Moral: No good comes of candlepin

Last night, I went to a birthday party for a stranger who was turning 30.

Her boyfriend is a friend and former temporary coworker of RI's. He'd arranged a party for a few dozen people at a local candlepin bowling alley.* It's a cute little small-town place with a bar in the entry and eight lanes of very old-timey-looking candlepin lanes; they don't serve food, so people brought cupcakes and snacks, and standard practice is that you leave your shoes and coats on or around the unguarded coat rack by the door, and then cross the bar to get your bowling shoes by the lanes themselves.

So we ditched our coats and shoes and then got into a conversation in the bar, standing around in our sock feet, which was clearly no big deal. At one point, my nose started to itch, so I went back to my coat to grab a tissue.

I should back up a little.

I have over the last few years owned a bunch of jeans that ranged widely in quality and in time bought, but the universe has colluded so that all of them became unwearable in roughly the same six-week period. I was out of jeans, which, bummer, because I wear jeans all the time. So last weekend I stopped by my favorite TJ Maxx and found one pair of nearly perfect jeans.

They fit great.

They look great.

They were very cheap.

But... the front pockets were fake. Like, there's stitching where the pockets should be to look like pockets, but they are not pockets. The back pockets are regular, and real.

And I bought them anyway, because they fit and look good and were cheap and I was entirely out of jeans, but, well, if there are any aspiring jeans designers out there who think maybe women don't want to use front pockets: It is way easier to just not use pockets that are there than it is to use pockets that are not there. Jackasses.

All of which is by way of explaining why my phone, car keys, and tissues were in my coat pocket. My wallet was in my back jeans pocket, which would horrify my chiropractor, but whatever. I went back to my coat to get a tissue — except my coat wasn't there. My plain black winter coat was just gone from the rack. I assumed someone had taken it thinking it was theirs, and my first concern was whether they'd left the party completely or just gone outside to smoke — because the phone would be easy enough to retrieve, since our host knew everyone and was nearby, and I could use bar napkins as tissues, but without the car keys, we weren't going home.

And as I was trying to decide exactly how much to freak out, I saw, out the window, the birthday girl, wearing my coat, complete with the pin my grandmother made. Now, that was mostly good news. She was unlikely just to take off and not return to her own party, and even if she did, her boyfriend was still in the bowling alley.

So I turned my mind to the matter of worrying about whether when I did get it back, it'd smell like smoke and make my whole car smell like smoke.

Meanwhile, through my internal meltdown, RI was deep in one of those conversations where there's not really a break to interrupt. Eventually, after probably ten minutes that felt like years, I explained what was going on, and the person we'd been talking to was very concerned. But what was I going to do? "Happy 30th birthday, please don't steal my coat"?

I was just going to have to wait it out.

And wait it out I did, until she returned. I didn't actually notice her, but RI's conversation buddy did, and nudged me, and I scurried back to the coat rack to move my coat to a less visible location, where it remained until I retrieved it.

Day 9 of our month of gratitude: I am thankful to have my coat back, smelling surprisingly unlike smoke. Further, I am thankful to have a warm winter coat at all.


*Yes, that is a real thing up here. No, that is not the kind of bowling RI and I normally do.

God is great; God is good...

Today's post will be quick, but it will also include two Monadnock-area restaurant reviews, so you're not really likely to do a lot better than this.

Tuesday night, RI and I went to Piedra Fina in Marlborough, NH, which has been open about three weeks. If you are local, please, please go to this restaurant, for two reasons:

1. You will like it, and
2. I need it to stay open.

The food (Latin American) is fantastic. The service is pleasant and fast. The atmosphere is lovely. It's comfortable. It's pretty. It's not too loud. It's delicious. It's not that expensive (I had the most expensive special, for $16, and RI had the most expensive meal on the menu, for $13, which even by New Hampshire standards is excellent for a really good meal). It's different from everything else in the area. I never wanted to eat anywhere else again.

And yet, the next day, for lunch, I did.

I went to Shack 'n' Cheese, on Main Street, in Keene. It has a very different vibe than Piedra Fina, which is by any reasonable local standard a fancyish place. Shack 'n' Cheese's counter is made of stacked firewood. There's a counter you order at, and a couple of tables to sit at, and it's in pretty much the back room of the Piazza. But also, you can get delicious macaroni and cheese there (with mix-ins! And crunchy toppings, if you want!), or a burrito, which has been missing from Keene since Armadillos closed. It's been open two weeks. Please, if you're local, go there, too.

Day 8 of our month of gratitude: I am thankful for food, both in its abundance and in its transformative power. We've had a complicated relationship, food and me, and sometimes still do, but that is all on me. Food, itself? Is good.

Spinning

Today's guest post comes from writer extraordinaire and massage therapist absolutely extraordinaire — if you live in the D.C. area, seriously, go lie on her table — Amanda, who I know because she had to edit my first bumbling attempts at professional writing. This isn't about that.

I'm thankful for Lance Armstrong, hyper-competitive old runners with bad knees, the mind-numbing routines of step aerobics and some L.A. asshat who crashed his car into a competitive cyclist out on a night-time training ride in the mid-80s.

Those forces combined to birth the chronically trademarked Spinning® classes in 1996 (See Evolution of the Revolution here — That's not the real headline. That's the headline of the story someone should have written about Spinning's takeoff). Back on track (pun, as always, intended): Without those sweat boxes of neon lights and testosterone, I may have been grape-vining across a plastic Reebok step or running in the cold that one fateful day in January 1999. Instead, I was where I was almost every Saturday morning in the late 90s: in a Spinning class, the required 10 minutes early to snag the bike on the right side, waiting for someone to yell at me to pass invisible riders on an imaginary hill while Peter Gabriel sang about Solsbury — you, guessed it — Hill.

That's where I heard a fellow "rider" complain about the multiple edits his article for The Washington Post Magazine. Someone pointed to me and said "She's a writer. Maybe she can help."

He'd have to wait for me to burn approximately 500 to 700 calories to get that help, but an hour later, he continued to rant and pant about a simple interview he'd done with a jail guard (that got my interest) and how the editor said he'd overwritten it (much like I've done to this sentence). The column, "First Person Singular," was meant to be told in the voice of the person interviewed and kept short. My heart rate shot back up. Thanks Sport and Health for providing those straps of bacteria, er, those shared chest straps.

You mean, you just had to interview someone with an interesting job, drill it down to the basics, put it in some kind of logical order and turn the sucker in? No worrying if your transitions were tired. No searching and searching for the perfect lead to introduce this character who needed no introduction and could do the introducing much better herself? It would be just like a radio interview, except no one would have to hear my mouth full of potatoes introduce the subject.

I'd been training my radar to find these characters since journalism school, when fed up with covering student athletic council meetings, I started pitching and writing stories about campus characters: the hot-dog cart guy who catered to the drunks at 2 a.m., the resident assistant who worked part-time at the townie bar, the manic step aerobics instructor (I've always sweated the details!) who had a messianic following of sorority girls and was married to an equally buff instructor. My wheels were turning!

But back to the spinning-his-wheels writer/rider pal: I gave him some suggestions. Pretend you're introducing this guy to your family -- what three anecdotes or details would you share before he came over. What's the first thing you told someone about the guard after the interview. He said he'd try again. Then I asked for the editor's phone number.

I've been writing First Person off and mostly on since. My first? An improv guy who took two hours to finally admit why he'd spent his adulthood acting like a child, and encouraging others to do so: All of the men in his family had died before 55; he expected to do the same. Why figure out what he going to be when he grew up? I got this detail and got past his "act" and comic routine after sharing my own loss. It helps to be human when interviewing humans.

I've focused on people without their own people, trying to avoid PR trolls, canned anecdotes and mediarelations@somebigplace.com addresses, but more importantly trying to give the microphone to the guy in the back, the one you see all the time but never slow down to listen to. The stock character who is much more than a maid, a Girl Scout leader, a lunch lady, or Dominos pizza manager. They've let me into their Byzantine basement workshops (the Cuckoo Clock doctor I ran into at — wait for it — my gym), their messy lives (all of us) and their swank D.C. dens, where pictures of them schmoozing with presidents failed to elicit a "tell me about that." (Everyone already knew about THAT!) They've let me make this big city small.

And yes, they let this small-town girl get her byline in a big-city paper. That wore off quickly. I've had the intense joy of watching someone say something about herself for the first time; realizing a fundamental truth about why they do what they do and are the way they are. No byline ego stroke can compete with that.

Not every column has been riveting, but I'm thankful for every one — yes, even the one about the mean cheesemaker who snarled through the interview and the snarled-through post-publication email complaining that he came off as a sour, snarly man. Note to cheesemaker: Don't say you prefer cows to people and then be surprised to not come across as a people person. They've kept me connected. They've kept me curious. They've kept me fully aware of the best coffee shop/wine bars in the area and the worst of my tendencies to interrupt and nod in an agreement a bit too aggressively. They've kept me in journalism, despite my big shift into a new profession.

And they've made me realize not everything has a nice narrative arc. Sometimes, things just end and you have to figure out if it's the end of the story or the chapter — or some other lame metaphor. By the time you read this, I'll have written my last First Person.

So thanks, Spinning for getting my Lycra-ed butt in that room. Thanks, dude who never did get his guard story published. Thanks, every single human who opened up to me. I've learned so much! I'll never look at a LEASE NOW! sign spinner the same again. I'll never, ever regret finally acting on the hunch to interview a photo restorationist. If nothing else, go read that one.

I'll get used to being just a massage therapist — connecting without a deadline, editor, or tape recorder between us. And for that too, I'm thankful.

Where the eagles cry, on a mountain high

I met RI more than two and a half years ago — more than two years before we even considered dating each other. We have been teammates and close, important friends for essentially that whole time, have supported each other through all kinds of things, have laughed together, loud and often.

And we are fond of saying that the whole romantic connection could not have happened any sooner than it did — we weren't ready, we were with other people or getting over other people or in too complicated a place in our lives.

And all that's true, but, I think, more to the point: We each needed the exact friendship we'd found in each other, as it was, without the pressure of figuring out a life together. For then. When we were ready, we were ready — but we were not ready sooner.

And now that we are? Amazing.

Related: I have an ex, now a good friend. I wish I could say we're still friends, but this is definitely an again-friends situation.

We weren't exactly friends before we started dating; we had mutual friends, and were friendly, and had a quick and real connection, but the dating for sure started as dating.

That relationship was OK — occasionally wonderful — but complicated and sometimes confusing. It wasn't, it turned out, the right thing for either of us. Still, there's a real bond there, that we're lucky still to have. The ex has found someone else who sounds wonderful, and the ex knows RI and has been among our biggest and best cheerleaders, as a couple. I am incredibly blessed to have a friend who knows me this well, and even in this capacity, who was prepared to salvage the best parts of that connection.

And I have dozens of stories like that, including some of you who read this.

Day 6 of our month of gratitude: I am thankful for the people who stuck around long enough to figure out how we best fit together. I am thankful for friends who became partners, exes who became friends, friends' exes and exes' friends and dates and bosses and service providers and coworkers and crushes and directors and classmates and neighbors and professors and campers who became some of the most important people in my life, in the exact way they were supposed to, and let me figure out how to fit into their lives, too.

Tell Me a Story

Our next guest post comes from my college roommate, April, a master storyteller herself.


I'm a children's librarian, which is pretty much the best job ever. So maybe when I say that I am grateful for stories you will respond in the manner of my daughter and every other eight-year-old by saying, “Well, duh.”

I am grateful for the kind of stories you can find in my library – even The Day My Butt Went Psycho, because maybe that's the book that convinces some kid that she does like reading, after all. But right now I'm thinking about the kind of stories that may never get written down and almost certainly never get published; the kind that help us understand who we are and who the people around us are; the kind we trade like jewels when we're building relationships; the kind we repeat because they help us hold on to truths and times and people we might otherwise lose track of; the kind we hear about someone we've never even met that resonate so strongly with our own experience that we feel like kindred spirits.

My children call my mother-in-law Grandma Honey. They do this because of a story she told them years ago and has repeated countless times since that goes like this:

When Uncle Andy was about four years old he noticed that Grandpa didn't usually call Grandma by her name; he usually called her “honey.” Uncle Andy decided that “honey” was much better than “mom” or “mommy,” so one day when he was upstairs in his room and needed something from Grandma, who was down in the kitchen, he came to the back stairs and called, “Honey?!”

Now, because Grandma is an excellent storyteller, the kids usually laugh uproariously at this point and then demand to know whether or not she answered Uncle Andy's call. And the response is always the same: Grandma was not about to have any four-year-old calling her “honey” so she pointedly ignored Uncle Andy until he addressed her properly.

Like lots of good stories, this one is about love and hope. It shows that a harried mother who was not willing to have her son call her “honey” can grow up to be a grandmother more than willing to have her grandchildren call her “Grandma Honey.” It demonstrates that even heroes like Uncle Andy were once four and did silly things, and so maybe there's hope for all of us.

Our stories connect us. Tell me a story. Or tell someone else a story. If you're lucky, maybe they'll tell you one right back.

The cake is a lie

I used to cheat at online Scrabble.

I've written about that before, without admitting what it was.

I was not proud of it, and continue to be unproud of it.

And then, I figured out, with the help of a good friend, that the easy way out was that I could quit playing online Scrabble, which would eliminate the cheating from my life, since, generally, I'm not a cheater.

It totally worked.

More than a year later, I eased back into playing online Scrabble, with a couple of trusted friends. I was completely honest with them about why I'd quit playing before, and made the deal with them that if I felt inclined to cheat, I'd quit again, rather than cheating and feeling horrible about it.

And I have been tempted a couple of times, when I was losing a game I thought I should be able to win, but it has only been a couple of times, and I have not succumbed. And here's the thing: My score, my ranking, has suffered almost not at all.

Which means I cheated all that time, felt awful all that time, beat myself up all that time for no reason. Cheating didn't actually make me better at Scrabble. It only made me feel like crap.

Now, that's not quite literally true. The other thing it made me feel was safe. It made me feel like other people might not know how dumb and inadequate I was. But that safety was a big lie, because my ranking was the same. Cheating bzzzzgrrrl appeared exactly as dumb as non-cheating bzzzzgrrrl appears.

I have a similar story about artificial sweeteners: After decades of consuming them, I quit them completely a little more than two years ago. I have gained no weight as a result, even though I now drink nasty soda full of corn syrup (which I will also some day quit). That's because I'm not messing with my metabolism anymore.

I've struggled with other demons, addictions, more serious moral dilemmas, and I am coming to see how often the struggle itself is a lie. So often, what feels safe offers no real benefit over the thing that feels scary.

Day 4 of our month of gratitude: I'm thankful for those little glimmers of awareness that the harder right thing to do is actually, often, not that much harder than living with the consequences of the easier wrong thing to do. Those glimmers aren't always evident, but when they are? I'm thankful.

Great and full

And on Day 3, we're ready to start with the guest posts. This one's by bzh. Enjoy!


I'm not sure where someone like me starts in being grateful.

Is it with God, whose presence in my life has been strong and terrifically comforting in recent days? Or my parents, who raised a feisty, driven, independent child, and then foot the entire bill for her education? Or Husband, whose patient resolve has held our marriage together during more than one of my desperate attempts to kill it? Or my Urchin, who teaches me something new every day of her delicious existence? Or my company, which pays me well to do what I do best all day every day? Or my mentors, who've taken me under wing and shown me how to navigate the high road with grace, courage, strength and speed? Or my out-of-network therapist, whose ability to help me own my shit has dramatically reduced the amount of shit I own?

Truth is, gratitude is a bit of a cliché in a life like mine. Everywhere I turn there is something to be grateful for. And how great is that?

It's pretty damn great. It's also pretty easy to take for granted, so I work hard not to every day. Like people who live in the Alps or the Rockies who can no longer see the splendor, members of the lucky sperm club like me can go blind if we're not careful. We can handily forget that what we have, the life we lead, is not real for everyone. For many — maybe even most — it's Fantasyland and we're goddamned lucky to have landed here.

I work hard to keep my eyes open wide — for myself, sure, but especially for my Urchin. I'm not there yet. I forget sometimes that the road I travel is paved with smooth stones. Lucky for me, I have dear friends who help me remember, from time to time, just how good I have it. They're gentle about it, mostly, when I say or do something bubbleheaded. Every once in a while, though, it takes a good hard smack in the noggin. And they're not afraid to do that, either.

So on this day in November, as we approach our national day of Thanksgiving, I'm grateful for the members of my Village who help me keep my journey honest and true. And love me with every step.

Peace,
bzh

Sweet dreams

Hey, I'm exhausted.

And I couldn't figure out why, and then I plugged the numbers into Google Maps and realized that in the last 55 hours, I have been in a car for roughly 300 miles, roughly 7 hours. I didn't drive all of it, but I drove most of it.

A normal day for me? Includes a 3-minute commute to work and a 3-minute commute home.

Day 2 of our month of gratitude: I am thankful for sleep, for rest, for the opportunity to reset every night — or sometimes even just by taking a nap for 20 minutes in the afternoon. So, gonna go do that now. Enjoy your extra overnight hour, everyone.

Just folk like me

November 1 is traditionally the beginning of my month of gratitude, and this November 1 is no different in that regard.

I am lucky to have a few excellent people who've signed on to be guest bloggers this month (though I'm open to more if you're interested), but most of the posts will still be mine.

Last year, I wrote a little about how November 1 is also All Saints' Day, and I will say this about that: Wikipedia is a wealth of information and also excellent turns of phrase on the subjects of saints and "I Sing a Song of the Saints of God."

So let's go back to that hymn from last year. The gist of it, basically, is, "I could do that."

And it's true.

And people love it. In fact, according to Wikipedia, "The hymn remains a popular favourite with American churchgoers who have grown up with it. In a 2003 survey of 'desert island' hymns run by the website anglicansonline.org, the hymn was voted 14th."

Now, there's kind of a lot going on in that last sentence, and I do not know what a desert island hymn is (I mean, I can guess, but — is that a thing?), but it's a pretty neat thing that a hymn written to suggest to children that the world is full of good and holy people and that there's no reason for said children not to do the same is that popular, especially when we sing it once a year, pretty much.

There's a lot of crap in the world. And say what you want, Hymnal 1982 committee, about that hymn's alleged lack of theological profundity, but that idea — that goodness is real and present in our lives, and to be emulated — does not feel so shallow to me.

Day 1 of our month of gratitude: I am thankful for the saints as they are evident to me in my life, for those who are role models and teachers and sources of benevolence, for those who reflect or connect the divine to us, for the patient, the brave, and the true.






Hey, if you're new around here and not sure how you feel about this religious mumbo-jumbo, please stick around. I don't always talk about saints. Sometimes, I talk about radical politics or animals in buildings or food that makes me angry. Often, I tell funny stories at my expense. Poke around; there's really something for everyone.

Tutorial: Make a purse out of a can of soup

I'm not much of a craft blogger, but tonight I made a craft, and I thought if you wanted to make it, too, you'd probably need a tutorial. The photography is blurry and poorly lit and not very helpful.

You will need:

• Large can of Campbell's Tomato Soup 
• Fancy special can opener that removes lids without creating sharp edges 
• Ribbon, in a color and length that pleases you (I used black, because of the rest of my outfit was black, but you could reasonably go with red, white, gold, or possibly something else, but that seems crazy.)
• Scissors
• Hot glue gun 
• Glue for said gun 
• Dishtowel
• Water
• Bread 
• Cheese 
• Butter 
• Saucepan 
• Frying pan

 First, open your can. Save the lid.

Put the soup in a pot with a canful of water; heat it while you make grilled cheese sandwiches. You are probably hungry and it makes no sense to waste perfectly good soup. Yum!

Clean the inside of the can thoroughly, being careful of the label, because that's what you buy that fancy name-brand soup for in the first place. A fastidious person might remove the label first and glue it back on later.

Dry the can thoroughly.

On the back of the can, create a hinge by gluing a small piece of ribbon to the inside of the can and the inside of the lid, ensuring that the lid and can fit together properly.

On the front of the can, glue a small tab of ribbon to the outside of the lid for easier opening. If you wanted to get bonkers with this, you could add a dot of velcro to the outside front of the can and the underside of the tab, so it would stay closed.

Measure the ribbon against your body and add an inch or so. Fold and glue each end.

Glue each end to a side of the can, and voilà!

Soup can purse!

Are you ready to take this to the next level?

I thought you might be.

Use this tutorial to make yourself a horn. (You really only need to watch the first minute and 50 seconds or so.)

Use this tutorial to make yourself an Andy Warhol costume. (Hint: Betsy Ross wigs were very cheap at my local iParty, and easily trimmed.)

Put 'em all together and voilà!

























Andy Narwhal!

Halloween costumes: Now, even more fun!

I loooooooove Halloween. Love, love, love it.

But also, I work on a college campus and live in a college town, which means that there is approximately zero chance I will not see a racist, sexist, or homophobic costume. There is some chance I will not see an ableist one, but there is also a chance I will.

I am pretty sure none of my readers would ever do such a thing. But in case you know people who might, I will write this post so you can share it with them and save everyone some trouble.

Here's the thing: No one says, "Hey, Halloween's coming, how can I be superoffensive?" No one says, "I am a big racist, and like other big racists, I think this is funny. My racist friends will be so amused!"

People wear superoffensive costumes because they aren't thinking about it at all.

So here are a few things you can think, very quickly, about your potential costume, to see if the offensiveness of it might override the scariness or cleverness or awesomeness.

• Might someone else possibly construe this as offensive? This is a good one because you don't need (or get) to excuse it with, "My black best friend thinks it's hilarious." It's not about your one black best friend. It's about all the other people who don't know you and how awesomely clever you are, who will see you in person or on Facebook or anywhere else.
• Am I dressing up as a stereotype of people who actually exist? If you got past the first question but stumbled a little on this one, go back to the first one again now.
• Might my costume hurt a real person's feelings? This is a little trickier, but maybe (probably) you actually know someone who has struggled with addiction or unwanted pregnancy or mental illness. Maybe you know someone who embraces a religion you think is hilarious. Maybe you don't, but maybe someone you don't know will see you at a party and you will remind them of the person they used to know who died, and it will make them sad. If you're stumbling here, go back to the second question, and also the first.
• Does my costume rely on making fun of someone, and can I do better than that? Because, if yes, then yes. 

Did I ruin everything for you? I'm sorry you are having a hard time thinking of a really good costume.

May I offer you this one? I love it, and really feel like someone should do it. I think it's equally good for a kid or a grownup. Plus, now, if I see anyone dressed as a snail, I will assume they were thinking of dressing as a lesbian or a Mexican and decided, based on this post, that a snail would be better, and that will make me so beyond happy.

I might even give them a hug.

Hey, thanks

Longtime readers will know that November is traditionally my month of gratitude, in which I share a post a day on what I'm thankful for.

Longtime readers may also remember that last year, I made noise about how maybe I wouldn't do it quite the same way anymore.

At the time, what I was thinking was that maybe I'd do a month of gratitude every 13 (or 11) months, so that it wouldn't always be November — at least that might lend some diversity to my nature- or weather-based gratitudes. And I reserve the right to do that in the future.

But for this year, I just had an even better idea.

Guest posters.

Any of you want to do just one post in November for CMC on the subject of something for which you are thankful?* I'll take volunteers here in the comments. Every day I don't have a guest post to share, I'll post myself, just the way I have the last few years. Won't that be the funnest?

If you have questions, you can drop those right into the comments, too.

*Guidelines: Volunteers should be prepared to write a guest post on the subject of something for which they are thankful. Posts can be of any length. Deadlines will be mutually agreed-upon. Guest posters who have their own blogs will obviously be free to link to their own blogs. Guest posters who prefer to remain anonymous will be assigned a name to distinguish them from other guest posters or commenters. Potential volunteers who prefer to blog on a different topic are encouraged to look at my old month-of-gratitude posts and observe a long and proud history of writing whatever I want and twisting it to vaguely connect to gratitude.

Redefining "productive"

Today has been an unusually productive day.

Among the things I've done are going through old (in some cases, very old) notebooks at work, which have sometimes doubled as to-do lists or places to take notes about other things I've worked on. I've recycled a lot, filed some more. It's been very gratifying.

My note-taking may or may not be conventional. It was for sure shaped in the seventh grade. In seventh grade, it involved a hodgepodge of me actually taking relevant notes and writing down things for the edification of my friend and lab-table-mate Trisha, which I would then oh-so-slyly show her.

I still do that in meetings, except generally, I don't have anyone to show. I am essentially passing notes with myself, in among all the to-do lists. Sometimes I just make note of funny things people say; often I write down my real feelings about what is being said. I curbed that last impulse briefly when I was a reporter, lest my notes ever be subpoenaed, but made up for it with all the funny quotes I was taking down.

Anyway, here are just a few of the gems (quotes, to-dos, and my real feelings) that have emerged in these old notebooks today, for your lab-bench edification.

• This is the creepiest form of joking.
• "Oh, you're really talking. I thought we were quoting the play."
• And then remember the next day, when it was still all like that?! Hahahahahahahaha
• I understand XYZ, we'd be glad to have you join us — talked to J&D — SC
• Made reserve pool for phone interviews
• "accidental butt reiki"
• "tastes like brown"
• "calls himself a witch"
• Add to cauldron: Irish soap actress, Chaz Bono
• Who's real?
• "I don't anticipate it's going to be smooth right away"
• She took me to the carnival — I wonder what that means.
• BE Akzidenz Grotesk
• has a knack for wording good, reasonable questions so they sound as rude as possible
• It is weirdly complicated, and most folks here wouldn't be able to articulate it
• Talk to Ellen re: weather
• So. Angry.
• "I just carried a bust of Granny D made of plaster wrapped in a sweatshirt from the back of her son's Jeep to the archive."
• Colonialist approach to service
• diversity=lawyer

...and one haiku:

I won 3 raffles

Sang 9-5 with Manley

Lots of integers

Breaking: Conservative Men Threatened by Poor and/or Working Mothers

Note: On the Facebook page, I mentioned a little while back that I had a folder full of drafts I never finished: More than 60 of 'em, in fact. I'm going through that folder now, deleting what's not worth it, posting what might entertain you. This dates back just to June 2013. 

So, by now you may have seen some of the hubbub over on Fox News. Apparently, there are conservatives who believe that women should be at home with their babies, and apparently, some of their colleagues, who are women working tirelessly to advance the cause of conservatism on TV wish they would shut the hell up.

That is an oversimplification, for sure, but not much of one. I do not need to speak for Megyn Kelly and Greta Van Susteren; they are happy to speak for themselves.

Now, you might think what I'm all riled up about is the sexism — or even the homophobia. Yawn. I am used to the sexism, and it does not surprise me at all when it rears its ugly head. Particularly on Fox News. Like, Kelly and Van Susteren should not have to stand for that crap, and should call folks out on it when they can, but if they are just now noticing it, I am going to have to start calling her Greta Van Winkle, because, y'know, wake up.

I am more interested in getting riled up by following the argument to its logical conclusion, which would appear to be that nonrich people should not breed.

I know there are people of many sexes and genders who work because they love it. I also believe that most people, regardless of how much they love their jobs, or enjoy the work they do, work for pay largely so that they can pay for stuff. If those people, regardless or sex or gender, happen to be parents (or hope to one day become parents) much of the stuff they hope to pay for is kid-related, directly or indirectly: diapers, education, housing, food, 8th-grade trips to Washington, whatever.

And if your family situation is such that you can buy those things (or at least the things you prioritize) with no woman-generated income, and all the adults in the household are pleased with that as an arrangement, then great. I can think of a number of ways that might be true: Wealth. Heterosexual couple with a high-earning male in it. Gay male couple. Single dad doing the best he can. Polyandry.

But even if Lou Dobbs was right that kids with working moms are worse off (which has not been demonstrated), the logical conclusion of his train of thought is that households with one or more women in them, all of whom need or want to be earning a living, should be disqualified from having or raising children.

And I can think of a couple ways to accomplish that, but I don't much like them.

Apology accepted

Note: On the Facebook page, I mentioned a little while back that I had a folder full of drafts I never finished: More than 60 of 'em, in fact. I'm going through that folder now, deleting what's not worth it, posting what might entertain you. This dates back just to August 2013. 

I don't know how to write about body image and weight stuff, exactly. Because I've been many of the things.

• I've been thin and happy(ish) with my weight. (OK, that has hardly ever been true. But it has literally ever been true.) 
• I've been thin and thought I was fat, and been unhappy about that.
• I've been fat and happy.
• I've been fat and unhappy.
• I've lost weight unhealthily (physically and emotionally).
• I've lost weight healthily.
• I've gained weight unhealthily.
• I've gained weight healthily.
• I've had people tell me I was too big, needed to lose a few pounds, ask when I was due — and those people have included doctors, when I was at a wide range of weights. In fact, they've included every doctor I've had but one, since I was about 14.
• I've had people tell me I was beautiful, perfect.
• I've had people tell me it doesn't matter, as long as I'm healthy. 
• I've had people project their own fears onto me — whether by openly dreading the possibility they could ever look like me or by insisting that I would be happier thinner.

And in case you're wondering what I think these days, philosophically, intellectually, I think this: I think for me, any weight I am is fine, as long as I'm healthy. And I think any weight I am is actually none of anyone else's business, even if I'm not healthy. And even if the weight is related to the health.

Emotionally, I waver from all of that a lot, as much as anybody does, maybe. I let it be other people's business, sometimes. I decide that my weight is not fine. I assume people who don't think I'm attractive are probably specifically not attracted to weight. And then I get over it, because that philosophical, intellectual belief is every bit as real as those sometimes devastating emotional waves.

That's a long introduction to this, which I think everyone should read. By everyone I mean:

• Every woman who has ever worried about her weight and considered doing something about it.
• Every person who has ever thought they knew anything at all about anyone else's weight.
• Anyone who has ever trusted a salesperson.
• Anyone who has ever known what 1,200 calories looks like.
• Anyone who has never had to know what 1,200 calories looks like.

Because there is a lot in there of value. (Speaking of value, I actually originally saw that post when it was linked to at A Black Girl's Guide to Weight Loss, which is a terrific, smart, non-shaming, antiracist blog about exercise and eating well, regardless of who you are and why you want to eat well and exercise — that also includes some excellent and very real insights about racism and sexism in America, and how they intersect.)

Dirty Dirty

Sunday night, I was fortunate enough to attend a Dirty Dancing-themed birthday party for a friend.*

We watched the movie and followed up with a dance party. People were encouraged to bring watermelon — and dress as their favorite characters.

I obviously went as Vivian Pressman.

For those of you unfamiliar with the film, or who just haven't seen it, say, this week, Vivian Pressman is this woman:

Recreating that hairstyle wasn't easy, but it was spectacular. I showered and washed my hair early Sunday evening, and then employed a whole lot of gel and very many bobby pins. Sadly, there are no pictures, but I looked awesome.

Monday, I had a long drive and decided I'd just showered the night before, so I could skip it that morning. The hair gel was sort of an issue, but by combing my hair and putting it back in a ponytail, I looked presentable — and thanks to said gel, the ponytail stayed in place all day.

Yesterday, I overslept and was running late for work. Also, my hair looked fantastic, practically immediately on getting out of bed. That is obviously a sign. No shower.

Yesterday afternoon, in what I assumed at the time was an unrelated event, I could smell myself. You know how you assume people who smell bad are accustomed to their own odor, and therefore do not smell themselves? Yeah, that was not me. I smelled awful, and was really worried that was just how I smell now. I thought of lots of possible causes, mostly ones that would be difficult to rectify.

It was not until this morning, as I got ready to take my shower, that it occurred to me that that might solve the whole smelling-bad problem, and that I could have fixed it more than twelve hours sooner by just showering when I got done with work.**

*It was in a yurt in Vermont. RI and I obviously called it "Yurty Dancing," and I amused myself and at least a couple other people by observing that the big advantage to being in a yurt was that nobody could put Baby in the corner.

**Actually, I couldn't showered quite when I got done with work, because I was dealing with the fact that apparently e-mailing pictures from my phone is sufficient to break it in such a way that I can no longer make phone calls. But that's a post for another day. I could have showered a few hours after I was done with work, certainly.

And then (almost) a whole month went by

Today, one of my very favorite readers (and, you know, real-life friend), sent me this e-mail:

You there?

Hadn’t seen anything on the blog in a while. Just wanted to see how you were doing and check in on an old friend. And by old I mean, longtime. Not chronologically.

Never mind.

...which was perfect, in that it let me say to him what I have been planning to say to you all regarding my absence:

Ha! I have half a dozen posts in my head. I'm doing great, actually, thanks for checking in, just busy: away for a weekend with high school friends, college reunion, bananas at work (in mostly good/ok ways), trying to fit in time with the romantic interest. I will try to start getting some of those posts out of my head and onto CMC soon.

How are you?

No, seriously, how are you?

Me at Work

I've been without a car and internet service at the same time for a little bit now, which is basically like being in the nineteenth century. I'll post funny stuff about that sometime soon, maybe.

Today, I am thinking about September 11, like many Americans and lots of other people, particularly those of us who were in or near New York or Arlington or Somerset County.

Two years ago, I wrote about where I was that morning, but I find that today I am thinking about the people I spent that day with — my old coworkers, mostly. Many of us who were on the east coast were at work or school or on our way there; many of us were with our workmates or classmates. Does everyone think about the people they worked with that day? Does that somehow make it more important to have a work family, rather than just coworkers — knowing they're who you'll likely be with when the spit hits the fan?

As I posted to the alumni Facebook group of the place I worked then:

Today always makes me think of our [workplace] family: of being together that morning, of the folks who ventured out on foot to cover the story, of conversations afterward to process and comfort and make each other laugh, of style questions later (Is just "9/11" too glib?). I'm thinking of those of you who were working at [workplace] twelve years ago today, and still grateful you were the people I had to surround myself with.

OK, and you get one brief story, not about the day, but about the aftermath.

My boss at the time was very interested in making sure we all had time and space to process together, to get what we needed emotionally. And so she gathered us for maybe daily checkins, which was lovely, really. A few days after the 11th, she gathered us and shared some good news: Even several days later, people had been found alive in an SUV under the rubble. There was such a rush of joy, such a beautiful glimmer of hope — and then a colleague who can best be described as "unafraid to ask the stupid questions" said, entirely serious, "SUV? What's an SUV?" — like it was some jargony term he could not possibly have been expected to know. And the place erupted with the aforementioned joy and confusion and good-natured(ish) mocking we all needed right then. Because, seriously? "SUV" had been a common term for, like, 15 years by then, and this dude was not even 30.

We probably went out for drinks that afternoon.

We usually did.

So, you know, open thread today. Who do you think about? Who were you with?

My Yankee Doodle

I tried to say this on my own Facebook page, but it just sounded scoldy and soapboxy, so it felt like I should maybe take it over here, where I actually have a soapbox.

There's a nuclear power plant in our region that has been bad news for lots of very real reasons, and people have been protesting its existence for a long time.

And now it's slated to shut down.

 And a lot of folks are celebrating, and I get it, but — I grew up near a nuclear power plant that employed a lot of people, and this is not all good news.

In a town of about 2,200 people, 630 jobs were just lost. Obviously, not everyone who works at Vermont Yankee lives in Vernon — which means we'll feel the effects regionwide. And 630 people either lost their jobs or will be relocated to other areas. That's hard for many of them.
And also:

• For those who benefited from those individuals' presence in the community
• For those who made money selling them goods and services
• For those who are served by the nonprofits they donated to or volunteered for
• For those who were already looking for jobs who will now have to compete with a whole new pool of skilled labor
• For really, probably, everyone in the region, whether they understand it or not.

Other people have also already acknowledged that (there's a really great editorial out there that I suddenly can't find; if you know the one, please feel free to link to it in the comments), but my own circle seems much more inclined to rejoice first, ask questions later. And I do not mean to diminish the role of people who've spent countless hours working to stop something that has been (and will continue to be for decades, actually) a real danger. I know I sound scoldy. I don't mean to sound scoldy.

But I'm seeing this as a mixed blessing, for sure. There are people I like having around who will not be as a result of this, and it makes me sad.

Facts of life

Note: On the Facebook page, I mentioned a little while back that I had a folder full of drafts I never finished: More than 60 of 'em, in fact. I'm going through that folder now, deleting what's not worth it, posting what might entertain you. This gem dates back to November 2009; I'm skipping around some, chronologically. 

 Been watching the third season of Bones. It's a good show, but that's not why I'm here.

Without spoiling anything for those of you who have yet to see any of that good show, in the second season of Bones, a great great character necessarily has to leave his or her job. In the third season, this character is still around, but someone still needs to do his or her job in the lab. Bones has taken a page from Murphy Brown, and given that job to a rotating cast of characters who are excellent in the short term but might get annoying in the long term.

One of them just spews forth facts. Some of them are relevant to whatever case the team's working on, most of them are tangential at best. He has a British accent. I am not sure what that adds.

And no one wants that character around all the time, but will you maybe be amused if I just spew forth a bunch of random facts right now, just to show off a bunch of stuff I know?

• The eight vegetables in V8 are tomatoes, beets, celery, carrots, lettuce, parsley, watercress and spinach.
• "5150,"in the name of the Van Halen album, refers to Eddie Van Halen's home studio, also named 5150. "5150,"in the name of the studio, refers to the section of California state code that allows people to be involuntarily committed.
• The nine prepositions that take the ablative case in Latin are ab, cum, de, ex, in, pro, prae, sine and sub.
• In circus lingo, "First of May" is a performer still in his or her first season. OK, I learned that from Bones, too.
• All four of the above facts were in the original 2009 post. Between then and now, I'd lost the knowledge of two of them. I think I stopped writing because I don't have a lot of facts that are good without context. This one is new to 2013.

Arresting developments

I got up this morning at about 8:30, let work know I was too sick to go in, and then took a two-hour nap from the exertion.

At 10:30, my cousin, who is staying with me, had just woken up.

"Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," I said.

"Do you know you slept through the police coming and searching the house?" 

Which— No. No, I did not know that. 

I have two cousins staying with me this week, but we've all been pretty sick. For me, yesterday was the worst of it. It's mostly a bad cold, but I also had a fever and just felt entirely miserable, like, I'm not sure when I've been that sick.

I slept most of the day, and then last night, fell asleep with the door to my bedroom open and the lights on.

Apparently, the police came at around 2:30 in the morning, rang the bell a bunch of times, and then yelled "police" and banged on the door until my cousin woke up and answered the door. 

Apparently someone crashed his motorcycle near the house, and there were outstanding warrants on him, so he fled on foot. 

Apparently, they were making sure he wasn't hiding in the house. 

Apparently, he was not. 

So, things this brings up for me:

• My cousin said she was a houseguest. Doesn't it seem like the police would have wanted to wake the actual resident/homeowner? 
• The reason my falling asleep with the door open and the lights on is relevant is that when the cops looked in my room, in which I was sleeping, they didn't need to shine flashlights. Doesn't it seem like the police would have wanted to wake me then?
• Boy, I sure am glad I was sleeping with clothes on, fever and all.
• I don't, as far as I know, have anything illegal in my house (including a fugitive). But let's say I had, I dunno, a body or a meth lab in the basement. Once the police have entered the home with no warrant and permission not from the homeowner but from someone else, can they do anything with that?
• Good thing I don't have a body or a meth lab in the basement.
• When my cousin woke up and finally went to the door, a police officer had actually opened the door and stuck his face in the doorway. Can he do that?

In case some of you are worried that the fugitive may still be in the attic (where the police did not look, by the way, just because my houseguest didn't know I had an attic), he is not, according to my local paper. He eventually called the police, in fact, presumably because of his injuries, and said he'd been assaulted. There is no evidence to support that. He's in the local hospital now.

A real conversation that happened tonight

My dad, to my cousin who's trying to remember a book title: Is it How the Irish Saved Civilization?
Cousin: No, but now I'm curious about that one.
My dad: Or is it "How the Irish saved Western Civilization"? No, it's not. But that's what it means.
Me: Gross.
My dad: Western civilization's not like Westerns. Not like the wild west.
Me: [42 years old and staring, astonished] I know what "Western civilization" means. I'm not seven. I just meant, gross to refer to "Western civilization" [already a problematic phrase, because, hey, whole Southern Hemisphere] as "civilization."
My dad: Oh, right. I'm with you there.

Wait — what?

Star Trekking

Note: On the Facebook page, I mentioned a little while back that I had a folder full of drafts I never finished: More than 60 of 'em, in fact. I'm going through that folder now, deleting what's not worth it, posting what might entertain you. This gem dates back to August 2009; I'm skipping around some, chronologically. Also, I am certain I posted this already, and double-certain because there are comments on it already. How it ended up back in the Drafts folder is beyond me.

So I've been watching the first season of the original Star Trek. I'm about halfway through the fifth episode now.

I could do reams of observations like my last post, but today, I feel that I should save you some time, rather than waste it.

In case you were going to do the same thing, for the plot, rather than for the entertainment value of the props and costumes, here is the storyline of each of the first five episodes:

Some creature that is or appears to be human (usually appearing to be a member of the crew) has a dangerous combinations of superhuman powers and pathological personality. The crew of the Enterprise is confused for a while, and havoc is wreaked; in some cases, someone claims they've never seen anything like this before, despite having seen it in the two or three preceding episodes. A female crew member is generally threatened with sexual violence as evidence of the creature's power and evilness. She's not actually violated, due to her fingernails or a convenient intervention on the part of a passing male crew member or both. Then the Enterprise's crew figures the confusion out and fixes it. In the first few episodes, several people die in all the chaos. In the next few, everyone's OK in the end.
The end.

I know that some of my readers are much more devoted followers of Star Trek than I am. Heck, I didn't even know who Gary Mitchell was until last night. Did I get any of that wrong?

A real conversation that happened last night

RI: [Something I agree with]
me: [Gives the thumbs-up.] [Pause.]
me: It's probably bad that I just gave you a real-life "like," isn't it?
RI: It's probably worse that you're calling giving a thumbs-up "a real-life 'like'" now.


In related news, I'm trying to be on Facebook less these days.

Several thousand words on the state of my deck

Note: On the Facebook page, I mentioned a little while back that I had a folder full of drafts I never finished: More than 60 of 'em, in fact. I'm going through that folder now, deleting what's not worth it, posting what might entertain you. This gem dates back to February 2011; I'm skipping around some, chronologically. 

Notes from 2013: That was the winter the ice fell off the roof and smashed the deck furniture, which I'd foolishly left out before the first snowfall, and then had never had little enough snow or ice to retrieve it.
And that pretty pyramid in the middle picture? That's my grill. Note the depth of the snow.

Ramblin', man

Friday night, I went to the Amos Fortune Forum with my folks. I think I've talked about this cool little lecture series here before, but in case not: Once a week in the summer, there's a lecture on some topic of interest, often by a renowned scholar or author, for which the speaker is compensated one jug of maple syrup. It happens in the meeting house of my parents' tiny town, about half an hour east of where I live. It's amazing. You should go, if you're in the area on a summer Friday.

Last night's talk was by a woman whose dad was a spy, about what it's like when your dad's a spy. It was cool, if a little strange that more of the talk was dedicated to bowling in her bathrobe than to spy stuff, but still, you know I'm a sucker for a good bowling story. And this was a good one. It's in her book.

Afterward, I decided I'd rather sleep on my parents' sleeping porch than drive home, even knowing that I don't usually sleep well there, and even knowing that I had a hair appointment at 9 in the morning about half an hour west of where I live, which is to say an hour west of where I spent Friday night.

But I got up in plenty of time and rolled up my sleeping bag and drove home to have a few minutes to putter around before I continued on to my hair appointment.

And once I got there, I realized I'd left my purse at my parents' house.

It's an easy mistake to make, because I almost never carry a purse.

But still, my purse had both my wallet and my checkbook in it, so I was not going to a) have means to pay for this haircut without making an extra hourlong roundtrip to my parents' place, or b) have time to make said roundtrip and still get to the hair appointment.

SO, I called my parents and then called the hairdresser to reschedule for later in the afternoon, and crashed on the couch for a bit (not having slept well the night before) and drove to my parents' house, grabbed my purse, drove back to my town, ran a few errands, went to the hairdresser, got a lovely new haircut which I paid for by check, and then drove another half hour south to cook dinner for RI (gazpacho and salmon, if you were wondering). We had a very nice time.

Sunday morning, RI had to be at work at 7, so we got up together and had the breakfast casserole I'd put in the Crock Pot the night before, and I slept for about three more hours, got up, did the dishes, and headed out for the hourlong drive home.

And once I got there, I realized I'd left my laptop at RI's. And rather than burst into tears, I crashed on the couch for about five more hours before deciding I just couldn't bear driving another hour back down there, only to have to drive an hour back, either last night or this morning before work.

All by way of explaining why you didn't get a blog post Sunday.

How was your weekend?

(Oh, and then I woke up this morning sick. You know how I love being sick.)

An open letter to my local Kia dealer

Note: On the Facebook page, I mentioned a little while back that I had a folder full of drafts I never finished: More than 60 of 'em, in fact. I'm going through that folder now, deleting what's not worth it, posting what might entertain you. This gem dates back to June 2010; I'm skipping around some, chronologically. 

Dear local Kia dealer,
When your ad campaign immediately makes me wonder if a terrorist sent it,

1. I lived and worked in a post-9/11 D.C. area for too long, and/or
2. I've been watching too much "Sleeper Cell," and/or
3. You need a new ad campaign.

Either way, I am happy with my car and will not need a Kia. You may save your plain white envelopes with my address handwritten on it, with no return address. You may save your first-class stamp, and use your creepy-vague post-it notes for someone else.

Thank you,
bzzzzgrrrl

How much I want the universe to provide me with a satisfying means of income

Not that much.

Weird, right?

Here's the thing, and I say this as someone who participates fully in both consumerism and capitalism, constantly, and makes no real effort to reject either:

I have a much easier time buying into materialism than capitalism.

Here's what that looks like:

• I like stuff.
• I like the security of money.
• I would like plenty of both, and would also like enough money to share with both people I love and total strangers.
• I say things like, "when I'm rich, I'll..." and I'm only maybe 15% joking. (Not "if," not for me.) (Also: You would not believe some of the things I think I may someday spend money on.)

But:

• I do not like that my money is in any way tied to my work.
• I do not like that my money is in any way tied to my sense of self-worth.
• I do not like that some kinds of work are financially rewarded at higher rates than others.
• I do not like that ownership is financially rewarded so outrageously disproportionately.
• I do not like that there are people who still claim that working hard gets people more money, when that is demonstrably untrue at both the high and low ends of the wealth spectrum.

So:

• I want satisfying things to do with my time and talents*, and
• I want income, and plenty of it, and
• I want them to be unrelated, if possible.

I don't suppose everyone who buys lottery tickets does so out of a similar alignment of principles, but it's why I buy lottery tickets, for sure. I don't buy them much, because I understand math. Also, me winning the lottery would solve some of my problems, but would not fix what I believe is a deeply broken system. But sometimes, a $3 flash of magical thinking toward my own selfish goals is what I can muster.

*To be clear: I already have several of these things, some of which I am compensated for, and some of which I am not.

Love actually

Note: On the Facebook page, I mentioned a little while back that I had a folder full of drafts I never finished: More than 60 of 'em, in fact. I'm going through that folder now, deleting what's not worth it, posting what might entertain you. This gem dates back to January 2013; I'm skipping around some, chronologically. 

I just had a call from my mother's cell phone.

I answered it, and my father said, "It's me, actually. Your mother wanted me to call and tell you that we suddenly have to go downstairs and measure something, so she can't talk to you right now."

"OK," I said. "She can call me later; I should be around. Have fun. Talk to you both later."

I have now had several minutes since then to analyze this, and it strikes me as hilarious now.

Because: "It's me, actually"? You're my dad. You're allowed to call me.

Also: "We suddenly have to go downstairs and measure something"? There is a little context that makes this less strange, but it doesn't matter. It is entirely possible that on any given day, my mother would be unable to talk to me because she suddenly has to go measure something somewhere in the house. As far as I can remember, I have only ever measured one thing in my house: The space I have for a new refrigerator, and I've had to measure it maybe four times, because I keep losing whatever scrap of paper I wrote the measurements down on. But measuring would never be sudden or frequent or on an emergency basis for me, I don't think.

Notes from the future, which is to say July 2013: I have measured that space for the refrigerator at least twice more, and I am pleased to be able to say that after a year of sporadic measuring, there is a new refrigerator in said space, due almost entirely to assistance and pressure from my parents. It totally fits.

Open Sesame

Somehow*, this afternoon, I stumbled down a vintage Sesame Street wormhole. I recommend it.

Go to YouTube and just enter "vintage Sesame Street" as a search term. (I assume "classic Sesame Street" yields similar results.) If you are close to my age and had a TV as a kid, it will likely bring back some amazing and in some cases very weird memories. Those early seasons were just incredibleawesomestrange.

If you are much older or younger than I am, I suspect it will be a little hard to believe that some of this stuff was once standard children's programming.

For now, I share this one thing that just about made me cry:



...and invite you to share whatever weird/awesome/cool/funny/touching vintage Sesame moments you have to share today. With video links, obviously.





*OK, fine, someone on Facebook shared "Doin' the Pigeon." Whatever.

So about Kristen Wiig

Seriously, you all, I was just talking about her the day before it was suggested I blog about her. And not about her in any of her recent movies, or Saturday Night Live. I will never ever forget the first time I ever saw Kristen Wiig, and it was in a little miracle I like to call The Joe Schmo Show.

The Joe Schmo Show, for the uninitiated, is a mostly-fake reality show. There's one real contestant, who isn't in on the joke, and everyone else is an actor, playing basically caricatures of reality show contestants. Kristen Wiig was Dr. Pat, a quack therapist, complete with puppets she used to have difficult conversations and an enormous amount of dysfunction herself.

The show's not without problems, obviously; it was made for Spike TV and is therefore pretty much grotesquely sexist, among other things.

But watch it if you can, because it is hilarious. And Wiig? A serious highlight of that first season. Other highlights: Ralph Garman, David Hornsby, and the eviction ceremonies for the fake show "Lap of Luxury," which was sort of Survivor in a fancy house. The contestants had fancy commemorative plates with their faces on them. When contestants were voted out, they'd bring their plate to the smarmy host, who'd smash it in the fancy fireplace, saying, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, [contestant's name], you are dead to us."

It was glorious, and sometimes when people mistreat me or my friends, I repeat that phrase in my head and imagine smashing a commemorative plate of their face. You know who you are, jerko.

And though I've seen several of those actors other places since, I am not one bit surprised that it's Kristen Wiig whose star has really risen.

Side note: I have not yet seen all of the third season, but it features Lorenzo Lamas and is why I now also like Lorenzo Lamas.

Other note: Kristen Wiig is not on Twitter, Facebook, or any other social networking website. Do you think that means she won't see this? Do you think Lorenzo Lamas will?

Blockheaded

I committed to writing at least one new post for every draft post I revive, and waiting no more than three days between them.

So today is an enforced-new-post day, but I am uninspired. I have used a lot of words for un-blog-related purposes lately, and the well is maybe a little dry.

Was uninspired, I should say. The well was maybe a little dry.

Because I sent this query out to four regular readers:

hey, i'm committed to writing a new blog post today (three days after the last old one)
but writer's block
anything in particular you want to hear about?

And got these suggestions back:

• Friends. 
• New friends. 
• How you stay in touch with people who don't live in your area code. 
• or Kristin Wiig 
• the return of acid washed everything 
• How amazing I am? 
• How much you want the universe to provide you with a satisfying means of income?
• how about something summer camp-y? 
• An important experience as a camp counselor or with someone who was a camp counselor to you?
• yer mom

And I could literally write a blog post on each of those, and so I will. Thanks, friends, for the food for thought.

Wait, you didn't think I was going to write one of them now, did you? Hahahahahahaha why would I do that when I just wrote an excellent post on writer's block and making your friends solve it for you?

Favorite things

Note: On the Facebook page, I mentioned a little while back that I had a folder full of drafts I never finished: More than 60 of 'em, in fact. I'm going through that folder now, deleting what's not worth it, posting what might entertain you. This gem dates back to January 2008. And is still true. 

Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes

And owning a house that I enjoy having people in, close enough to town that when I am in a bar for happy hour, and the waiters are being both slow and rude, and acting as though we are an imposition, I can say, "Hey, wanna just go have a drink at my house?"

And then we all do.

And even though the happy hour bars are cheap (so cheap, you city slickers, you would not believe), the drinks already in my house are cheaper. The beers other people show up with? Cheaper still.

Introducing RI

I said last week I'd introduce you to the Romantic Interest.

Obviously, the best vehicle for this is an online chat from this afternoon.

bzzzzgrrrl: So... I have promised the masses I'll introduce you to them at some point
romantic interest: Right
bzzzzgrrrl: JUST SO YOU KNOW, I have never done that before.
Like, they probably made some assumptions about the artist formerly known as Bread Truck Grrl
but I haven't ever said, like, I'm dating someone and here they are.
RI: Huh
bzzzzgrrrl: Anyway, now that you're all freaked out ...
RI: I'm not.
I'm flattered.
bzzzzgrrrl: … what, if anything, would you think would be relevant for them to know about you?
Or if not relevant, at least funny.
RI: Um... Oh gosh. I just don't know.
bzzzzgrrrl: Can I tell them you're young, and it mostly doesn't matter, except you don't know about Moonlighting or “We Built this City”?
RI: Yeah. That's fine.
bzzzzgrrrl: Can I tell them you're a wicked good bowler?
RI: Of course.
bzzzzgrrrl: Can I tell them you bowled a 214 one time?
(Is that your high score?)
RI: My high score is 249.
bzzzzgrrrl: :)
RI: That was the game with the 6-pack + 2 that you missed
bzzzzgrrrl: Can I tell them you're cute and nice and smart and funny and fun to be around? Can I tell them avocados with black pepper are delicious, and that that's not a euphemism, just one of the many delightful things I learned by being around you?
RI: You can puff me up as much as you'd like to.
bzzzzgrrrl: Heh.
Nice.
Anything they should know from your perspective about what dating me is like? Or are you worried they'll all wanna do it?
RI: I didn't even think of that. Yes, let's avoid that.
bzzzzgrrrl: Hmph.
RI: But seriously. I love dating you because you're [REDACTED]. In more ways that one. ;)
bzzzzgrrrl: I am not telling the internet I'm [REDACTED].
RI: Fine.
But you are also patient, kind, supportive, hilarious, beautiful, brilliant, fun, sexy, caring, open, trusting, communicative, giving and stuff.
As well as [REDACTED].
bzzzzgrrrl: Aw, shucks. Thanks.
You're so great.
RI: I love just how much fun and laughter there is with you.
bzzzzgrrrl: Right. Back. Atcha.


... And that's what you get. Which is maybe more than you deserve.

My vote matters more than your vote

Note: On the Facebook page, I mentioned a little while back that I had a folder full of drafts I never finished: More than 60 of 'em, in fact. I'm going through that folder now, deleting what's not worth it, posting what might entertain you. This gem dates back to December 2007. 

So, I'm a New Hampshire voter now. Which means, having tried so hard to ignore the presidential race until some folks drop out, I now have to make an actual choice, from all of the candidates. Like everyone else here, I am registered as "undeclared," which means I can vote in either primary. Probably, I'll vote in the Democratic one, but who knows?

Luckily, the ridiculousness around the New Hampshire primary means I have plenty of opportunity to check out the candidates. With very little effort on my part, I have managed to see Bill Clinton on behalf of his wife, Michelle Obama on behalf of her husband, Bill Richardson on behalf of himself, and now, The John Edwards Show.

Gotta admit, I went because Bonnie Raitt was going to be there. She was, and so was Jackson Browne, and they were awesome. Before them, Peter Coyote got up and had a few things to say-- he's a "hey, it's that guy!" I remember best from E.T. and Erin Brockovich. And then Granny D showed up, apparently unexpected by all, including the Edwards campaign, and she was outstanding. Elizabeth Edwards had a few words to say, the candidate finally spoke, as he was answering questions, Catie Edwards jumped in with some of her own thoughts on the Supreme Court. It was all very exciting, yadda yadda, yes, I'll consider voting for Edwards.

But it was also New Hampshire. So there were little kids running around and making a ruckus. I was in the second row of a small room [Note from 2013: I don't remember what I was going to say, don't remember what happened at that event, but wow, how things have changed since 2013. I did not vote for Edwards, in case you wonder, though I did vote in the Democratic primary. Just thought this one was worth sharing for the blast-for-the-pastness, even if you don't get the end of the story. Rest in peace, Elizabeth Edwards and Granny D.]

Writing tips from a professional writer/editor (and oversensitive former resident of a certain Boston suburb)

Here are two reasons clichés are generally bad for journalists:

• One is that they are clichés, and you can do better than that. You want to write, write.
• The other is that words actually have meanings and implications.

Let's focus on the second one, shall we?

When journalists (or anyone) use common turns of phrase, they (we) have likely lost sight of at least some of the meaning and implication. At least some readers will not.

Now, I use clichés all the time. I'm the worst. Catchphrases, too. But also, I write a blog that specifies part of its mission is funny stories at my expense. As such, I have two advantages over the journalists who once were my colleagues:

• It's all about me, so I examine me a lot. You haven't got time for that stuff, because you're writing about other people.
• I have a readership consisting of people who are already ready to make fun of me in a basically kind way, and to call me on my crap directly and readably. Seriously, look at the comments. I encourage it. Probably 20 percent of the folks who read this blog are or used to be copy editors, and probably 50 percent or more have been directly involved in some kind of social justice work — and those are not discrete categories.*

All this is by way of saying, both to the reporter at CNN and to her editor, when one describes the town I went to high school in, which has recently experienced a tragedy in which a young woman was murdered, thusly:

"It's the kind of idyllic American suburb where 'things like this aren't supposed to happen.'"

... a reader has to wonder, in what kind of place, exactly, are things like this "supposed to happen"?

What, exactly, are you saying or implying — and why would you do that?

Also, who does it benefit? And how?







*Example: I looked up "discrete" to be sure I had the right one, because I was sure I did, but what if I'd been wrong? Some of the commenters would have been chuckling about it over drinks for years.

Autopilot

I need to write a blog post for work, and possibly also do some work an intern already did but neglected to e-mail, so naturally, I am writing a post of dubious interest for you instead.

Those who interact with me daily may already suspect that my soda compulsion has gotten out of control. In general, part of how I trick myself into thinking that it is not is that I (usually) only drink one soda a day. That soda is, it should be said, enormous, and is (usually) acquired from a local convenience store that is between my house and my work, an easy walking distance from either.

One sign that my soda drinking may be a pretty severe habit is likely the friendly relationship I have with the staff of said store, who are a pretty friendly bunch, but who recognize me and greet me cheerily, as they see me on average at least once a day.

But another presented itself today, when I left work at lunchtime to go to a local restaurant (full punch card day! woohoo!) and instead, without thinking, wandered into the convenience store. It was not until I was actually standing in front of the soda fountain that I realized I didn't want a soda, had in fact already consumed my enormous soda for the day, and that I already had a big plan to go use my full punch card at the joint down the street.

Whoops.

Time to cut back, methinks.

(Any of you readers remember when I was "Oat Bran Muffin Girl" to the guy at the Dunkin' Donuts in Madison, NJ? There are places not to aspire to be a regular at.)

More on snow

Note: On the Facebook page, I mentioned a little while back that I had a folder full of drafts I never finished: More than 60 of 'em, in fact. I'm going through that folder now, deleting what's not worth it, posting what might entertain you. This gem dates back to December 2007.

Since some of you asked, yes, that snow that's hitting the Northeast has hit Keene. And it is very nice that I got some of the happy pretty snow before I had to contend with any of the pain-in-the-neck snow. This snow isn't even such a pain in the neck, really, but since I know you southern folk want to hear all about the weather, here you have it.

Last night, I drove a trip that is normally about an hour and a half in two hours. When I left, it had snowed, but was not really snowing, and there wasn't much on the ground. Most of the rest of the trip, it was really snowing, especially as I had to drive through a little semi-mountainy stretch. Some of you may recall that my air conditioner didn't really work over the summer. Bummer, but no big deal; I can roll down the windows. Turns out, my heat doesn't really work. Again, it's OK, I'm wearing a coat anyway. Oh, until it's snowing and the snow is freezing on the windshield and part of the heat not working is that the defrost doesn't really work either and it's almost midnight. Ugh. There was also one little skidding episode, which made me glad, as I so often am, that I learned to drive in New England.*

*If you have already heard about the very first time I drove, you can skip this asterisk. If not, bonus story! I was in a driver's ed car with an instructor and two friends, doing back-to-back-to-back lessons. I had literally never been behind the wheel of a car. and the instructor, who was a young woman and also in retrospect a genius, took us to an empty high school parking lot, waited until I was comfortable-ish driving slowly in circles, and, without warning, jerked up on the emergency brake, sending us into a skid so I could get used to the experience of turning into the skid. She did it a bunch more heart-stopping times, but I don't panic when I skid on ice, lo these many years later.

What's up

Last night, a loyal reader and close friend said, "City Mouse has been quiet. Bzzzzgrrrl must have a [romantic interest] or something."

Which... maybe. OK, yes. You'll get an introduction soon.

But also, things have been generally busy around here. Everyone has moved, and I have helped several of them. Some of my favorite people, including both niece and nephew, have had birthdays. Another loyal reader and close friend celebrated her 20th anniversary with her husband; they've both been good friends of mine for even longer than they've been married to each other, and I took their kids overnight so they could have a little (precious little) alone time.

And I don't know if you know this, but I am the best babysitter. Not a great parent, because I am not smart enough to pace myself. But give me 24 hours and a couple of kids, and we will do All The Things.

In this particular 24 hours, we:

• watched a movie (with popcorn!) 
• went to a softball game (with a playground! and a puppy! and had ice cream!) 
• had everyone's favorite bagels for breakfast, cut the way they like them
• went to the supermarket
• went to my parents' house (where there was another little dog! and a porch! and a little door under the stairs like in Harry Potter!)
• went to the town reading of the Declaration of Independence (plus Yankee Doodle!) 
• toured a real old one-room schoolhouse with a real old-timey fire engine outside
• went to an ice cream social (before lunch!)
• had lunch with everyone's favorite kind of everything 
• went swimming in the lake for a loooooooong time, including a fun new game where Kid 1 and I just threw Kid 2 back and forth between us 
• went back to my house to meet their folks 
• went to dinner at Applebee's 
• Plus sleeping. And reading.

I do not pretend that that day represents the pace of my day-to-day life over the past month or so, but it hasn't been so far off.

And those of you who follow CMC on Facebook (ahem) already know that I have another little blog-related project in the works, too; seems like about time to kick that one off!