehicles on the lot.

It's about like that.

Day 23 of my month of gratitude: I am so thankful to be fortunate enough to have family who are able to be both emotionally and financially supportive in an emergency.
I am also glad, for a variety of reasons, that I am not a sister wife.

* And another one if I donate a toy for their "Toys for Tots" box.

** It is a place, but it is spelled "Keesville."

Wait

[This is Part 1 of The Plattsburgh Saga.
Here's Part 2.
Here's Part 3.
Here's Part 4.]

I'm writing this one from the front seat of my (stopped) car.

I had this whole thing written in my head, see. I'm on my way to visit my favorite Adirondackian, and for some reason the GPS sent me a different way than usual. It's not longer, so I took it, and it led me down lots of smaller country roads, places where I could think and enjoy amazing views of Lake Champlain. I was thankful, I thought, for roads less traveled by.

And then.

And then the transmission died, about an hour from my destination.

I mean, probably.

No one's looked at the car yet, but when the car stopped accelerating and then slowed nearly to a stop, I pulled over. I called my friend and asked him for the name of a mechanic closer to him I could have the car towed to. I called the mechanic, who wasn't going to be able to take me for a week, but who recommended a transmission-specific place I could call. I called that place and arranged for a tow, and then called my friend back to arrange for him to pick me up at the garage. I called my mother so she wouldn't worry that I hadn't let her know I'd arrived yet.

And now I am in my car, scribbling* out blog posts on a notepad, safe and waiting for the tow truck.

Day 22 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for roads less traveled by — and also for cell phones and AAA plus.


* I think "scratching out" sounds more like printing, and "scribbling out" sounds more like handwriting. Thoughts?

Rolling

I'm starting this post at 11:55, but am determined to finish it today.

Tonight was bowling night, see, as Monday nights are.

I'm in a GLBTQ league at the local bowling alley, see, and my team, Sneaky Pudding, consists of some fantastic folks, and we have a fantastic time. It's just good fun. And it's community is a way that's hard to come by in small-town New England. There are no gay bars here, no gay clubs. Rainbow Bowl is what we've got. Tonight, after bowling, we hung around for a bit to watch the Pats game. So, a late night before an early morning, but I'll take it.

Day 21 of my month of gratitude: I'm thankful for good friends and weekly nights out, for play time and community and the two (out of three) thoroughly decent games I rolled tonight.

Grab

Have you been wishing you were as grateful as I am? Or have you been thinking about putting your gratitude to the test? Need some jumping-off points? I know I got a lot out of this post from the woot! blog.

Day 20 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful that sometimes, other people have the ideas. Also, you should feel free to share yours in the comments.

Helping

The other day, my aunt, who hosts Thanksgiving for a giant mob of extended family every year, sent out this e-mail:

We plan to have turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce (whole berry), pies - the usual. If there's anything particular you want, or want to be sure we don't leave out, be sure to let me know so we can arrange it. For example, we don't usually have rolls.

And usually, I just respond with a "I'm delighted with whatever we have; I just care about the company." Some years, I decide I care a lot about creamed onions and say so. But this year, I realized that one of the high points of Thanksgiving for me comes pre-meal, and I e-mailed to say so.

We do hors d'oevres, you see. And usually those hors d'oevres are prepared and then passed by the youngest members of our clan. When someone tiny walks around with a dish of mixed nuts (which one always does), it's sweet, and you take a couple and thank him or her, and continue your conversation.

When a small child takes a tray of deviled eggs around, or celery sticks with peanut butter and mayonnaise and raisins, the adults keep a little closer eye on things, because that tray is going to tip a little, and it will go badly if it tips a lot.

But when someone tiny is serving up the tiny glasses of sherbet and cranberry juice —with spoons in them — everyone stops and holds their collective breath, because of course we can't deprive a happy tyke the opportunity to help, but ohmyGod it's full of cranberry juice ohmyGodohmyGod.

Really, there is nothing in my life like that particular combination of cheery helpfulness and danger/precariousness.


Day 19 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for moments lived on the edge, and tradition, and traditions of moments lived on the edge.

Muffie

My bed is my shrink each morning, and I therefore lie in it, in Nick and Nora starry sky pajamas from Target that were recently a Halloween costume, between flannel sheets with woodsy illustrations on them from TJ Maxx — for far too long. After I emerge, I put on Tommy Hilfiger jeans from my favorite thrift store, biala shoes from the same thrift store, a short-sleeved red cotton sweater my neighbor gave me as a hand-me-down that I think looks cute even though it now has several pulls, and the same long-sleeved black t-shirt from Target I wore yesterday — not in that order, because that would be a strange way to dress. For jewelry, I went with earrings and a bracelet from a certain very exclusive direct sales company I used to work for, a necklace my cousin gave me that is a shell and a stone on a string (made by her friend Wheels who used to be a bike courier), and my grandmother's seal ring.

I went to work, at which I had several meetings, and lunched with a favorite administrator — while still wearing the same clothes.

After work, I will likely decide that these jeans are a little snugger than I prefer, and change into the Bella Elemento jeans I got at a clothing swap last night (I originally purchased them on ebay for $8, then swapped them away to a friend, then got them back last night because I'm running out of jeans without holes), keeping the rest of my ensemble intact. At that point I may decide to go out to a favorite watering hole, donning a 13-year-old red down vest from Eddie Bauer, which clashes whimsically with the red of my sweater.

Day 18 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful that I am not Muffie Potter Aston, and that I can reliably say that having my children compliment my outfit is unlikely ever to be "as good as it gets" for me. That may be because I have neither children nor a Badgley Mischka Couture silver sequin mermaid-style dress with double tulle overlays, but I don't think so.

OK, now I feel like I have a little bit spoiled the month of gratitude with snark. I'm keeping the snark, obviously, because it's funny to me, but I'll also give you some actual gratitude that isn't just being mean to someone else.

Day 18 of my month of gratitude, seriously: I am thankful that there are clothes on my back, that it is a gorgeous fall day in New England, and that others do not judge me as harshly as I sometimes judge.

Bulletins

When I came in this morning, my office bulletin board was covered with lots of stuff — as it has been for a long time. My leave reporting form, crosswords from my page-a-day calendar, the schedule of when I'm supposed to take pictures of campus, that kind of thing.

This morning, I decided it was time for a change. Important stuff only. Nothing that distracts from what's important.

Which leaves me with only two things on my now-excellent work bulletin board; this:

and this:

Day 17 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for the ability to focus on what's important. Sometimes.
I am also thankful that I am still inhaling and exhaling, and that I am awesome.

Training

I wrote about my last year's trainer; it's probably time to introduce you to this year's.

On paper, they're similar: college seniors, long blonde ponytails, excited about helping folks get fitter. But their personalities are night and day.

Last year's trainer was tough, serious. She was very nice, and very good, but also very firm. When we talked, it was mostly about her future or her studies or her work. She had me deadlifting 125 pounds or something ridiculous. When I couldn't do something, or thought I couldn't, she scoffed at me, and insisted I could. I want her on my side in a zombie attack.

This year's trainer is bubbly, fun, maybe a little unnecessarily worried about going too hard on me — though she's learning. (Example: Last night, we were doing stirpots. She had planned to have me do 10, but then decided to let me do as many as I could — which was 30.) She knows everyone in the gym, and greets them all. She is very encouraging, pointing out every rep done with good form, praising every completed set. And when we talk, it's about everything — her classes and her roommates and their girlfriends and local bars. I want her to coach my (hypothetical future) children in gymnastics.

Either way, I love this cheap, healthy, fun interaction I get to have with our students.

Day 16 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for today's slight muscle soreness, and for how I got it, and for my own brute strength.

Drainplug

It's been a rough week for me in some ways:

• Sunday was taxing to the point of wanting to curl up and go to sleep at 6 p.m.
• Monday wasn't bad, but I was still recovering from Sunday, and spent four hours in a car for a three-and-a-half-hour meeting.
• Tuesday and Wednesday were just head-bangingly frustrating.
• Thursday has been full of meetings on a day I needed to spend working on a newsletter.

There's obviously more detail here thank I can give — friend stuff and work stuff and house stuff. But really, it's just this: I'm weary, spent, worn out. (And still need to write that newsletter.)

And throughout the week, what is keeping me aloft is a combination of time alone writing or curled up watching Murder, She Wrote (what?) and time spent with friends, venting or crying or running or drinking or bowling or laughing.

Day 15 of my month of gratitude: I'm thankful for alone and together, in balance.

Saving

Tonight (that's the tonight that I'm writing and posting this, not the tonight I should have written and posted, which was two days ago), a friend from high school was in trouble. In minutes, other high school friends had rallied around, determined where he was and helped him to get the help he needed.

I was not involved in this effort; by the time I was even aware of it, the ordeal was over. But I was amazed to watch it unfold after the fact. I know there are those who think social media is stupid or impersonal, that "friends" you only interact with through the internet are not friends at all. But my experience is that people care, deeply, about the people who have touched their lives, and that Facebook (and this blog, ahem) facilitates that caring.

Day 14 of my month of gratitude: Tonight, I am thankful for the "social" in social media — and for the safety of someone who might have been less safe.

Long

This past weekend, I:

• Caught up with an old friend
• Went bowling
• Got my hair dyed
• Got my nails done
• Went to two birthday parties
• Played with my niece and nephew
• Danced
• Mediated
• Got adjusted
• Bought presents
• Made two new friends and several more new acquaintances
• Ate a lot of delicious food in a lot of different settings
• Hardly thought about work at all

Day 13 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for three-day weekends.

Seeing

A few years ago, I was at lunch with my parents in D.C.

To get the full effect of this story, you need a little description of my mother. She is, as I think I've mentioned here, an Episcopal priest. She's a "better safe than sorry" type. She plans, carefully. She dresses modestly. Her personal style and mode of dress could best be described as "conservative." She's not a big makeup-wearer, aside from occasional very neutral lipstick "to look like she gives a damn," as my sister would say. Unless she is actually at the gym (or sometimes in the garden, but only sometimes), she wears skirts — to about mid-calf. She likes boiled-wool jackets. That's the kind of dresser my mother is.

Anyway, a few years ago, I was at lunch with my parents in D.C.

And mid-sentence, my mother just broke off, distracted. At the next table was a young family, with two little girls, probably about 2 and 4 years old. And my mother was staring, infatuated, at the older girl, who was wearing bright red, sparkly, glittery red shoes.

"Oh," whispered my boiled-wool-jacket-wearing mother, breathlessly. "Everyone should have shoes like that."

I have remembered it since, and periodically think about buying her a pair, though I don't think she'd wear them.

But a few days ago, I saw a pair of much subtler red shoes in my size for practically no money at one of my favorite stores. They're burgundy, really, and totally work-appropriate, but a far cry from the blacks and browns that make up the whole rest of my shoe wardrobe. And I will think of that lunch every time I wear them.

Day 12 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for wonder where you least expect it, and for red shoes.

Wish

Day 11 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for the survival of every servicemember who lives to become a veteran, and pray for the safety of all those who will continue to come home this year.

Following

Some years ago, when I lived in Greater Washington, as we called it, and worked for a newspaper there, I had a great idea for a feature story: I would write about people who had other people's dream jobs, and tell our businessperson readers what it was like for them.

I thought of about a thousand dream jobs: Bookstore owner. Coffee shop owner. Pilot. Astronaut. Dancer. Firefighter. Professional athlete. Massage therapist. And I reached out to folks in several of those jobs, and wound up with an actor, a novelist, and a brewer.

The story was fun to write. All three of my interviewees really loved what they were doing. All three  were firmly in the follow-your-dreams category. All three are still following those same dreams, and apparently still enjoying it.

I found the actor in a roundabout way. A woman who'd interned at the newspaper had gone on to work at America's Most Wanted. I called her, and she put me in touch with a producer there, who connected me to a woman named Jacque Temple who had participated in a few reenactments, but had graduated to being one of their "operators" — the actors who pretend to answer the phones on-air while real operators handle calls in a call center off camera.

I met her twice, I think, when I was working on the story, and have met her once since then. I have closer friends, of course, whose impact on my life is more tangible, more clear, easier to explain, but Jacque is absolutely my hero. She is passionate and fun and supportive. She is stunningly beautiful, I think — it is hard to separate her outer beauty from the radiance that touches everyone she meets — but they're both there, to delightful effect. I invited her to join a group of friends for dinner in New York one night, and she immediately connected with one of my very best friends, and they maintain that connection still, two years later. She lives a life almost too brave for me to comprehend, much less live, in which she pursues vigorously what she feels called to do. She is unfathomably optimistic.

We recently had this exchange:

Jacque: I'll bet you didn't know meeting you was a turning point in my life, and your friendship has made all the difference on the world. xox
[bzzzzgrrrl]: Aw, Jacque, I don't know what to say. Everything happens for a reason — but here I thought all this time the reason was so I could soak up your inspiring words (and deeds!). xox back atcha.

I still don't know what she meant, exactly. But I know exactly what I meant.

Day 10 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for the people who so clearly happen into our lives for a reason. And for people who follow their dreams with so much joy that it seems to even the less brave among us like something that can and should be done.

Through

I had this whole awesome sarcastic post written in my head that only about three of you would have gotten for the sarcastic sarcasm it would have been and the rest of you would have wondered what the hell I was talking about, and it would have been just brilliant, better than "A Modest Proposal," but somehow sarcastic rants that could also come back to bite me did not seem in keeping with the spirit of the month of gratitude.

I also had a very loving, very sincere post half-written in my head, totally in keeping with the spirit of the month of gratitude, but the only way that one would have made any sense would have been if I'd divulged information that is not mine to divulge.

It is one of those kinds of days.


Day 9 of my month of gratitude: Days like this, I am thankful just to get through. And I did.

Drunk

Today, I've drunk:

• Water
• Cider
• Throwback Pepsi 
• Herbal tea
• Water with effervescent cold medicine in it
• Cider with effervescent cold medicine in it (note: BAD idea)

I am probably not dying, but if I am, it is not of dehydration.

Day 8 of my month of gratitude: I am grateful for fluid. So, so much precious fluid.

Pot

For the last few years, I've been doing "years of."

38 was the year of cute shoes.

39 was the year of time management.

And 40 is the year of having people over.

Now, the year of having people over started months ago, and mostly, so far, I've been adhering to the letter, but not the spirit, of the year. I've had individuals over, mostly — one friend here, another friend there. Since the goals of the year of having people over are to:

• enjoy my house for the excellent entertainment space it is,
• socialize more, and
• have reasons to keep the house clean,

having one friend — generally, one trusted friend who I don't mind seeing the mess my house is — over at a time doesn't do the trick.

This weekend, I had a pot luck. It was initially supposed to be an LGBTQ evening (I called it "family" dinner — cute, right?), but the folks who actually showed up proved to be much more L and Q and much less GBT. And we had a blast. Lots of laughs, lots of good food, some bridges built; it was just a gay old time (I've got a million of 'em).

It reminded me why I love Sunday night pot lucks so much. Maybe I'll have one every week, with different themes — sometimes camp people, sometimes queer people, sometimes the neighbors, sometimes work people, sometimes potpourri! I used to do pot lucks (always potpourri) in D.C. monthly, and I have missed that particular form of community-building.

Belated Day 7 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for the range of personalities and flavors that come into my life, old and new — for peanut noodles and chicken hominy chili and brie and glorified rice and ice cream and chicken adobo and cider — and for smushed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and orzo salad and fried cicadas.

Dreamy

I've been home sick — you don't want the gory details, but I'm achy and sneezy and my nose runs like a faucet until I take medicine that dries me out to the point of pain and nosebleeds. I guess that is the gory details. Sorry.

This morning, I had a dream, and the details are fading fast, but my sister brought me to a church service that she said would be pretty much like my regular church, and it was not (lots of running around) and I was very confused.

Then I was taking a class through work at the college that had something to do with sex, but when I got the textbook (which a friend gave me at church), it seemed to be about Cerebral Palsy. I almost accidentally left it in the pew, and as I was going back to retrieve it, I thought of you — while still dreaming. I thought, "Here's a funny story for my month of gratitude — I'm thankful I didn't accidentally leave my sex textbook in a church that isn't even mine." I was sooooooo amused.

That was before my dream self had read the back of the book (while trying to find my car and crossing busy streets in Brattleboro, Vermont) and knew that it was about CP.

Belated, sicko Day 6 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful I didn't accidentally leave my sex textbook in a church that isn't even mine.

Heh.

I feel like this month of gratitude has been very serious. Like, each post by itself feels like me, and feels like something I would write, but as a collection so far, where's the laughter? Where are the wacky antics? Have no high jinks ensued?

There's plenty of that in my life right now, actually, but mostly, it doesn't come in story form — it's been moments that were hilarious if you were there, but that aren't translating so well to web posts — bowling in costume, that kind of thing.

Oh, but if you want funny? You know what was funny? The Halloween episode of The Office. It particularly showed off James Spader to excellent advantage, I thought. Here, treat yourself, if you haven't already:




Belated Day 5 of my month of gratitude: I'm thankful for every belly laugh and chuckle. And for finally understanding what the fuss is about with James Spader. Never really got that before.

Motto

This one by Langston Hughes has been rattling around in my brain a bunch lately, for a bunch of different reasons:

I play it cool
And dig all jive.
That's the reason
I stay alive.

My motto,
As I live and learn,
         is:
Dig And Be Dug
In Return

OK, and yes, one of those reasons was that one episode of Law and Order where Briscoe quotes it to his lieutenant. But there have also been some big heartfelt conversations with friends who've brought it starkly into focus.

There's been a lot of that in my life these days, recurrent themes that are everywhere. They feel like whispers of the divine, or my subconscious, or both, telling me to Pay Attention to this One Very Important Thing Right Now.

A belated Day 4 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for poetry, for reminders from the universe, and for their intersections. And boy howdy, am I thankful for the work of Langston Hughes.

Pushing

I just posted this to Facebook:

[bzzzzgrrrl] just got home to a big envelope, hand-addressed, no return address, with three Forever stamps, seven five-cent stamps, and one one-cent stamp — all uncancelled. It is so intriguing that instead of opening it I obviously want to make you guess what's in it first. You have half an hour before I open it and tell you what's inside. Go. 

And as I watched the responses roll in (a trip around the world! cookies and a t-shirt! a thermos ransom note! bison burgers!) it occurred to me how very much I do not live in 2002-era D.C. anymore. There was a time when that exact combination of things would have been enough to have me a) trembling with fear, and b) not opening my mail, no way, no how. In this time and place, not one person guessed, "anthrax."


Day 3 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for safety, for peace, for not always remembering when The Terrorists Were Winning.

Powerless

One of my college roommates shares a gmail account with her husband. I saw them online this afternoon, and asked if it was she. It was not. I wished her husband, also a college friend, a very happy birthday, and he suggested I call my old roommate, who'd been home for days with two kids but no power, heat, or running water — that's what happens when we get big snowstorms while the leaves are still on the trees. He was only online because he was at work.

Um, YIKES.

I did call, of course, and my friend, was remarkably chipper, considering. See, the town center, which had also been without power, had finally reopened, so, for example, they could buy gas to go somewhere else, even if their own power wouldn't come back for days and the kids would be out of school the rest of the week. Tomorrow, the Y will be open and they can take showers.

Obviously, I invited them to come stay with me, but my friend thought, since her husband had to work, it might be unkind to leave him alone in a cold, dark house on his birthday.

That, my friends, is the kind of sacrifice that leads to strong marriages. I'm told.

Day 2 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for water, and power, and heat. And Roku and the internet and all those other things so many other folks can't take for granted.

Care-full

I liked this exercise when I did it last year. And so, it seems, did some of you. I did not reread last year's, so there may be some repeats, but that's what you get.


Day 1 of my month of gratitude: In honor of finally finishing a class about giving care, I am thankful for caregivers: For those who provide safe and happy homes for children, for those who ensure that the rest of us are mostly unafraid, for the one friend and reader to whom I owe a lengthy e-mail, who has made saving lives his life's work. Thanks for people who give care to us all.

Really?

When people start calling Obama's suggestion that the rich be taxed, like, at all, "class warfare," I can't be the only one whose response is, "I wish."

Can I?

19 Secrets Women Wish Men Knew

I inadvertently stumbled across this today: 19 Secrets Women Wish Men Knew.

And damned if I know why I still click on garbage like that, but I do.

I think I keep hoping that someday, that list will look like this:

1. Women are not all the same, and they don't all want the same things from the men around them. People who claim to know what women as a giant group want are lying to you. That said, here are 18 more secrets women who think exactly like me wish some men (because men also are not all the same) knew:
2. Over our lifetimes, you will probably make more money than I will, even though I will probably need that money to last a longer time, and I do not blame you as an individual for that, but I do resent it a little.  
3. If you think my hormones occasionally make me irrational, you are probably correct, though I don't notice it. But know what? So do yours. Shut up.
4. My body isn't here for you, particularly if you are a total stranger or casual acquaintance. It wouldn't be if I were a straight woman, and it still isn't now. If you think it looks good, or bad, or whatever, you should probably mostly remember that it's not about you.
5. When a woman is uninterested in you romantically, and you take that opportunity to whine about how nice guys finish last, to her or to me, it makes me want to stab myself.
6. When you're sexist or homophobic or transphobic on Facebook, I consider unfriending you, even if I think you're hilarious all the rest of the time. Ditto racist, but I feel like the homophobia and transphobia are more male-specific in my broad circle of friends.
7. I am sorry that porn has so weirdly misrepresented lesbian sex to you, but you do know that's not real, right? It's not real.
8. (Regarding #8 from the link above:) Arbitrary gauges of when you "should" sleep with someone (whether it's the third date or after a couple of months) are just that: arbitrary. Sleep with people when you both (or all) want to, including but not limited to: immediately, never, after you're married, on the third date.
9. When other dudes make cracks about sexual assault or rape, and you don't call them on it, you are telling any rapists who are listening (whether the guy who made the crack or not) what your response will be when it comes right down to it.
10. I don't hate men. Seriously, ask the men I love how loving I can be. Cousin Mouse? Joe? Amiright? I just don't so much feel inclined to accept irritating behavior merely on the basis of your manly masculinity.
11. That condescending chuckle does not convince me that you are older or wiser than I am if you are not, in fact, older or wiser. And if you are older, wiser, or both, I probably knew it without the condescending chuckle, even though I am a woman.
12. When you distinguish between sports and women's sports ("basketball" and "women's basketball," "soccer" and "women's soccer"), I die a little. If you need to distinguish because it's important and not clear from context, that's what the word "men's" is for.
13. Being a gay dude doesn't mean you're not sexist.
14. OK, one tip for straight dudes on the make, but I'm damn well burying it in the middle: The small of the back. But only when you're far enough along that you know she'll be all right with you touching her there. This is not your opening move. The collarbone may yield similar results.
15. The toilet seat thing? Not as big a deal as basic respect. You can tell because if you leave the toilet seat up but treat me as an equal, you'll get a better response than if you leave the toilet seat down but don't.
16. Why are you sitting like that on the bus? Do you think I'll think your penis is bigger if you take up half my seat as well as your own by spreading your knees as far apart as you can? I don't think about how big your penis is at all; I just think about how I wish you weren't in my space.
17. If you are an American, you should be at least as familiar with the Nineteenth Amendment as you are with the Second Amendment. We're more than half the population.
18. Breastfeeding? Also not about you, unless you are the child in question, in which case, good for you for seeking out such excellent reading on the internet. You can be my new friend. Make sure your parents know you're commenting before you do, please.
19. Some women, including your mother/daughter/sister/girlfriend/wife/boss, will disagree with some or all of what I think. See #1. But a lot of ladies like when you ask their opinions about things that matter to them and then take the answers seriously. The best way to find out what women want is to ask them.

Health Care

Yesterday, I went to my doctor's office and the pharmacy. I learned these two things in so doing:

• My doctor does not have prescription coverage herself
• My pharmacy has big platters of free muffins and sweet rolls

What is wrong with the world?

Just Cause

Today, a friend asked me (as part of a group) to donate to a cause I am sometimes maybe a little snarky about. She knows I'm snarky, and so generally doesn't ask me to donate, which is kind of her, if better than I deserve. It's not that I don't believe in the cause. I do, very much. But said cause's marketing tactics sometimes annoy me.

Those of you who know me well know I am sometimes kind of a jackass when I'm annoyed.

But you know what? Who cares if I'm annoyed? People in the world need help sometimes, and nice people sometimes do what they can to give it to them. What the hell is wrong with me?

I donated, anonymously, but let the team leader, who is my friend, see my name and gift amount.

And then I sent this note:

I know you will be surprised to see my (tiny) donation, based on our past conversations.

But some days, I see someone like you trying to do something good for the world, and I think, “It’s time to lighten the f*ck up.”

Thank you for every one of those moments you give me, and thank you particularly for doing it today. You’re good people, Genny Alexander.

I don't know, that's what today's like.

What did you do? Who helps you lighten the f*ck up?

Where I was

I worked out that morning at the Gold's Gym in Rosslyn.

There's more to the story, and I wanted to write it, but that's as far as I get when I try to put it together.

The more to the story is such a weird confusion of all the chaos that surrounds that day — both before and after. There's Burning Man, a love triangle, a job interview in Boston September 10 and a stay in a fancy hotel with lovely plush robes, a friend's 30th birthday and another friend who'd come to live with me, my father's heart attack and a grandmother who needed help she wanted to pay for but didn't want to pay that much for, an ex-boyfriend who showed up for a concert, apple pancakes with a woman I'd fall in love with, another new relationship starting that would become second only to my own in importance in my life. None of those were about what happened that day, any more than my workout was, but it was a very swirly time for me.

When the first plane crashed, though, I was on my way up the hill from the gym to work. I think it was a good workout; Lord knows I needed one.

When I got up the hill, my boss, who was not as close a friend as she is now, but who has always had a comforting way about her, met me en route to my desk to ask if I'd heard. I hadn't, of course, and then there's a blur in my mind around that morning — other planes crashing, newsroom meetings to discuss how to simultaneously take care  of ourselves, jammed phone lines as people tried to find loved ones who were not OK and others tried to reassure loved ones they were OK.

When I finally got through to my parents, they weren't worried. They knew bad stuff was happening but didn't fear I was in danger. They were in New Hampshire, and it was as remote to them as the Oklahoma City bombing had felt to me. Sad, tragic, but not immediately relevant. The friend who was staying with me showed up at work to see if I wanted to go to lunch; he hadn't turned on the TV in my little apartment that morning, and so had no idea what was going on. I told him to go home and not drive around, so he drove around, looking at the Pentagon, which was so so close to my house and my work.

At Burning Man, we said we'd go back to the desert when the shit hit the fan. When it did, not two weeks later, we did not.
The woman who'd soon after be my partner in my longest relationship was stranded in Columbus that day where she'd been watching women's soccer with another friend of ours; she has her own story of renting a car to drive back. She knew someone in the Pentagon.
My comforting boss lost someone in the World Trade Center. We were closer just a little later than that.
I didn't get the job.
I quit my second job, because by then I didn't need it, and the racism there after the attacks was too much else to deal with.
The friend who was staying me found a job and a place to live within two weeks of his arrival in the area.
My dad was fine, and hasn't had another heart attack since. Modern medicine is amazing; his uncles died in their 50s from that same heart attack.
That other couple lasted a long time, but not forever. My relationship lasted a shorter long time, but not forever.
My grandmother died a few years later, nearly 101 years old.
Today is my friend's 40th birthday.

That day was not at all about me, but this blog is, and so what you get is my blurry snapshot, walking up the hill from the gym.

Over ten years, I have thought a lot about the people who died that day, in planes and buildings, attackers and victims and first responders, and the people who would die later.

But today, I find, my heart is with the people whose stories intersected with mine that day. I am thinking today of Beth and Todd and Cynthia and Allyson and Rachel, of my grandmother and my coworkers and my Burning Man buddies. Today, in New Hampshire where people were not scared then and are not scared today, I want connections. I want to build a planet-sized chart of intersecting stories, of the people whose stories touched mine and the people whose stories touched theirs so I can see how the events of one day — maybe any day — connect seven billion people in circles.

So, how are you doing?

Camping it up

I am feeling summer-campy today, and so I'm reposting something here that I originally wrote as a Facebook note a while back, slightly edited. I was reminded of its existence because an old camp friend posted (his slightly edited version of) the morning grace from the camp we share:

Give me clean hands, clean words, clean thoughts.
Help me to stand for the hard right against the easy wrong.
Save me from habits that harm.
Teach me to work as hard and to play as fair, in my sight alone, as if the whole world saw.
Forgive me when I am unkind, and help me to forgive those who are unkind to me.
Send me chances to do a little good each day, so I may grow and know more.

Nice, right?

Anyway, that old note on camp:

The ACA has a "Because of Camp" page with the following instructions:

"List the Top 10 things you loved and/or learned at camp on the Because of Camp…™ Wall, and/or in the “notes” section of your profile and then share those memories by tagging your friends."

I've been to a lot of camps (more than 10), and learned and loved a lot of people and things (more than 10,000, not that I've counted). But I've narrowed down to ten camps, if not ten things.

1. Because of Pony Farm, I learned to ride. I also met Gene Robinson and his then-wife, Boo, who have had a bigger influence on me than I suspect either of them knows.
   
   
2. Because of Aloha Hive, I started deliberately not wearing big logos on my clothes. I first heard the beautiful thwack of an arrow hitting a target, I hollered in an echoey tunnel, I learned to paddle a canoe, I made baskets while sitting at the end of the dock with my toes holding reeds in the water.
   
   
3. Because of that one computer camp I don't remember the name of, I know that I had — and have — a capacity for smarts that weren't just about reading and writing.
   
   
4. Because of The Philadelphia School's summer program, I found a book that changed my life and remains one that I wrestle with, tried falafel for the first time, and was inspired to learn Latin.
   
   
5. Because of Middlesex School Summer Arts, I learned to get along with the "cool kids" by acting as though I felt as confident as I wanted to be. I also learned my first sun salutation.
   
   
6. Because of Chapel Hill-Chauncy Hall Summer Theater School, I know I can sing, loud, if I'll just relax into it. I also know the techies are the ones really having all the fun.
   
   
7. Because of Jacob and Rose Grossman Day Camp, I learned not to try to pass, even when I could. And that Hydrox are kosher, unlike Oreos.
   
   
8. Because of Camp Takodah, I have some of the best friends I've ever had. I'm more comfortable taking risks, more comfortable taking charge. I also learned the phrase "take the hard right against the easy wrong," which I still say at least weekly.
   
   
9. Because of Hornet's Nest, I'm confident in my ability to hire and manage and sing the sardines song.
   
   
10. Because of Week in the Park, I know that you can run a summer program for kids in the horriblest heat, even without a swimming facility — as long as there's an ice rink.

Half full of what?

Remember Rick Warren?

Yeah, me, too. Still bitter, in fact.

Oh, and so is he.

What I want

Discovery of the day: Sometimes, "It's my birthday; I can do what I want," means, "I'm going to regurgitate this cucumber back into my gin and tonic."

Not when I say it. When I say it, it usually means, "Sure, I'll have dessert," or maybe, "I'll buy these shoes."

Maybe the third side is an ice cream truck

This morning, I passed a City of Keene van that said "Animal Control" on the left side.

Naturally, I wondered what the animal-based emergency was.

Then I observed that the back of the same van said "Traffic Light Repair."

Is it just me, or do those seem like they'd require very different skills? And equipment, for that matter.

Neither rain, nor sleet, nor gloom of night...

In 2004, I went on a fantastic trip to Scotland with my family.

As was my custom in those days, I sent post cards back. To all of my coworkers. No, let me clarify. To each of my coworkers.

Today, I had this Facebook exchange:

[Former coworker]: were you in scotland recently?
[bzzzzgrrrl]: Um, no, as I believe I told you, Lewes, DE. Why?
[bzzzzgrrrl]: Were YOU in Scotland recently?
[Former coworker]: [Other former coworker] just got your postcard.

31 Days of Secrets and Lies: Day 31

The total secret-to-lie ratio is 15:16. That includes this post.

31 Days of Secrets & Lies: Day 30

Salmon is to taste as cowbell is to sound.

31 Days of Secrets & Lies: Day 29

I have a fear of dogs, but only when they are in water.

:Shudder.:

Creepy.

Sans Chevy Chase

I am on vacation. Here is how you can tell:

• My toenails are painted mint green.
• I am sore from exercise and yet intend to do a bunch more. I do not know why I am so much more inclined to exercise on vacation, I only know that I am.
• I don't know whether I have a meeting on Monday. That's right, I have actually left work behind.
  
• I actually read the two books of the graphic novel I've been carrying around since January-ish.
  
• I had a cheeseburger for breakfast yesterday morning.
• I'm sitting in a café with my first cousins once removed, one of whom lives in Minnesota and the other of whom lives in California, discussing the mystery of how a foot gets apparently beet-stained in Berlin.
  
• I saw this sunrise:
  
  and this sunset:
  
  
• I owe you four blog posts (three secrets and lies, one "where I'm from" that most of you don't even know is coming). Ha! Just kidding! It's not vacation that is keeping me from posting, it's me that is keeping me from posting. As always!
  

I am on vacation for real, though.

31 Days of Secrets & Lies: Day 28

I wrote this after skipping Day 28 and writing days 29 and 30, then predated it so it would show up earlier.

31 Days of Secrets and Lies: Day 27

I am not yet ready to declare, as one impressive friend (and reader) has, that I have "for certain, and with no regrets, broken up with Diet Coke." But I haven't had one in two days, and don't plan on having one today.

31 Days of Secrets and Lies: Day 26

The last adult penis I saw was Daniel Radcliffe's.

Also, I originally wrote, "The last adult penis I saw was Harry Potter's," which was funnier, but Harry Potter's a kid, so it didn't make sense. And was creepy.

31 Days of Secrets and Lies: Day 25

When I want to feel like a rich lady on vacation, I go get a lobster sandwich at D'Angelo.

I want to feel like a rich lady on vacation more than you would think.

31 Days of Secrets and Lies: Day 24

I spent literally 45 minutes today trying to learn enough Photoshop to graft dragon wings onto an owl. I still do not know that much Photoshop, but decided that the image I found of an owl with angel wings and a halo was sufficient for the point I was trying to make to my coworker.

31 Days of Secrets and Lies: Day 23

Fireworks as we know them were invented by Benjamin Franklin in France, for the express purpose of irritating his neighbors and scaring their horses.

31 Days of Secrets & Lies: Day 22

Living in New Hampshire, I have had opportunity to hear dozens of presidential hopefuls, and I've attended two presidential inaugurations. The two actual presidents I've actually met were Ford and Clinton.

I'm sure there's a joke there, but I'm not the one who has it.

31 Days of Secrets & Lies: Day 21

Last night, I pulled this carrot:




...out of this bag of "Baby-Cut Carrots":

31 Days of Secrets & Lies: Day 20

In Rhode Island, it is illegal to feed beer to a parrot unless you are consuming a comparable amount of beer yourself.

31 Days of Secrets & Lies: Day 19

On more than one occasion, I have had groups of people with a lot of cash successfully beg me to be the bank/house/dealer so they could play blackjack. This one comes with a moral: Don't do that. The house always wins, and this particular house will feel bad that she just took all your tip money within hours of you getting it. So bad she'll buy you breakfast at McDonald's and still go home with most of your money.

31 Days of Secrets & Lies: Day 18

My original middle name was "8." I used to use it, but then I was worried people would think I was copying Jennifer 8. Lee, which I totally was not.

31 Days of Secrets & Lies: Day 17

I once semi-accidentally convinced a former Mormon that it is common practice in the Congregational (UCC) church for a person to dress in a comma suit and do a special comma dance down the aisle.

31 Days of Secrets & Lies: Day 16

8 percent of women aged 35 to 45 cite Leif Garrett as their first celebrity crush.

.002 percent of women in the same age bracket cite Leif Ericson, which is just peculiar.

31 Days of Secrets & Lies: Day 15 (also a little late)

The last thing I plagiarized was a fifth grade paper on birds and flight. I'd procrastinated writing it and had to do it early the morning it was due. I didn't copy word-for-word out of the encyclopedia, but I did copy some concepts I didn't completely understand, without taking the time to actually understand them. I was caught when my parents, who asked to read the paper, were pretty sure I didn't know what "sinews" were.

Among the things I regret about that episode are that I made my parents explain the pitfalls of intellectual dishonesty while groggy and in bed and still drinking their first cup of coffee.

31 Days of Secrets & Lies: Day 14 (a little late)

The active ingredients in duct tape and Avon's Skin So Soft are the same.

31 Days of Secrets and Lies: Day 13

I listen to right-wing talk radio a lot, and by "a lot," I mean for several minutes nearly every day.

31 Days of Secrets & Lies: Day 12

I read five advice columns regularly. I really like one of them.

31 Days of Secrets & Lies: Day 11

Former child actor Quinn Cummings of The Goodbye Girl was actually twin very small adult women.

31 Days of Secrets & Lies: Day 10

I am at the point in my seriousness in bowling where I am employing sports psychology tactics to improve my game. I cannot decide how many of the following things this is indicative of (or how I feel about them):

• I am very driven and goal-oriented
• I used to date a sports management graduate student
• I am very competitive and bowl against better bowlers than myself
• I take bowling much too seriously
• I'll try anything once
• I've been spending a lot of time around new-agey health care practitioners

Unfortunately, though said tactics often work for a frame or two, I am still pretty much an average bowler.