Today I heard the song True Blue by Madonna, and it was like my entire adolescence came flooding back to me. Why, oh why, did we spend our childhoods coming up with complicated, intricate routines to the popular songs of the moment, yelling at each other like dictators when somebody messed up, and THEN insist on performing them for whomever we could hold captive for a few minutes? I keep waiting for my friend Dorie's 8-year-old daughter to start busting out the made-up dances with her friends, because I refuse to believe that it was a uniquely 80s phenomenon. Or was it?
Of course we really didn't understand what the songs were talking about because at that age you really don't know anything about love (unlike now, when we all have every facet of it completely worked out) so all of our interpretations of the lyrics were completely literal. For example, at the part in True Blue when Madonna sang "your heart fits me like a glove," you had to pretend to put on a glove.
True Blue was one of the all-time greats, but let's explore the other songs that caused my friends and I to pretend we were rock stars. Thanks to iTunes for helping jog my memory.
I Wanna Dance With Somebody by Whitney Houston
First of all, every girl who made up a dance to this song in the 80s fanned themselves to the line, "I wanna feel the heat with somebody." And this is a perfect example of how all 80s songs seemed to have that kick-it-up-a-notch moment, where the song took itself to the next level and you had to respond by doing the same with your frenetic dancing. This song's moment was: "Don't you wanna dance say you wanna dance don't you wanna dance... with me baby!"
How Will I Know by Whitney Houston
"How will I know if he really loves me?" It's really not at all surprising that the generation that listened to this song in elementary school came to, twenty years later, require a book called He's Just Not That Into You. Her backup singers told us "don't trust your feelings" and warned us that "love can be deceiving." And Whitney herself didn't even know how SHE'D know; she was "asking you, 'cause you know about these things!"
Walk Like An Egyptian by The Bangles
I'm sorry to tell you that my friend Michelle and I performed our routine to this song for show-and-tell in the third grade. I'm further sorry to tell you that my friend Katie and I performed it at my dad's 40th surprise birthday party. I remember it well: I was wearing a pink and white dress and had only been told about the party that morning so that I wouldn't accidentally tell my dad about it. My parents' mocking friends urged Katie and I to do the dance, and before I had consented, the DJ (because what's a 40th birthday party without a DJ?) started playing the song. So we started doing the dance and then their friends tried to do it along with us. I remember thinking they were just really fun; now I realize that alcohol must have also played a part. The entire thing is captured on tape somewhere in my parents' house. Thank God VHS is now almost entirely obsolete. Also, can we all agree ahead of time that we'll have a few cocktails and encourage our children to bust a move for us at our 40th birthday parties?
Manic Monday by The Bangles
"Wish it was Sunday, 'cause that's my fun day, when I don't have to run... day." Nice songwriting, ladies.
Eternal Flame by The Bangles
While we're on the topic, I feel compelled to share that while my girls and I never made up a dance to Eternal Flame (it was a slow song, after all) I knew exactly how my music video for it would have been, if I'd sung the song. I still remember every chilling detail: It would have been me sitting on a stool in a dark room, with a spotlight on me, wearing black leggings and a big Esprit sweater, with all my hair in one giant side ponytail, staring up at the camera and singing the entire thing with the dead seriousness that a song like that warrants. I was maybe eleven years old and I couldn't imagine anything more ethereal and beautiful. I told Steve about this once and he laughed so hard that he spit his drink on me.
Shake Your Love by Debbie Gibson
This was a very popular one to dance to, although I remember not really understanding how exactly to shake love, let alone shake YOUR love. I listened to it again and realized that "I just can't shake your love" loosely translates to "I just can't get over you." Who knew?
Lost in Your Eyes by Debbie Gibson
Okay, I didn't make up a dance to it, but I remember thinking that there could never be a more tragic song ever written. This may still be true.
Straight Up by Paula Abdul
"If you're only playing games I just have to say-ay, a bah bah bah bye, bah bah bah bah bye." You tell him, Paula. Her comments nowadays on American Idol make about as much sense.
Opposites Attract by Paula Abdul
I liked this song until I saw the video and realized that it was apparently Paula's story about trying to make it work with that big cat... person.
Forever Your Girl by Paula Abdul
What a great beginning: "Hey baby, you gotta remembah, a baby forevah, and evah and evah..." Let's hear it once again for the modern day Dostoyevsky.
Cold Hearted by Paula Abdul
Admit it: You'll be like 50 years old and you'll hear this song and you'll stop everything in order to sing: "You could find somebody better, girl (doo, doo, doo doo). He will only make you cry (doo, doo, doo, doo). You deserve somebody better, girl (doo, doo, doo, doo). He's got cold in his eyes." You might actually sing the correct lyrics at the end, which are apparently, "He's as cold as ice," but I prefer my misheard version.
Step by Step by New Kids on the Block
Now, the problem with making up dances to NKOTB was that I could never figure out which one of them I wanted to be. I sort of wanted to be the dreamboat (Joey), but then as soon as I saw Donnie I knew that I was really destined to be the badass in denim. Remember how great the ending to this song was? Well, allow me to remind you. "Step one, we can have lots of fun... step two, there's so much we can do... step three, it's just you and me... step four, I can give you more... step five, doncha know that the time has arrived... HUH!" I defy anyone who grew up loving NKOTB to sing that entire part with a straight face, particularly Jordan's inexplicably soprano tendencies.
What a Feeling by Irene Cara
I had some crazy gymnastics routine to this one, involving uneven bars and somersaults. I was obsessed with that song. FlyingJ and I both thought she was singing "take your pants down and make it happen." Since I was dancing to it wearing a leotard, I suppose I was in compliance with this order.
Dance routines and lip syncing were pretty much all that I did with my friends for a good couple of years, so there must have been more songs that we decimated, but those are the ones that I can remember for now. I need to call Katie and see what she remembers. And apologize for making her dance at my dad's birthday party in order to entertain all his drunk friends. Do they make a Hallmark card for that?
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Saturday, July 22, 2006
liv it up
I got home last night around midnight and checked my caller ID. Joe and Carly had both called, and both at about quarter of eleven.
I called Joe's cell. No answer. Then I called Carly. "I don't want to tell you anything," she said. "Joe was trying to reach you." Two seconds into our conversation, he came up on my call waiting and I clicked over. Truth be told, I was already crying.
He was, too. "Red. Seven pounds, nine ounces."
My friend Melissa had a baby yesterday at 10:20 PM, nine days after her due date, God love her.
She's beautiful, clearly brilliant, and already has an adoring fan base. Welcome to the planet, Olivia.
I called Joe's cell. No answer. Then I called Carly. "I don't want to tell you anything," she said. "Joe was trying to reach you." Two seconds into our conversation, he came up on my call waiting and I clicked over. Truth be told, I was already crying.
He was, too. "Red. Seven pounds, nine ounces."
My friend Melissa had a baby yesterday at 10:20 PM, nine days after her due date, God love her.
She's beautiful, clearly brilliant, and already has an adoring fan base. Welcome to the planet, Olivia.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
more inane questions
What is the last thing that you do before bed?
Read. I'm loving every word of Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential right now. I read my first David Sedaris book last week, and ohmygod, what took me so long? I'm having good reading luck right now.
What is the last stupid thing that you did?
This afternoon I went to a greenhouse even though it was 96 degrees outside. I was almost vaporized, but I left with my gardenias in the nick of time.
Do you think that money can buy happiness?
This is one of those questions that there's really only one answer to, kind of like, "Do you think racism is bad?" So, no, money doesn't buy happiness. Money buys you things and can make life easier, but it can't make you happy. However, if you're already pretty happy, I bet money could only make you happier, so please send me checks.
Do you believe in soul mates?
I do think that there's a limited amount of people that you could be compatible, happy, and fulfilled with for the next fifty years or so, but I don't think there's only one. But if there is, mine is probably in Egypt or something and I'm screwed.
What extracurricular activities did you do in college?
I had a column in the campus paper, which was basically a blog before blogs were invented. Sometimes they had me write movie reviews, too. I think that was it. I was lazy. It was great.
What extracurricular activities did you do in high school?
I wrote opinion and movie review kinda stuff for the school paper back then, too. I had a radio show on the school station on Thursday nights that was the source of many good times. I edited the lit journal.
What extracurricular activities did you do in junior high?
I played basketball and Nintendo.
What extracurricular activities did you do in elementary school?
Are there extracurricular activities in elementary school? Actually, I started a school paper in the fifth grade, and then I won a little award for it. Hmm, maybe I should've looked at my pattern over the years and decided to get a job working for, oh I don't know, a newspaper?
What are some things that are strange about you?
I eat Ice Breakers mints constantly. I prefer to sit on the floor rather than the couch. I don't type the way you're supposed to; I use the hunt and peck method but I'm ridiculously fast. Seriously, it's like my superhero talent. Who needs to be a brilliant neurosurgeon or a world leader when you can be a really fast typer?
What are your pet peeves?
I don't like when people take calls on their cell phones when they're out with you and then proceed to have a lengthy conversation with the person. "Hi, how are you? I'm at dinner with Red. Can I call you back?" is fine. "Hi, how are you? What's your position on border security?" is not.
What do you like to watch on TV?
The Office, No Reservations, $40 a Day, Sox games, Friends reruns, but not so much the first season episodes because they weren't all that funny.
What do you like on your pizza?
Quattro formaggi, grazie.
What magazines do you like to read?
In Style, Psychology Today, and, well, the Oprah magazine, I admit it. Sometimes Vanity Fair and Time. I had a subscription to Us Weekly for two years and my life is much better without it; now if only VH1 wasn't the television equivalent.
What is in your shower right now?
Silly rabbit. Did you forget who you're asking? Okay, two different kinds of shampoo and conditioner... Philosophy Shear Splendor and Nexxus Therappe. Aveda Carribean Therapy body scrub. Philosophy Senorita Margarita salt scrub. Softsoap Pure Cashmere body wash. Clinique sparkle skin body exfoliator. Biotherm Aquathermale moisturizing body wash. My shower is a very happy place.
What word would you use to describe yourself?
Mischievous.
Do you have a webcam?
Not really; my dad gave me an iSight awhile back because he likes techy toys, but I don't have it hooked up. I actually live in fear that pretty soon everyone will be using web cams and video phones to communicate, and then I'll have to make sure I'm presentable before answering the phone.
If you could be anyone else in the world for a week, who would you be and what would you do?
I'd be Karen Varitek, and I'd send the kids to stay with their grandparents for the week.
Read. I'm loving every word of Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential right now. I read my first David Sedaris book last week, and ohmygod, what took me so long? I'm having good reading luck right now.
What is the last stupid thing that you did?
This afternoon I went to a greenhouse even though it was 96 degrees outside. I was almost vaporized, but I left with my gardenias in the nick of time.
Do you think that money can buy happiness?
This is one of those questions that there's really only one answer to, kind of like, "Do you think racism is bad?" So, no, money doesn't buy happiness. Money buys you things and can make life easier, but it can't make you happy. However, if you're already pretty happy, I bet money could only make you happier, so please send me checks.
Do you believe in soul mates?
I do think that there's a limited amount of people that you could be compatible, happy, and fulfilled with for the next fifty years or so, but I don't think there's only one. But if there is, mine is probably in Egypt or something and I'm screwed.
What extracurricular activities did you do in college?
I had a column in the campus paper, which was basically a blog before blogs were invented. Sometimes they had me write movie reviews, too. I think that was it. I was lazy. It was great.
What extracurricular activities did you do in high school?
I wrote opinion and movie review kinda stuff for the school paper back then, too. I had a radio show on the school station on Thursday nights that was the source of many good times. I edited the lit journal.
What extracurricular activities did you do in junior high?
I played basketball and Nintendo.
What extracurricular activities did you do in elementary school?
Are there extracurricular activities in elementary school? Actually, I started a school paper in the fifth grade, and then I won a little award for it. Hmm, maybe I should've looked at my pattern over the years and decided to get a job working for, oh I don't know, a newspaper?
What are some things that are strange about you?
I eat Ice Breakers mints constantly. I prefer to sit on the floor rather than the couch. I don't type the way you're supposed to; I use the hunt and peck method but I'm ridiculously fast. Seriously, it's like my superhero talent. Who needs to be a brilliant neurosurgeon or a world leader when you can be a really fast typer?
What are your pet peeves?
I don't like when people take calls on their cell phones when they're out with you and then proceed to have a lengthy conversation with the person. "Hi, how are you? I'm at dinner with Red. Can I call you back?" is fine. "Hi, how are you? What's your position on border security?" is not.
What do you like to watch on TV?
The Office, No Reservations, $40 a Day, Sox games, Friends reruns, but not so much the first season episodes because they weren't all that funny.
What do you like on your pizza?
Quattro formaggi, grazie.
What magazines do you like to read?
In Style, Psychology Today, and, well, the Oprah magazine, I admit it. Sometimes Vanity Fair and Time. I had a subscription to Us Weekly for two years and my life is much better without it; now if only VH1 wasn't the television equivalent.
What is in your shower right now?
Silly rabbit. Did you forget who you're asking? Okay, two different kinds of shampoo and conditioner... Philosophy Shear Splendor and Nexxus Therappe. Aveda Carribean Therapy body scrub. Philosophy Senorita Margarita salt scrub. Softsoap Pure Cashmere body wash. Clinique sparkle skin body exfoliator. Biotherm Aquathermale moisturizing body wash. My shower is a very happy place.
What word would you use to describe yourself?
Mischievous.
Do you have a webcam?
Not really; my dad gave me an iSight awhile back because he likes techy toys, but I don't have it hooked up. I actually live in fear that pretty soon everyone will be using web cams and video phones to communicate, and then I'll have to make sure I'm presentable before answering the phone.
If you could be anyone else in the world for a week, who would you be and what would you do?
I'd be Karen Varitek, and I'd send the kids to stay with their grandparents for the week.
unsolved answering machine mysteries
My friend Joe is currently experiencing a bit of head-scratcher. Or, rather, a completely apeshit bizarre quandary.
He received this voicemail at home:
"Hi Joe, it's your pesky great-grandmother. I tried calling your mom to see how she made out with Ilana, but since I got you on the line, give us a call, we are on pins and needles. We want to know how the [his last name]s are doing."
And then this one:
"Hi Joe, it's me again. I couldn't wait for Louis to get home, so call me and let me know how Ilana is doing. Tell [his wife] to eat something, and you too. Bye."
These are the facts of the case:
-If Joe had a great-grandmother, she would be, in his own words, like 130.
-Joe's mom passed away many years ago.
-Joe did have a grandfather named Louis, but he passed away years ago.
-Joe has a cousin Ilana, but hasn't spoken to her in about two years.
-Joe's wife, FlyingJ, is about to have a baby, which probably explains why she's being encouraged to eat something.
-The number didn't show up on caller ID, so there's no way to return the call.
-Joe's dad has no idea what the hell any of this is about.
Possible suspects:
-Long Story Short, who, having heard the facts of the case, quickly changed the subject to Joe's soon-to-be-born baby's toys. What could she be hiding?
-Professor K, who seems sweet and innocent. What lurks behind his carefully orchestrated facade of normalcy?
-FlyingJ, who has been a stay-at-home mom for the past day and a half. Has the change of pace caused her to psychologically implode?
-Jack Bauer, whose show is on hiatus. Is he filling his time by making strange calls to fans?
-Joe himself, in a sort of last act Fight Club-esque development. Who IS Joe, really?
I've decided to do my part and get all Nancy Drew on this. Here's a clip from my in-depth interview with Joe himself, soon to air on 20/20.
Red: Tell me: When urged by the voice mail woman, did [your wife] eat something?
Joe: She did not, but Joe did.
Red: Interesting. What did you select?
Joe: Bachman nutzels. Delicious.
It's unclear why Joe referred to himself in the third person, or why he selected nutzels when they probably have Baked Lays in the cabinet.
Today, the [Joe's last name] family still wanders the planet, uncertain of the origin of the messages. Are they from an actual relative? Or could they be... voicemails from the beyond? Draw your own conclusions, and we'll see you here next week on Unsolved Answering Machine Mysteries. I've been your host, Red Redaliciousness.
[Cue creepy music, fog, a serious expression on my face, and then me walking into the woods and slowly disappearing. How do we do that? Can we get the guys who worked on Field of Dreams?]
He received this voicemail at home:
"Hi Joe, it's your pesky great-grandmother. I tried calling your mom to see how she made out with Ilana, but since I got you on the line, give us a call, we are on pins and needles. We want to know how the [his last name]s are doing."
And then this one:
"Hi Joe, it's me again. I couldn't wait for Louis to get home, so call me and let me know how Ilana is doing. Tell [his wife] to eat something, and you too. Bye."
These are the facts of the case:
-If Joe had a great-grandmother, she would be, in his own words, like 130.
-Joe's mom passed away many years ago.
-Joe did have a grandfather named Louis, but he passed away years ago.
-Joe has a cousin Ilana, but hasn't spoken to her in about two years.
-Joe's wife, FlyingJ, is about to have a baby, which probably explains why she's being encouraged to eat something.
-The number didn't show up on caller ID, so there's no way to return the call.
-Joe's dad has no idea what the hell any of this is about.
Possible suspects:
-Long Story Short, who, having heard the facts of the case, quickly changed the subject to Joe's soon-to-be-born baby's toys. What could she be hiding?
-Professor K, who seems sweet and innocent. What lurks behind his carefully orchestrated facade of normalcy?
-FlyingJ, who has been a stay-at-home mom for the past day and a half. Has the change of pace caused her to psychologically implode?
-Jack Bauer, whose show is on hiatus. Is he filling his time by making strange calls to fans?
-Joe himself, in a sort of last act Fight Club-esque development. Who IS Joe, really?
I've decided to do my part and get all Nancy Drew on this. Here's a clip from my in-depth interview with Joe himself, soon to air on 20/20.
Red: Tell me: When urged by the voice mail woman, did [your wife] eat something?
Joe: She did not, but Joe did.
Red: Interesting. What did you select?
Joe: Bachman nutzels. Delicious.
It's unclear why Joe referred to himself in the third person, or why he selected nutzels when they probably have Baked Lays in the cabinet.
Today, the [Joe's last name] family still wanders the planet, uncertain of the origin of the messages. Are they from an actual relative? Or could they be... voicemails from the beyond? Draw your own conclusions, and we'll see you here next week on Unsolved Answering Machine Mysteries. I've been your host, Red Redaliciousness.
[Cue creepy music, fog, a serious expression on my face, and then me walking into the woods and slowly disappearing. How do we do that? Can we get the guys who worked on Field of Dreams?]
Monday, July 17, 2006
an open letter to the night
Dear M. Night Shyamalan,
How are you? Life going okay? Good. Glad to hear it.
Listen, I'm happy for you that your career seems to be going well. I was one of those people who didn't know how The Sixth Sense was going to end until the big reveal. I feel like the way people reacted to that movie was kind of an indicator of their personality, don't you? Some people had to come out of it saying, "Oh, I knew all along," even though they didn't. I hate those people.
I did think that the alien that you showed us after two hours of Signs was pretty ridiculous. I think I compared it to a $15.99 Target Halloween costume. No offense, but what the hell were you thinking with that? You're obviously an intelligent guy, and why would you ever write a movie about aliens and then show one at the very end and have it live up to absolutely every stereotype we have of them from bad TV movies... big head, scaly skin, just that generic alien look. I know it's bad when it doesn't even scare ME. You should have had the aliens look human, because in the end, that's really how they'll get us.
Also, is the word Night really in your name, or did you just add it to be dark and mysterious? I feel like we should have dinner and discuss this. I have some more questions.
I saw that movie of yours with Samuel L. I didn't have much of an opinion of it. Something about breaking glass? I didn't see that other one about the woods and Joaquin Phoenix in a hood because it looked too scary. But I asked someone who had seen it to tell me the whole plot because it sounded like a neat concept, sort of like what I think Lost will turn out to be. That's what I do with scary movies, because I'm often interested in the storyline but I know that if I see one of them, it will ruin my life a little bit because I won't sleep for a month. Seriously, when I saw this other movie, The Movie That Will Not Be Named That Rhymes With The Swing, I was absolutely devastated. I've barely recovered. So I have to be careful. You understand. Or you don't, because apparently nothing scares you.
I'm just not that way at all. I have no stomach for scariness or violence in movies or on TV. If one of the good guys gets killed, I get upset. I saw the first few minutes of the most recent season of 24 last fall, and it upset me when they killed the former president. I can't deal with that stuff. I feel sad because they've been killed in this senseless way, and they have a family and friends that will miss them, and then I hate the fact that a TV show or movie that isn't even real has made me feel that way. So I don't watch anything that's violent. This always surprises people. I guess I come across as more pro-violence. Secretly, I miss that show Providence.
Anyway. What I really want to talk to you about is your latest movie, The Lady in the Water. I'm going to have to request that you downsize your marketing budget. I'm glad that your name is something of a brand now; good for you. How many writers can claim that? But I can't watch the previews for your movie anymore. I hate that the latest terrifying thing is a child singing a nursery rhyme slowly, with a few piano keys in the background. That shouldn't be creepy!
I was having this conversation with someone that I work with earlier this year... one day we heard a bunch of giggling kids somewhere down the hall, and I said to him, "Isn't it sad that laughing children now sound like the backdrop for a scary movie?" He understood, but he also paid money to see Saw II. Of course, I asked him to tell me the whole plot. I think it involved people getting their eyeballs cut out. Clearly, good times were had by all.
I heard that you intended Lady to be a bedtime story for your children. By chance, do you hate your children? Because if I were one of them, I wouldn't want that kind of bedtime story. I mean, phantom wolves and creepy albino mermaids? Haven't you ever heard of Goodnight Moon?
Maybe next time, you could come out with something a little more character driven and less "run from the crazy otherworld dog!" because honestly, you're scaring me with these commercials. Poor Paul Giamatti; how's he supposed to know what's in the pool? If I were him I'd go tend to some other body of water that doesn't have creatures emerging from it.
Anyway, think about it.
Sincerely,
Red
How are you? Life going okay? Good. Glad to hear it.
Listen, I'm happy for you that your career seems to be going well. I was one of those people who didn't know how The Sixth Sense was going to end until the big reveal. I feel like the way people reacted to that movie was kind of an indicator of their personality, don't you? Some people had to come out of it saying, "Oh, I knew all along," even though they didn't. I hate those people.
I did think that the alien that you showed us after two hours of Signs was pretty ridiculous. I think I compared it to a $15.99 Target Halloween costume. No offense, but what the hell were you thinking with that? You're obviously an intelligent guy, and why would you ever write a movie about aliens and then show one at the very end and have it live up to absolutely every stereotype we have of them from bad TV movies... big head, scaly skin, just that generic alien look. I know it's bad when it doesn't even scare ME. You should have had the aliens look human, because in the end, that's really how they'll get us.
Also, is the word Night really in your name, or did you just add it to be dark and mysterious? I feel like we should have dinner and discuss this. I have some more questions.
I saw that movie of yours with Samuel L. I didn't have much of an opinion of it. Something about breaking glass? I didn't see that other one about the woods and Joaquin Phoenix in a hood because it looked too scary. But I asked someone who had seen it to tell me the whole plot because it sounded like a neat concept, sort of like what I think Lost will turn out to be. That's what I do with scary movies, because I'm often interested in the storyline but I know that if I see one of them, it will ruin my life a little bit because I won't sleep for a month. Seriously, when I saw this other movie, The Movie That Will Not Be Named That Rhymes With The Swing, I was absolutely devastated. I've barely recovered. So I have to be careful. You understand. Or you don't, because apparently nothing scares you.
I'm just not that way at all. I have no stomach for scariness or violence in movies or on TV. If one of the good guys gets killed, I get upset. I saw the first few minutes of the most recent season of 24 last fall, and it upset me when they killed the former president. I can't deal with that stuff. I feel sad because they've been killed in this senseless way, and they have a family and friends that will miss them, and then I hate the fact that a TV show or movie that isn't even real has made me feel that way. So I don't watch anything that's violent. This always surprises people. I guess I come across as more pro-violence. Secretly, I miss that show Providence.
Anyway. What I really want to talk to you about is your latest movie, The Lady in the Water. I'm going to have to request that you downsize your marketing budget. I'm glad that your name is something of a brand now; good for you. How many writers can claim that? But I can't watch the previews for your movie anymore. I hate that the latest terrifying thing is a child singing a nursery rhyme slowly, with a few piano keys in the background. That shouldn't be creepy!
I was having this conversation with someone that I work with earlier this year... one day we heard a bunch of giggling kids somewhere down the hall, and I said to him, "Isn't it sad that laughing children now sound like the backdrop for a scary movie?" He understood, but he also paid money to see Saw II. Of course, I asked him to tell me the whole plot. I think it involved people getting their eyeballs cut out. Clearly, good times were had by all.
I heard that you intended Lady to be a bedtime story for your children. By chance, do you hate your children? Because if I were one of them, I wouldn't want that kind of bedtime story. I mean, phantom wolves and creepy albino mermaids? Haven't you ever heard of Goodnight Moon?
Maybe next time, you could come out with something a little more character driven and less "run from the crazy otherworld dog!" because honestly, you're scaring me with these commercials. Poor Paul Giamatti; how's he supposed to know what's in the pool? If I were him I'd go tend to some other body of water that doesn't have creatures emerging from it.
Anyway, think about it.
Sincerely,
Red
Sunday, July 16, 2006
summer breeze, makes me feel fine
I wrote this entry on Sunday, on my way home from Dirty Dancing. Holy crap, what did we do before computers? I filled up like twenty pages of hotel stationery and my hand was killing me. But it passed the time during a five hour drive and gave me a chance to finally write something of length about a place that's been important to me for a long time.
My parents and I first went to Dirty Dancing, a resort in the White Mountains of New Hampshire that rhymes with Palsams and starts with a B, when I was seven. It ended up being one of those vacations that suited all of us... my dad played golf all day, my mom flitted around making friends, and I became a permanent fixture in the kids' program. Normally my parents wouldn't have been the kind to tell me to run along and play so that they could enjoy their vacation in peace, but one day I went to check out the options for those three feet tall and under. I made a bunch of little friends and swam and played kickball and enjoyed it all so much that I hardly resurfaced for the rest of the week. I didn't even eat meals with my parents; I did everything with the kids' program. Rumor has it that I was so sad to leave that I cried in the car on the way home.
Talking about it now, I'm a little concerned that this ominous-sounding "program" may have been some kind of mid-80s kiddie mind control experiment. But who cares, they had ice cream and pool toys!
Anyway, Dirty Dancing turned out to be a lovely place with built-in babysitting that you couldn't pry me away from, which made it a very appealing vacation for my parents, as it would for any young parents, I would imagine. And then it turned into the sort of thing where the same families came back the same week every year, and everyone became friends. My dad would end up golfing with another family's dad, my mom would hit it off with some other mom, and I'd run around wreaking havoc with whomever was close to me in age, and then we'd write letters back and forth during the rest of the year, wishing that we could drink virgin strawberry daiquiris in a pool in our regular lives.
When I got a little older, DD was less about tackle freeze tag and paddleboat races and more about tennis lessons (of course, I never picked up a racket at home) and trying not to break any bones while maneuvering mountain bikes through the cross country ski trails in the woods. When I finished high school I assumed that there would come a time that I wouldn't be able to continue going, for one reason or another, but none of my summer job bosses minded losing me for a week, so I continued going with my family every July throughout college. Same with after college; I always had the vacation time. The only year that I couldn't go was one summer when I was in grad school. This summer when I checked in at the front desk, they gave me a framed picture of the place inscribed with a thank you for my twenty years of regard for the hotel. I can only assume that in that context, "regard" is synonymous with "spending a crapload of your dad's money for the past two decades."
It's hard to describe DD. The whole place is basically a throwback to the 30s or 40s. Big, old, beautiful hotel that's impeccably maintained but still retains much of its architecture and design from, well, the days of yore, so God only knows exactly when. At the risk of sounding completely corny, you really do walk in and feel like you've gone back in time. There are no TVs in the guest rooms and it's so far north and removed from civilization that hardly any radio stations come in. There's no air conditioning, so it's all open windows and soft breezes and blowing curtains. It all just adds to the experience... it would cheapen it, somehow, if I could put on VH1 before I went to bed or listen to crappy dance mixes on Hot 105.2 or if the AC was cranked and everyone's windows were closed. It creates an ambiance that's hard to put into words but is quite palpable. It's like you're completely cut off from the real world, aside from the newspapers in the lobby. The only music that I listen to, besides what's on my iPod, is the sound of the five-piece band practicing, because my room is right above the ballroom.
During the day, it's a cheery, sparkling place filled with swimming, golfing, hiking, or QT with a book and an adirondack chair. Around six everyone retreats to their rooms to shower and dress for dinner, and that's what I think really sets DD apart from any other place I've been. It's sort of the perfect day, in a sense... running around doing whatever you do during the day, and then a shift to a dreamy, opulent summer evening, where even the little boys are in suits. There are pianists, the sun setting over the mountains and then stars on top of stars, five course dinner, dancing, conversation, connections. Honestly, I can't explain it, because if I'd never been and it was described to me, I'd probably automatically think, "Eh, not my scene; dressing up EVERY NIGHT?" But I absolutely love it, I think because it's such a departure from reality for me. Even when I was a kid, I could feel and appreciate the way a night there had a way of heightening your senses and making everything a little bit exciting and romantic. And it's not pretentious, in case it was sounding that way; obviously I wouldn't gravitate toward it at all if it had a snooty vibe. They have a pretty high service standard so it seems very formal, but once you crack the surface, you've never met such warm, kind, funny, and interesting people in one place, whether they're staff or guests.
Incidentally, back in the day Stephen King was a waiter at DD, and rumor has it that it inspired him to eventually write The Shining. My Google search results tell a different story, but who knows? They originally wanted to shoot the movie at the hotel, but were turned down because it would have required closing down for awhile and management didn't want to do that. And can I just say, thank GOD. I never could have gone back for as many years as I have if the freakin' movie had been shot there. It's bad enough that every time I go back to my room at night, I'm convinced that I'm going to round the corner and see two little girls asking me to come play with them forever and ever and ever.
Anyway, it was during my college summers that I started to be friends with some of the waiters (never crossed paths with Stephen King, though, sorry to disappoint). Moreso the waiters than the waitresses, because for whatever reason the dining room staff has always seemed to be about 85% male. Many of them are college students from all over the world who come to work for the summer and live in the dorms next to the hotel. Some of them grew up and still live in the next town over, so they work there all year long, surrounded by their siblings, cousins, parents, aunts, uncles, and former high school classmates. It's pretty much the only place to work for miles that isn't a rundown gas station or pizza place, so I can understand the preference for employment at DD by comparison.
But it's still a bit of a trap, the perfect example of "nice place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there." There's total desolation in the winter, a two-hour drive to something as culturally edifying as Wal-Mart, and a sort of entrapment in the social hierarchy leftover from high school. Off the top of my head I can think of five or six guys that I've known for years that I'd let stay in my guest room at home indefinitely if it meant they'd get out of there and do something else and meet new people. Not that I'd ever bring it up, because it's their life and who am I? But if they ever mentioned something to me about leaving, I'd make the offer right away.
Since the hotel was acquired by a managing company, there have been a lot of changes and "restructuring," if you want to get politically correct about it, and as a result some of the longtime employees have been driven out, and others compelled to leave out of loyalty to those that have been screwed over. When I was there this year, the housecount was low, something like 150, when July and August are supposed to be their busiest months. So obviously it could (gulp) eventually result in the place closing altogether. The concept of an over-the-top resort supporting the residents of a small town that marinates in poverty is sickening on many levels (said the girl who has done nothing but perpetuate that off-balance relationship over the years). It's not like they all work at the Four Seasons and can just walk down the block and get a new job at the Westin. The impact on that community of DD closing could be devastating or liberating or a bittersweet combination of both. In short, it's a Vanity Fair article waiting to happen.
Okay, I have to stop myself before I start working in something about the socioeconomic ramifications of the blah mcblahness. I certainly didn't mean to skip over the waiters so quickly.
Before I was friends with any of them, I was younger and had crushes on them. The college boys seemed so indescribably sophisticated, with their eccentric and endlessly fascinating proclivities. When I was in college, I realized they were frat boys who knew how to groom themselves well for work. Once that image was shattered, I naturally gravitated toward the homegrown waiters, the local kids.
You know how you have some friends that, when you hear they're dating someone or that they want to introduce you to their other friend, you just know you'll like them? It's always like that with all of those guys. Maybe it's the mountain air or something, but the majority of them are such decent, nice, goodhearted people, and loads of fun besides that.
And every so often, being away from home is an opportune time for a fling of sorts. I mean, I just described this place, right? Basically, a girl doesn't stand a chance in a setting like that. In real life, it's the guy that you're attracted to. At DD, the place itself is its own damn aphrodisiac, and it can be way too easy to let things happen that might not happen in your regular life.
Part of it is just the fact that it's not allowed. I'm technically not supposed to be hanging out with any of the people who work there. When I was 17 I went for a bike ride with a guy who ran the old-fashioned elevator they used to have. He was also 17, and he almost got fired for it. Since then it's been an exercise in discretion. The rules say something to the effect of, "Members of the staff are strictly forbidden from interacting with guests except during approved hotel-run activities." Dear God, what are they trying to do to me? Didn't they read Romeo and Juliet? See Titanic? Thornbirds? Any woman will tell you that in that context, the words "strictly forbidden" loosely translate to "my sole purpose."
They've become a little more lenient over the years and understanding of the fact that many times staff and guests form entirely platonic friendships, and "strictly forbidding" this only makes it into a big deal that it doesn't usually need to be. So the management will allow a waiter, or another staff member, to go with you to the ballroom for that night's show if your family invites them. And they need to change into a suit (that isn't their waiter uniform) and carry a note with them that they had their boss write out that basically says, "Dave has my permission to join the Red family tonight in the ballroom," and then their manager needs to sign it. It's pretty horrific to me and I hate that they have to carry around this note like they're in kindergarten and they need a permission slip to go to the zoo, but it doesn't seem to bother the people who work there.
After the show at the ballroom, everyone goes to the tavern (the youngish people, anyway), which is basically the bar that I wish I could find in Boston. It's beautiful, all buttery leather and gleaming wood and candlelight. It's one of the few bars that I feel like I could stop into even if I was by myself because I've known the bartender for a million years and she used to work for the kids' program, or I could look around and know most of the guests occupying any of the tables because they're people that I've known for most of my life. The tavern is supposed to be a place for guests, but I sort of get around that by bringing one of my waiter friends with me as my guest, and then the rest of them show up and by then the people who run the hotel have gone home, so it kind of works out.
The tavern! You can imagine how nights there can end up going, depending on the crowd gathered. I've always been really careful not to become a hotel ho in any way, shape or form. I've just seen way too many people let it happen, even married people, and it's such a shame, because the person just embarrasses themselves and becomes a joke. On any given night, you can look around and the air is thick with either good fun or impending bad decisions. This time around I tried to casually deter an acquaintance of mine, a guest who is, shall we say, more than a stone's throw from the age of consent, from getting into it with a guy who is old enough that he should've known better, and she immediately told me that she could handle herself, and suddenly I felt like the shrill sister in the actual Dirty Dancing movie: "He's not any good for you, Baby!" I watched her leave and was mentally wringing my hands, and one of my friends said to me, "You can't derail that kind of train." Point taken, but it's such a bummer to observe. Misguided girls seem to get such a heartbreakingly early start.
If they're never planning to come back, I suppose it doesn't matter much what they do up there, but that's never been the case with me. DD is a place that I've been going to every summer for three-quarters of my life. It's a place where almost every employee knows me, knows my family, knows what rug I threw up on when I was nine. And in a place like that, flings can be good, but only when flung properly. (And when you're old enough, for the love of God! Otherwise I WILL do my best to try to knock your train off its track.)
Usually such things can be rationalized, to some extent: You're only young once! You have to suck the marrow out of life! You can sleep when you're dead! And then, when you're done silencing your inner nun with fortune cookie-worthy metaphors, come the more specific excuses: Someday you'll be spending all your vacations tethered to screaming kids who refuse to eat anything but chicken nuggets, and then they'll be sullen teenagers who think that everything you do or say is lame and wrong, so you must, you MUST have your fun now.
What is it about vacation? When a friend of mine (who will, ahem, remain nameless) and I went away together a couple years ago and she hooked up with the water sports guy (I've already made all the tactless jokes) IN the water sports hut, I was endlessly amused for many reasons, one of which was the fact that it was the equivalent of her meeting some random guy just in town for a few days and then bringing him to her office late at night. Only when you work at a resort are you able to reap the benefits of guests who check their inhibitions along with their luggage, and you can do so in the very same place that you collect a paycheck. If the CEO of your company ever caught you and a brand new friend in your cubicle, there'd be hell to pay and a 401k to think of. But if you live on an island and work at a resort and your water sports boss catches you with a cocktailed vacationer, what does he do, demote you to calypso band duty for a few days? And more importantly, if everyone had the opportunity for no strings attached sex at work, would anyone ever call in sick?
Let me go on record with this now because if there ever comes a time in the distant future that I have a son, I'll deny ever having said it: Young men of the world, forget backpacking across Europe or moving right to Manhattan after graduation to embark on a respectable career. Go work at a resort, any damn resort, for a few months, because people who vacation there are in a state of mind that usually takes two and a half drinks and a Swedish massage to get to. After your tenure you will have had enough crazy experiences to write a book that I'd be interested in reading, or at least buying a ticket to when the movie comes out starring Colin Farrell as you, and then you can go about the rest of your life and settle down with a nice girl, secure in the knowledge that you didn't deprive yourself of anything during your days of being single. Well, now I have part of a commencement address prepared, should I ever need it.
Ahh, I'm mostly kidding. The thing that cracks me up is the stories about guests trying to seduce employees like they learned pick-up strategies from Danielle Steel novels. I'm talking moves like pushing the room key across the table in the dining room and saying something like, "You know, my wife is at the spa all day." It's just so ridiculous and insulting that a guest thinks this is going to be such an opportunity for an employee. Would they ever walk up to a stranger and think they could get away with saying something like that? A friend of mine brought a bottle of champagne to a woman's room after she ordered it and requested that he deliver it. He obliged even though he doesn't do room service. He was cracking me up describing it: "...so then I opened the bottle and it makes that really satisfying pop, you know?" She basically took off her clothes and asked him to stay, or, no wait, "she kept taking stuff off." He didn't stay. Or at least he told me that he left. I seriously hope I didn't get an edited version of that story, because I require all dirty details. So I guess another point to make about vacation flings is that they must be flung in a way that doesn't make someone feel like they're an inadvertent star in a highbrow porn.
Before this year, I'd, well, flung with two guys at DD, in all my time there. In case that sounds like something worth noting, it's not. There are other guests who have flung with two guys per night every time they're there. As you might imagine, it's the sort of place where everyone knows everything about everyone else, and anything that happened the night before is common knowledge by breakfast the next morning. The concierge, who is actually my mom's age, actually said to me this year, out of nowhere, that she was surprised I hadn't "dated" more during my time there. "You know so many of the waiters, and they're all so cute," she said. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her violently, and yell, "YOU THINK?"
But it's worth it, obviously. I enjoy my time with my friends up there so much and I wouldn't want anything to negatively impact it. I'm typically pretty discriminating in my real life and see no reason not to be when I'm there.
I love Dirty Dancing, and it's always hard to leave but also good to be home. I'm a simple girl who easily misses her friends and her bed, you know? I wasn't too far away, but with how removed I felt from the civilization that I'm used to, it may as well have been a million miles. Also, I love going away to visit a place and people that I love, only to return to the place and people that I love for the rest of the year. So I came home on Saturday, threw my suitcases in my front hall, hit up the Cherry Tree with Jen, blissfully caught up on the Sox, and drank Wachusett blueberry, brewed locally and at its best in and around Boston, kinda like me.
My parents and I first went to Dirty Dancing, a resort in the White Mountains of New Hampshire that rhymes with Palsams and starts with a B, when I was seven. It ended up being one of those vacations that suited all of us... my dad played golf all day, my mom flitted around making friends, and I became a permanent fixture in the kids' program. Normally my parents wouldn't have been the kind to tell me to run along and play so that they could enjoy their vacation in peace, but one day I went to check out the options for those three feet tall and under. I made a bunch of little friends and swam and played kickball and enjoyed it all so much that I hardly resurfaced for the rest of the week. I didn't even eat meals with my parents; I did everything with the kids' program. Rumor has it that I was so sad to leave that I cried in the car on the way home.
Talking about it now, I'm a little concerned that this ominous-sounding "program" may have been some kind of mid-80s kiddie mind control experiment. But who cares, they had ice cream and pool toys!
Anyway, Dirty Dancing turned out to be a lovely place with built-in babysitting that you couldn't pry me away from, which made it a very appealing vacation for my parents, as it would for any young parents, I would imagine. And then it turned into the sort of thing where the same families came back the same week every year, and everyone became friends. My dad would end up golfing with another family's dad, my mom would hit it off with some other mom, and I'd run around wreaking havoc with whomever was close to me in age, and then we'd write letters back and forth during the rest of the year, wishing that we could drink virgin strawberry daiquiris in a pool in our regular lives.
When I got a little older, DD was less about tackle freeze tag and paddleboat races and more about tennis lessons (of course, I never picked up a racket at home) and trying not to break any bones while maneuvering mountain bikes through the cross country ski trails in the woods. When I finished high school I assumed that there would come a time that I wouldn't be able to continue going, for one reason or another, but none of my summer job bosses minded losing me for a week, so I continued going with my family every July throughout college. Same with after college; I always had the vacation time. The only year that I couldn't go was one summer when I was in grad school. This summer when I checked in at the front desk, they gave me a framed picture of the place inscribed with a thank you for my twenty years of regard for the hotel. I can only assume that in that context, "regard" is synonymous with "spending a crapload of your dad's money for the past two decades."
It's hard to describe DD. The whole place is basically a throwback to the 30s or 40s. Big, old, beautiful hotel that's impeccably maintained but still retains much of its architecture and design from, well, the days of yore, so God only knows exactly when. At the risk of sounding completely corny, you really do walk in and feel like you've gone back in time. There are no TVs in the guest rooms and it's so far north and removed from civilization that hardly any radio stations come in. There's no air conditioning, so it's all open windows and soft breezes and blowing curtains. It all just adds to the experience... it would cheapen it, somehow, if I could put on VH1 before I went to bed or listen to crappy dance mixes on Hot 105.2 or if the AC was cranked and everyone's windows were closed. It creates an ambiance that's hard to put into words but is quite palpable. It's like you're completely cut off from the real world, aside from the newspapers in the lobby. The only music that I listen to, besides what's on my iPod, is the sound of the five-piece band practicing, because my room is right above the ballroom.
During the day, it's a cheery, sparkling place filled with swimming, golfing, hiking, or QT with a book and an adirondack chair. Around six everyone retreats to their rooms to shower and dress for dinner, and that's what I think really sets DD apart from any other place I've been. It's sort of the perfect day, in a sense... running around doing whatever you do during the day, and then a shift to a dreamy, opulent summer evening, where even the little boys are in suits. There are pianists, the sun setting over the mountains and then stars on top of stars, five course dinner, dancing, conversation, connections. Honestly, I can't explain it, because if I'd never been and it was described to me, I'd probably automatically think, "Eh, not my scene; dressing up EVERY NIGHT?" But I absolutely love it, I think because it's such a departure from reality for me. Even when I was a kid, I could feel and appreciate the way a night there had a way of heightening your senses and making everything a little bit exciting and romantic. And it's not pretentious, in case it was sounding that way; obviously I wouldn't gravitate toward it at all if it had a snooty vibe. They have a pretty high service standard so it seems very formal, but once you crack the surface, you've never met such warm, kind, funny, and interesting people in one place, whether they're staff or guests.
Incidentally, back in the day Stephen King was a waiter at DD, and rumor has it that it inspired him to eventually write The Shining. My Google search results tell a different story, but who knows? They originally wanted to shoot the movie at the hotel, but were turned down because it would have required closing down for awhile and management didn't want to do that. And can I just say, thank GOD. I never could have gone back for as many years as I have if the freakin' movie had been shot there. It's bad enough that every time I go back to my room at night, I'm convinced that I'm going to round the corner and see two little girls asking me to come play with them forever and ever and ever.
Anyway, it was during my college summers that I started to be friends with some of the waiters (never crossed paths with Stephen King, though, sorry to disappoint). Moreso the waiters than the waitresses, because for whatever reason the dining room staff has always seemed to be about 85% male. Many of them are college students from all over the world who come to work for the summer and live in the dorms next to the hotel. Some of them grew up and still live in the next town over, so they work there all year long, surrounded by their siblings, cousins, parents, aunts, uncles, and former high school classmates. It's pretty much the only place to work for miles that isn't a rundown gas station or pizza place, so I can understand the preference for employment at DD by comparison.
But it's still a bit of a trap, the perfect example of "nice place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there." There's total desolation in the winter, a two-hour drive to something as culturally edifying as Wal-Mart, and a sort of entrapment in the social hierarchy leftover from high school. Off the top of my head I can think of five or six guys that I've known for years that I'd let stay in my guest room at home indefinitely if it meant they'd get out of there and do something else and meet new people. Not that I'd ever bring it up, because it's their life and who am I? But if they ever mentioned something to me about leaving, I'd make the offer right away.
Since the hotel was acquired by a managing company, there have been a lot of changes and "restructuring," if you want to get politically correct about it, and as a result some of the longtime employees have been driven out, and others compelled to leave out of loyalty to those that have been screwed over. When I was there this year, the housecount was low, something like 150, when July and August are supposed to be their busiest months. So obviously it could (gulp) eventually result in the place closing altogether. The concept of an over-the-top resort supporting the residents of a small town that marinates in poverty is sickening on many levels (said the girl who has done nothing but perpetuate that off-balance relationship over the years). It's not like they all work at the Four Seasons and can just walk down the block and get a new job at the Westin. The impact on that community of DD closing could be devastating or liberating or a bittersweet combination of both. In short, it's a Vanity Fair article waiting to happen.
Okay, I have to stop myself before I start working in something about the socioeconomic ramifications of the blah mcblahness. I certainly didn't mean to skip over the waiters so quickly.
Before I was friends with any of them, I was younger and had crushes on them. The college boys seemed so indescribably sophisticated, with their eccentric and endlessly fascinating proclivities. When I was in college, I realized they were frat boys who knew how to groom themselves well for work. Once that image was shattered, I naturally gravitated toward the homegrown waiters, the local kids.
You know how you have some friends that, when you hear they're dating someone or that they want to introduce you to their other friend, you just know you'll like them? It's always like that with all of those guys. Maybe it's the mountain air or something, but the majority of them are such decent, nice, goodhearted people, and loads of fun besides that.
And every so often, being away from home is an opportune time for a fling of sorts. I mean, I just described this place, right? Basically, a girl doesn't stand a chance in a setting like that. In real life, it's the guy that you're attracted to. At DD, the place itself is its own damn aphrodisiac, and it can be way too easy to let things happen that might not happen in your regular life.
Part of it is just the fact that it's not allowed. I'm technically not supposed to be hanging out with any of the people who work there. When I was 17 I went for a bike ride with a guy who ran the old-fashioned elevator they used to have. He was also 17, and he almost got fired for it. Since then it's been an exercise in discretion. The rules say something to the effect of, "Members of the staff are strictly forbidden from interacting with guests except during approved hotel-run activities." Dear God, what are they trying to do to me? Didn't they read Romeo and Juliet? See Titanic? Thornbirds? Any woman will tell you that in that context, the words "strictly forbidden" loosely translate to "my sole purpose."
They've become a little more lenient over the years and understanding of the fact that many times staff and guests form entirely platonic friendships, and "strictly forbidding" this only makes it into a big deal that it doesn't usually need to be. So the management will allow a waiter, or another staff member, to go with you to the ballroom for that night's show if your family invites them. And they need to change into a suit (that isn't their waiter uniform) and carry a note with them that they had their boss write out that basically says, "Dave has my permission to join the Red family tonight in the ballroom," and then their manager needs to sign it. It's pretty horrific to me and I hate that they have to carry around this note like they're in kindergarten and they need a permission slip to go to the zoo, but it doesn't seem to bother the people who work there.
After the show at the ballroom, everyone goes to the tavern (the youngish people, anyway), which is basically the bar that I wish I could find in Boston. It's beautiful, all buttery leather and gleaming wood and candlelight. It's one of the few bars that I feel like I could stop into even if I was by myself because I've known the bartender for a million years and she used to work for the kids' program, or I could look around and know most of the guests occupying any of the tables because they're people that I've known for most of my life. The tavern is supposed to be a place for guests, but I sort of get around that by bringing one of my waiter friends with me as my guest, and then the rest of them show up and by then the people who run the hotel have gone home, so it kind of works out.
The tavern! You can imagine how nights there can end up going, depending on the crowd gathered. I've always been really careful not to become a hotel ho in any way, shape or form. I've just seen way too many people let it happen, even married people, and it's such a shame, because the person just embarrasses themselves and becomes a joke. On any given night, you can look around and the air is thick with either good fun or impending bad decisions. This time around I tried to casually deter an acquaintance of mine, a guest who is, shall we say, more than a stone's throw from the age of consent, from getting into it with a guy who is old enough that he should've known better, and she immediately told me that she could handle herself, and suddenly I felt like the shrill sister in the actual Dirty Dancing movie: "He's not any good for you, Baby!" I watched her leave and was mentally wringing my hands, and one of my friends said to me, "You can't derail that kind of train." Point taken, but it's such a bummer to observe. Misguided girls seem to get such a heartbreakingly early start.
If they're never planning to come back, I suppose it doesn't matter much what they do up there, but that's never been the case with me. DD is a place that I've been going to every summer for three-quarters of my life. It's a place where almost every employee knows me, knows my family, knows what rug I threw up on when I was nine. And in a place like that, flings can be good, but only when flung properly. (And when you're old enough, for the love of God! Otherwise I WILL do my best to try to knock your train off its track.)
Usually such things can be rationalized, to some extent: You're only young once! You have to suck the marrow out of life! You can sleep when you're dead! And then, when you're done silencing your inner nun with fortune cookie-worthy metaphors, come the more specific excuses: Someday you'll be spending all your vacations tethered to screaming kids who refuse to eat anything but chicken nuggets, and then they'll be sullen teenagers who think that everything you do or say is lame and wrong, so you must, you MUST have your fun now.
What is it about vacation? When a friend of mine (who will, ahem, remain nameless) and I went away together a couple years ago and she hooked up with the water sports guy (I've already made all the tactless jokes) IN the water sports hut, I was endlessly amused for many reasons, one of which was the fact that it was the equivalent of her meeting some random guy just in town for a few days and then bringing him to her office late at night. Only when you work at a resort are you able to reap the benefits of guests who check their inhibitions along with their luggage, and you can do so in the very same place that you collect a paycheck. If the CEO of your company ever caught you and a brand new friend in your cubicle, there'd be hell to pay and a 401k to think of. But if you live on an island and work at a resort and your water sports boss catches you with a cocktailed vacationer, what does he do, demote you to calypso band duty for a few days? And more importantly, if everyone had the opportunity for no strings attached sex at work, would anyone ever call in sick?
Let me go on record with this now because if there ever comes a time in the distant future that I have a son, I'll deny ever having said it: Young men of the world, forget backpacking across Europe or moving right to Manhattan after graduation to embark on a respectable career. Go work at a resort, any damn resort, for a few months, because people who vacation there are in a state of mind that usually takes two and a half drinks and a Swedish massage to get to. After your tenure you will have had enough crazy experiences to write a book that I'd be interested in reading, or at least buying a ticket to when the movie comes out starring Colin Farrell as you, and then you can go about the rest of your life and settle down with a nice girl, secure in the knowledge that you didn't deprive yourself of anything during your days of being single. Well, now I have part of a commencement address prepared, should I ever need it.
Ahh, I'm mostly kidding. The thing that cracks me up is the stories about guests trying to seduce employees like they learned pick-up strategies from Danielle Steel novels. I'm talking moves like pushing the room key across the table in the dining room and saying something like, "You know, my wife is at the spa all day." It's just so ridiculous and insulting that a guest thinks this is going to be such an opportunity for an employee. Would they ever walk up to a stranger and think they could get away with saying something like that? A friend of mine brought a bottle of champagne to a woman's room after she ordered it and requested that he deliver it. He obliged even though he doesn't do room service. He was cracking me up describing it: "...so then I opened the bottle and it makes that really satisfying pop, you know?" She basically took off her clothes and asked him to stay, or, no wait, "she kept taking stuff off." He didn't stay. Or at least he told me that he left. I seriously hope I didn't get an edited version of that story, because I require all dirty details. So I guess another point to make about vacation flings is that they must be flung in a way that doesn't make someone feel like they're an inadvertent star in a highbrow porn.
Before this year, I'd, well, flung with two guys at DD, in all my time there. In case that sounds like something worth noting, it's not. There are other guests who have flung with two guys per night every time they're there. As you might imagine, it's the sort of place where everyone knows everything about everyone else, and anything that happened the night before is common knowledge by breakfast the next morning. The concierge, who is actually my mom's age, actually said to me this year, out of nowhere, that she was surprised I hadn't "dated" more during my time there. "You know so many of the waiters, and they're all so cute," she said. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her violently, and yell, "YOU THINK?"
But it's worth it, obviously. I enjoy my time with my friends up there so much and I wouldn't want anything to negatively impact it. I'm typically pretty discriminating in my real life and see no reason not to be when I'm there.
I love Dirty Dancing, and it's always hard to leave but also good to be home. I'm a simple girl who easily misses her friends and her bed, you know? I wasn't too far away, but with how removed I felt from the civilization that I'm used to, it may as well have been a million miles. Also, I love going away to visit a place and people that I love, only to return to the place and people that I love for the rest of the year. So I came home on Saturday, threw my suitcases in my front hall, hit up the Cherry Tree with Jen, blissfully caught up on the Sox, and drank Wachusett blueberry, brewed locally and at its best in and around Boston, kinda like me.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
where the hell was I?
Twenty years ago: I was spending all my time with my friends Katie and Katie and the rest of the neighborhood crew... riding bikes, lemonade stands, a thousand modified versions of capture the flag, reading the Ramona books, cutthroat sticker trading and negotiation of scratch and sniff vs. glittery, collecting Garbage Pail Kids and charm necklaces. My friend Jeff unceremoniously kicked out my front tooth when we were rolling down the hill in my backyard; luckily it was a baby tooth. He's told me that I can kick out one of his so we're even; I may take him up on this offer right before his wedding in August.
Ten years ago: It was the summer between my freshman and sophomore year of college, and I spent those few months working as a receptionist at the company that my dad worked for at the time. I basically spent the day poking around online (the internet was still a bit of a novelty) in air-conditioning, which are the only ingredients necessary for a sweet college gig. We had a company-wide instant messenger type thing, and I used to send my dad messages asking him to bring me a Diet Coke from the soda machine in the hall, because my boss wanted me to stay at my desk all day. She couldn't figure out why that middle-aged guy from engineering was always coming by to talk to me, and she'd glare at him until she found out that he was my dad. It was fun to let her figure that out on her own. What else? I was dating Justin, as I always did when I was home on break. Ahh, functional relationships. (Is it awful of me to point out that my spell check wanted to change his name to Justine? See my "young love" entry from March of this year if you don't know that whole story.)
Five years ago: That was my summer of debauchery. I was living in my beloved apartment in Watertown. It started with the fact that my company was having periodic layoffs and I was the latest one taken down. I came home in a daze and pushed the button on the answering machine to listen to messages, but then called a friend to tell her my news before the messages had finished playing. We began plotting a big night out to celebrate my unemployment; then my roommate came home and got in on the plans, too. Then I made everyone stop talking because I could still hear the messages playing in the background; one of them was from Steve, whom I'd just met the previous weekend, asking if I wanted to hang out sometime. At the end of the message, my roommate said, "That guy is awesome!" which may have been the only thing that she and I ever agreed on. He couldn't have come into my life at a more random or perfect time. I had no job, it was the beginning of the summer, and the next few months progressed as you might expect. I returned to the working world, and Earth, in September.
One year ago: Lots of Cape, a little bit of Mexico, post-Mexico parasite, that eHarmony wedding, a bunch of other weddings, Sox games and late nights... that summer was a little debaucherous, too, now that I think about it.
Six months ago: Damn, I don't know. Merry Christmas.
Yesterday: Got to Dorie's at the crack of dawn for a last minute babysittage for her two kids. We spent hours playing kickball, monkey in the middle, and soccer, or more accurately, "There's no way you're playing soccer without your shoes on; if you get hurt, what's your mom going to say when she hears that I let you play barefoot?" I stayed until her husband got home from court (lawyer, not defendant). I love her husband and want to meet someone like him, only my age. She encourages me to just take him, but that's a little bit too Lifetime movie for me. My name may rhyme with homewrecka but I ain't one. Hmm, I think I just came up with the title of my autobiography.
Today: Well, I'm off work and between vacations and I'm really just doing laundry and packing, so my big excitement of today was that I went to the dentist. I love going to the dentist! Suburban parents like to finish their basements and then finish their kids, so my childhood was all about getting my braces tightened and bubble gum-flavored fluoride treatments and trying to sleep while wearing a retainer. Now my visits are drama-free and I love having my teeth cleaned; even when they're mining for plaque and using their evil whirring toothbrush and spit suckage machine, you know your mouth is going to be happy afterwards. I'd never had a cavity before, but I had a little one this time, damn my near-perfect record. I go to the same dentist that I went to when I was a kid and she always praises me for brushing well, like I'm still six. I secretly love my semiannual congratulations from her. My hygenist was sharing all the details of her life with me and said "my fiancee" about 400 times. At one point she said, "I don't know why I'm telling you all this!" which is the same thing that my pedicurist said to me the other day. I don't know why they do either, but random people are always telling me their life stories.
Tomorrow: More laundry, packing, iPod updating, and peach binging because I have four in my fridge that will go bad if I don't eat them before I leave on Sunday.
Ten years ago: It was the summer between my freshman and sophomore year of college, and I spent those few months working as a receptionist at the company that my dad worked for at the time. I basically spent the day poking around online (the internet was still a bit of a novelty) in air-conditioning, which are the only ingredients necessary for a sweet college gig. We had a company-wide instant messenger type thing, and I used to send my dad messages asking him to bring me a Diet Coke from the soda machine in the hall, because my boss wanted me to stay at my desk all day. She couldn't figure out why that middle-aged guy from engineering was always coming by to talk to me, and she'd glare at him until she found out that he was my dad. It was fun to let her figure that out on her own. What else? I was dating Justin, as I always did when I was home on break. Ahh, functional relationships. (Is it awful of me to point out that my spell check wanted to change his name to Justine? See my "young love" entry from March of this year if you don't know that whole story.)
Five years ago: That was my summer of debauchery. I was living in my beloved apartment in Watertown. It started with the fact that my company was having periodic layoffs and I was the latest one taken down. I came home in a daze and pushed the button on the answering machine to listen to messages, but then called a friend to tell her my news before the messages had finished playing. We began plotting a big night out to celebrate my unemployment; then my roommate came home and got in on the plans, too. Then I made everyone stop talking because I could still hear the messages playing in the background; one of them was from Steve, whom I'd just met the previous weekend, asking if I wanted to hang out sometime. At the end of the message, my roommate said, "That guy is awesome!" which may have been the only thing that she and I ever agreed on. He couldn't have come into my life at a more random or perfect time. I had no job, it was the beginning of the summer, and the next few months progressed as you might expect. I returned to the working world, and Earth, in September.
One year ago: Lots of Cape, a little bit of Mexico, post-Mexico parasite, that eHarmony wedding, a bunch of other weddings, Sox games and late nights... that summer was a little debaucherous, too, now that I think about it.
Six months ago: Damn, I don't know. Merry Christmas.
Yesterday: Got to Dorie's at the crack of dawn for a last minute babysittage for her two kids. We spent hours playing kickball, monkey in the middle, and soccer, or more accurately, "There's no way you're playing soccer without your shoes on; if you get hurt, what's your mom going to say when she hears that I let you play barefoot?" I stayed until her husband got home from court (lawyer, not defendant). I love her husband and want to meet someone like him, only my age. She encourages me to just take him, but that's a little bit too Lifetime movie for me. My name may rhyme with homewrecka but I ain't one. Hmm, I think I just came up with the title of my autobiography.
Today: Well, I'm off work and between vacations and I'm really just doing laundry and packing, so my big excitement of today was that I went to the dentist. I love going to the dentist! Suburban parents like to finish their basements and then finish their kids, so my childhood was all about getting my braces tightened and bubble gum-flavored fluoride treatments and trying to sleep while wearing a retainer. Now my visits are drama-free and I love having my teeth cleaned; even when they're mining for plaque and using their evil whirring toothbrush and spit suckage machine, you know your mouth is going to be happy afterwards. I'd never had a cavity before, but I had a little one this time, damn my near-perfect record. I go to the same dentist that I went to when I was a kid and she always praises me for brushing well, like I'm still six. I secretly love my semiannual congratulations from her. My hygenist was sharing all the details of her life with me and said "my fiancee" about 400 times. At one point she said, "I don't know why I'm telling you all this!" which is the same thing that my pedicurist said to me the other day. I don't know why they do either, but random people are always telling me their life stories.
Tomorrow: More laundry, packing, iPod updating, and peach binging because I have four in my fridge that will go bad if I don't eat them before I leave on Sunday.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
last night, or the slow disintegration of Party Jen's and my moral compass
It started with Roobar, purveyor of the $12 martini. Progressed to Liam Maguire's, home to a fiddle and spoons-playing band and Wachusett blueberry (on tap!). Downgraded to Towne Tavern, where I started to ask Jen what she wanted to drink and noticed that they had two choices: Bud Light or Pabst Blue Ribbon (a.k.a. Bud Lighter). Jen came back from the ladies and gave me a multiple choice quiz: "The bathroom contains A) a man, B) paintings of French cafes, or C) both of the above." We knew it was time to go home when we were invited to a party by a guy who mimed pumping a keg.
It was a perfectly steady decline from respectable to utter sleaze. And being out on the Cape instead of Boston meant no lines, no covers, no wall-to-wall people. We had the best time.
It was a perfectly steady decline from respectable to utter sleaze. And being out on the Cape instead of Boston meant no lines, no covers, no wall-to-wall people. We had the best time.
Monday, July 03, 2006
wash that drama right out of my hair
I'm at CVS restocking Cape stuff, particularly for the guest bathroom, because Party Jen and Dorie are both going to be using it this week, and the only thing in there right now is a lonely bar of Dial and some aloe vera, circa four years ago. So I pick up shampoo and conditioner, and I see that Herbal Essences has a new line called Drama Clean. It smells good and, you know, where there be my friends, there be drama, so maybe this is my subtle way of saying, "You're on vacation now; cleanse yourself of stress." Or maybe it's just shampoo and I'm not Deepak Chopra.
In the checkout line, the cashier is just tickled. "Drama Clean! That's so funny! I wonder if you wash your hair with it enough if all the drama in your life just goes away."
Huh. Maybe I should get some for myself, too.
Happy drama-free 4th, everyone!
In the checkout line, the cashier is just tickled. "Drama Clean! That's so funny! I wonder if you wash your hair with it enough if all the drama in your life just goes away."
Huh. Maybe I should get some for myself, too.
Happy drama-free 4th, everyone!
Sunday, July 02, 2006
survey says
Did I say I was taking a hiatus from you guys? Like that would ever work in a world where I still have internet access (i.e. the Cape). A girl can only spend so much time in the sun (especially when that girl has minimal skin pigmentation to begin with), and we all know I'm a sucker for a survey. As of this weekend I really WILL be gone, in a land without the internet or even television (gasp). But, in the meantime, back to the topic at hand. Thanks to Stefanie for some of these gems.
Do you own an iPod?
iCouldn't live without it. iEspecially couldn't live without it in my car.
What was the last movie you watched?
The Break-Up. It was mostly swell, but I was distracted by the casting of Joey Lauren Adams as a level-headed soccer mom. That's a long way from Fingercuffs.
Who was the last person you talked to on the phone?
I had to think about this, which is funny because when I'm at home I'm on the phone all the freakin' time. Even when I don't really want to be; not sure how that works. Anyway, it was Dorie. We discussed how the agenda for tomorrow evening is wine, fireworks, and then Grumpy's in Falmouth, but that on the Cape you never know if it's going to be a fun place or full of old, drunk fishermen. Either option is pretty great, though.
Do you think people talk about you behind your back?
I hope there's a great deal of wide-eyed speculation about what that impish Red is going to do next, but I suspect they're busy enough with their own lives to give much thought to mine.
Did you watch cartoons as a child?
Of course! Now I can't think of any of them. The Snorks? Why the hell did that emerge as the representative cartoon of my childhood? It really doesn't deserve such high billing. I loved She-Ra, and was mystified when my next door neighbors had a girl and named her Shira. I couldn't process that it could be a name separate from the show. Now I can't remember if She-Ra had her own show or if she just rode on He-Man's testosterone-laden coattails. I also loved this weird show that was all about Tom Sawyer's adventures; it was half live action and half cartoon. I googled the crap out of it and finally found this, which means I wasn't hallucinating because for years, everyone that I mentioned it to had never heard of it.
Who were your childhood heroes?
Yeah, I'd love to tell you Eleanor Roosevelt or something edumacated like that, but it was really Princess Leia and Olivia Newton-John.
Would you ever date someone covered in tattoos?
Is he beefy?
Do you use sarcasm?
Moreso when I write than in real life. In person, I am a gentle, softspoken creature who communes with spirits and animals and speaks lovingly of all.
How old will you be on your next birthday?
I'll be 29 in October. According to the greeting card industry, it's the age that everyone in their 40s likes to pretend they are, so I figure there must be something to it.
Are you picky about spelling and grammar?
Obscenely so, and yet not: I misuse semi-colons, I'm sure, and abuse the run-on sentence phenomenon.
Do you think your a good person?
I did, until I wanted to mock you for using "your."
Have you ever been to Six Flags?
I think so, but I prefer the ghetto fabulous Canobie Lake. Amusement parks are the best, but only at night.
One of your scars: how did you get it?
I have a chicken pock scar behind my right ear.
If you could pay anyone in the world to be your friend, who would it be?
Like I'd ever pay anyone to be my friend. As if I could ever stoop THAT LOW. Fine, Kate Winslet.
Have you ever met a famous person?
Only minimally famous. I met Drew Carey and Ryan Reynolds at a bar in Florida on spring break and I met Thurman Thomas, who used to play for the Buffalo Bills, waiting in line for ice cream. Now, he was beefy.
What's the scariest story you've ever heard?
So I'm watching an episode of the "new" Twilight Zone and it features Jessica Simpson before she got famous. She's babysitting this little girl who has display cases full of creepy dolls. Of course weird things start happening with the dolls... they find one of them downstairs, even though they never took her out of the display case, and then later all the dolls try to jump on Jessica, stuff like that. Well THEN the little girl attacks Jessica and it turns out that the girl is some demon child who turns all of her babysitters into dolls, and the other dolls were past babysitters that were just trying to protect the former Mrs. Nick Lachey from harm. Brilliant. Why didn't I write it?
What five things would you take with you to a desert island?
Okay, I'm really bad at the desert island question and here's why: I'd like to bring an airplane, a pilot, a co-pilot, enough fuel to get us home, and a second airplane in case something happens to the first one. "No, it has to be five fun things!" Okay, because fun is priority one. How about a water purifier kit? "No, you have to pick CDs and stuff!" I'm puzzled by the implication that I'm stranded on an island and yet my first impulse is going to be to rock out. "You're no fun." Maybe not, but I'll be showered, pedicured and out having cocktails by 10 tonight, and you'll be choosing between water logged copies of Revolver and Abbey Road.
Do you own an iPod?
iCouldn't live without it. iEspecially couldn't live without it in my car.
What was the last movie you watched?
The Break-Up. It was mostly swell, but I was distracted by the casting of Joey Lauren Adams as a level-headed soccer mom. That's a long way from Fingercuffs.
Who was the last person you talked to on the phone?
I had to think about this, which is funny because when I'm at home I'm on the phone all the freakin' time. Even when I don't really want to be; not sure how that works. Anyway, it was Dorie. We discussed how the agenda for tomorrow evening is wine, fireworks, and then Grumpy's in Falmouth, but that on the Cape you never know if it's going to be a fun place or full of old, drunk fishermen. Either option is pretty great, though.
Do you think people talk about you behind your back?
I hope there's a great deal of wide-eyed speculation about what that impish Red is going to do next, but I suspect they're busy enough with their own lives to give much thought to mine.
Did you watch cartoons as a child?
Of course! Now I can't think of any of them. The Snorks? Why the hell did that emerge as the representative cartoon of my childhood? It really doesn't deserve such high billing. I loved She-Ra, and was mystified when my next door neighbors had a girl and named her Shira. I couldn't process that it could be a name separate from the show. Now I can't remember if She-Ra had her own show or if she just rode on He-Man's testosterone-laden coattails. I also loved this weird show that was all about Tom Sawyer's adventures; it was half live action and half cartoon. I googled the crap out of it and finally found this, which means I wasn't hallucinating because for years, everyone that I mentioned it to had never heard of it.
Who were your childhood heroes?
Yeah, I'd love to tell you Eleanor Roosevelt or something edumacated like that, but it was really Princess Leia and Olivia Newton-John.
Would you ever date someone covered in tattoos?
Is he beefy?
Do you use sarcasm?
Moreso when I write than in real life. In person, I am a gentle, softspoken creature who communes with spirits and animals and speaks lovingly of all.
How old will you be on your next birthday?
I'll be 29 in October. According to the greeting card industry, it's the age that everyone in their 40s likes to pretend they are, so I figure there must be something to it.
Are you picky about spelling and grammar?
Obscenely so, and yet not: I misuse semi-colons, I'm sure, and abuse the run-on sentence phenomenon.
Do you think your a good person?
I did, until I wanted to mock you for using "your."
Have you ever been to Six Flags?
I think so, but I prefer the ghetto fabulous Canobie Lake. Amusement parks are the best, but only at night.
One of your scars: how did you get it?
I have a chicken pock scar behind my right ear.
If you could pay anyone in the world to be your friend, who would it be?
Like I'd ever pay anyone to be my friend. As if I could ever stoop THAT LOW. Fine, Kate Winslet.
Have you ever met a famous person?
Only minimally famous. I met Drew Carey and Ryan Reynolds at a bar in Florida on spring break and I met Thurman Thomas, who used to play for the Buffalo Bills, waiting in line for ice cream. Now, he was beefy.
What's the scariest story you've ever heard?
So I'm watching an episode of the "new" Twilight Zone and it features Jessica Simpson before she got famous. She's babysitting this little girl who has display cases full of creepy dolls. Of course weird things start happening with the dolls... they find one of them downstairs, even though they never took her out of the display case, and then later all the dolls try to jump on Jessica, stuff like that. Well THEN the little girl attacks Jessica and it turns out that the girl is some demon child who turns all of her babysitters into dolls, and the other dolls were past babysitters that were just trying to protect the former Mrs. Nick Lachey from harm. Brilliant. Why didn't I write it?
What five things would you take with you to a desert island?
Okay, I'm really bad at the desert island question and here's why: I'd like to bring an airplane, a pilot, a co-pilot, enough fuel to get us home, and a second airplane in case something happens to the first one. "No, it has to be five fun things!" Okay, because fun is priority one. How about a water purifier kit? "No, you have to pick CDs and stuff!" I'm puzzled by the implication that I'm stranded on an island and yet my first impulse is going to be to rock out. "You're no fun." Maybe not, but I'll be showered, pedicured and out having cocktails by 10 tonight, and you'll be choosing between water logged copies of Revolver and Abbey Road.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
jumping on the cartoon bandwagon
Several of you have created your animated likenesses here, and many of your Betty and Veronicas are adorable, outfit-wearing rock stars. Grumpy Frump is a supermom, and a foxy cheerleader to boot. The ridiculously cute Maliavale is probably listening to a cool band that I've never heard of (or haven't yet read about on Greg's page). I practically want to start dating Nabbalicious.
I applaud my Neighborhooders, but fear that I'm the snarky troublemaker in the back row by comparison. Whatever, you know you still want me at your party when your parents go out of town.
So here's me: one picture is of me at work, and the other one is me everywhere else. What? Did the invitation say black tie?
I just noticed that in the cartoon future I have books and wine but no nose, apparently. That's okay: priorities! Anyway, thanks to Dave for scanning/copying/whatevering these pictures so I could post them here.
I applaud my Neighborhooders, but fear that I'm the snarky troublemaker in the back row by comparison. Whatever, you know you still want me at your party when your parents go out of town.
So here's me: one picture is of me at work, and the other one is me everywhere else. What? Did the invitation say black tie?
I just noticed that in the cartoon future I have books and wine but no nose, apparently. That's okay: priorities! Anyway, thanks to Dave for scanning/copying/whatevering these pictures so I could post them here.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
O Canada
What can I say about Niagara Falls? The actual Falls are lovely, yes... something between the Grand Canyon and an overflowing sink. The entire area around the Falls, on the other hand, is like Disney World and Vegas got drunk and coked up and right before they got arrested for selling heroin to kindergarteners, they gave birth to a half-monkey crack-addicted demon child.
It started a couple weeks ago... the weather got nice and I wanted to go on a road trip once school got out. Steve, as usual, was up for anything, and conveniently had a little vacation time. I was thinking of going south (Virginia! the Carolinas!) but we ended up going north because you can never have too many useless Canadian coins. So we left on Thursday, and the trip itself was all that and then some; you can't not have fun with Steve, and I spent the entire weekend laughing until my stomach hurt. We eventually made it to our destination by (accidental) way of lovely Lake George and (purposeful, if you can believe that) way of Rochester.
I should've known what I was in for when I was looking through the tourist information in our B&B and saw an ad for a haunted house, boasting comments from previous visitors like, "I was so scared I nearly pissed myself!" I was thrilled: Haunted house? Marketing copy with the words "pissed myself"? Then I read on and saw another satisfied customer quote: "This one is the best; go here before you bother with all the others!" The others? What others? Yeah, it turns out that life in Niagara Falls is a strip of haunted houses, wax museums, indoor water parks, Planet Hollywoods, and casinos. And let's not forget the neon lights they blast onto the Falls at night. I figured it'd be a little cheesy but I had no idea what I was in for. But when in Rome...
So we decided to embrace the kitsch and do everything. We did all the raincoat activities with the dramatic names: the Maid of the Mist, the Journey Behind the Falls, the White Water Walk, and even the butterfly conservatory, where we were sternly told not to even consider touching the butterflies with our contaminated, diseased hands; unfortunately, when bugs fly at your face, it can be difficult to deflect your swatting reflex in favor of just ducking and admiring their unspoiled beauty. (What, I know they're butterflies! But when they're swarming you they feel suspiciously like moths.)
We were forced into having our picture taken over and over in front of countless green screens and then later, offered the opportunity to purchase a smiling image of ourselves superimposed over the Falls. Steve intercepted me when I was thisclose to acquiring a heart-shaped 8x11. (They were free if you were on your honeymoon, which I was, at that moment.)
We went to a haunted house called Nightmares that took place in complete darkness; it was actually absurdly terrifying and I clung to Steve like a human backpack, which really didn't make me feel less scared and probably set the women's movement back a few hundred years. Nightmares actually had a safe word that you could use if you got too terrified and wanted to be ushered out; this safe word turned out to not be "HOLY F'ING MOTHER OF SHIT."
We bar hopped and made the delightful discovery that the drinking age in Canada is 18, which means that if you're 15 and have a fake ID, come on in, what're you drinking, Molson or Labatt Blue?
We did some crazy maze activity where you have to run around and find a bunch of hidden stuff before your friend. At first I was like, "Oh, what's this? We can't do it together?" but then I found out I was competing against Steve and I took off like a bat out of hell and proceeded to kick his ass. When he couldn't find his way out, I stood on the platform above, taunting him with the Super Mario Brothers theme song, completely forgetting that just moments before he'd protected me from being killed in a haunted house.
Bottom line: I ate up every freakin' second of it.
And as for where we stayed... honestly, if I'd known what Niagara Falls was really like, I would've just embraced the cheesiness of it all, booked us at a Sheraton and called it a day. But instead I had us stay at what turned out to be the most ridiculous B&B on the planet. Witness the various moments of weirdness:
-The woman who runs the place goes by, well, without giving her actual name, let's just say that it isn't like her real name is Elizabeth and she asks to be called Liz; that would be an actual nickname. We're talking a real name like Rachel and asking people who have just met her to call her Rach. So we spent the weekend calling her Rach like we were all BFFs. (I did not invite her to call me by my first syllable.)
-When we were on our way, we called from the only highway that goes from New York to Ontario and asked how to get to their place; essentially, we were asking the question, "Can you tell us how to get to your home from America?" Rach reacted like it was the most obscure thing we could've asked her. She didn't know and had to confer with someone else, and when she got back on the phone she asked, "Well, hmm, let's see... are you familiar with the area?"
-When Rach showed us to our room, she assured us a few times that we should stay out as late as we want and that we shouldn't feel like we have a curfew. Oh, okay. Thanks? Then she told us that if we do come in late that we'll probably feel like we're being really loud and waking everyone up because the floors are kind of creaky, but really, don't let that keep you from staying out late, you really shouldn't feel like you have a curfew.
-There was a full-length window in the bathroom wall. This means that if you're in the bedroom and someone is in the bathroom, you're an inadvertent part of that experience as well. We tried to think of all the reasons a giant window would be built into a bathroom wall, why you'd want to watch the person you're with while they're peeing. Lots of dirty theories, but no real answers. If you guys have any theories, please share, because I'm at a loss.
-We signed up for a lunch and tour of a winery, because what else is Canada known for but hockey, Michael J. Fox and vineyards, but Rach neglected to tell us that the lunch was at a different place than the tour, and when we talked to the people at the winery, they were like, "HUH? You want FOOD?" like we were homeless people. Then we called Rach and she told us that the lunch place was down the road and was called, say, Sugarhill Restaurant. Okay then. We drove up and down the road for miles looking for Sugarhill Restaurant. There was a Sugarhill Farm but it was all tractors and big piles of dirt. So we called her back and she said, "Oh, no, the restaurant is right next to the winery." Dear God, are you kidding me? Even Steve was starting to get pissed, and he never gets mad. We gave up, went to a farm stand, bought some still-warm strawberry rhubarb pie and a pint of cherries and had a makeshift picnic next to the Niagara River. It was actually really fun, but Rach officially became the bitch that took away my wine.
-I was talking to some guy from Ohio who was staying down the hall from us, and he was saying how he and his wife just spent their weekend doing the winery stuff, not "all that other garbage." He assumed I'd done the same. I told him how much other garbage we'd happily participated in. He was clearly amused by my tacky, dollar store self. Whatever, Ohio; if you're such a wino, why didn't you go to Napa Valley?
Oh, one more thing. Because of the winery mishap, Rach is giving us a free night at their B&B. I'm going back to Niagara Falls, um, never, so if you're ever going or if you live around there, let me know and it's all yours. If you survive Nightmares and beat my time at the maze (which you NEVER COULD), I'll even buy you dinner at the 24 hour Burger King.
It started a couple weeks ago... the weather got nice and I wanted to go on a road trip once school got out. Steve, as usual, was up for anything, and conveniently had a little vacation time. I was thinking of going south (Virginia! the Carolinas!) but we ended up going north because you can never have too many useless Canadian coins. So we left on Thursday, and the trip itself was all that and then some; you can't not have fun with Steve, and I spent the entire weekend laughing until my stomach hurt. We eventually made it to our destination by (accidental) way of lovely Lake George and (purposeful, if you can believe that) way of Rochester.
I should've known what I was in for when I was looking through the tourist information in our B&B and saw an ad for a haunted house, boasting comments from previous visitors like, "I was so scared I nearly pissed myself!" I was thrilled: Haunted house? Marketing copy with the words "pissed myself"? Then I read on and saw another satisfied customer quote: "This one is the best; go here before you bother with all the others!" The others? What others? Yeah, it turns out that life in Niagara Falls is a strip of haunted houses, wax museums, indoor water parks, Planet Hollywoods, and casinos. And let's not forget the neon lights they blast onto the Falls at night. I figured it'd be a little cheesy but I had no idea what I was in for. But when in Rome...
So we decided to embrace the kitsch and do everything. We did all the raincoat activities with the dramatic names: the Maid of the Mist, the Journey Behind the Falls, the White Water Walk, and even the butterfly conservatory, where we were sternly told not to even consider touching the butterflies with our contaminated, diseased hands; unfortunately, when bugs fly at your face, it can be difficult to deflect your swatting reflex in favor of just ducking and admiring their unspoiled beauty. (What, I know they're butterflies! But when they're swarming you they feel suspiciously like moths.)
We were forced into having our picture taken over and over in front of countless green screens and then later, offered the opportunity to purchase a smiling image of ourselves superimposed over the Falls. Steve intercepted me when I was thisclose to acquiring a heart-shaped 8x11. (They were free if you were on your honeymoon, which I was, at that moment.)
We went to a haunted house called Nightmares that took place in complete darkness; it was actually absurdly terrifying and I clung to Steve like a human backpack, which really didn't make me feel less scared and probably set the women's movement back a few hundred years. Nightmares actually had a safe word that you could use if you got too terrified and wanted to be ushered out; this safe word turned out to not be "HOLY F'ING MOTHER OF SHIT."
We bar hopped and made the delightful discovery that the drinking age in Canada is 18, which means that if you're 15 and have a fake ID, come on in, what're you drinking, Molson or Labatt Blue?
We did some crazy maze activity where you have to run around and find a bunch of hidden stuff before your friend. At first I was like, "Oh, what's this? We can't do it together?" but then I found out I was competing against Steve and I took off like a bat out of hell and proceeded to kick his ass. When he couldn't find his way out, I stood on the platform above, taunting him with the Super Mario Brothers theme song, completely forgetting that just moments before he'd protected me from being killed in a haunted house.
Bottom line: I ate up every freakin' second of it.
And as for where we stayed... honestly, if I'd known what Niagara Falls was really like, I would've just embraced the cheesiness of it all, booked us at a Sheraton and called it a day. But instead I had us stay at what turned out to be the most ridiculous B&B on the planet. Witness the various moments of weirdness:
-The woman who runs the place goes by, well, without giving her actual name, let's just say that it isn't like her real name is Elizabeth and she asks to be called Liz; that would be an actual nickname. We're talking a real name like Rachel and asking people who have just met her to call her Rach. So we spent the weekend calling her Rach like we were all BFFs. (I did not invite her to call me by my first syllable.)
-When we were on our way, we called from the only highway that goes from New York to Ontario and asked how to get to their place; essentially, we were asking the question, "Can you tell us how to get to your home from America?" Rach reacted like it was the most obscure thing we could've asked her. She didn't know and had to confer with someone else, and when she got back on the phone she asked, "Well, hmm, let's see... are you familiar with the area?"
-When Rach showed us to our room, she assured us a few times that we should stay out as late as we want and that we shouldn't feel like we have a curfew. Oh, okay. Thanks? Then she told us that if we do come in late that we'll probably feel like we're being really loud and waking everyone up because the floors are kind of creaky, but really, don't let that keep you from staying out late, you really shouldn't feel like you have a curfew.
-There was a full-length window in the bathroom wall. This means that if you're in the bedroom and someone is in the bathroom, you're an inadvertent part of that experience as well. We tried to think of all the reasons a giant window would be built into a bathroom wall, why you'd want to watch the person you're with while they're peeing. Lots of dirty theories, but no real answers. If you guys have any theories, please share, because I'm at a loss.
-We signed up for a lunch and tour of a winery, because what else is Canada known for but hockey, Michael J. Fox and vineyards, but Rach neglected to tell us that the lunch was at a different place than the tour, and when we talked to the people at the winery, they were like, "HUH? You want FOOD?" like we were homeless people. Then we called Rach and she told us that the lunch place was down the road and was called, say, Sugarhill Restaurant. Okay then. We drove up and down the road for miles looking for Sugarhill Restaurant. There was a Sugarhill Farm but it was all tractors and big piles of dirt. So we called her back and she said, "Oh, no, the restaurant is right next to the winery." Dear God, are you kidding me? Even Steve was starting to get pissed, and he never gets mad. We gave up, went to a farm stand, bought some still-warm strawberry rhubarb pie and a pint of cherries and had a makeshift picnic next to the Niagara River. It was actually really fun, but Rach officially became the bitch that took away my wine.
-I was talking to some guy from Ohio who was staying down the hall from us, and he was saying how he and his wife just spent their weekend doing the winery stuff, not "all that other garbage." He assumed I'd done the same. I told him how much other garbage we'd happily participated in. He was clearly amused by my tacky, dollar store self. Whatever, Ohio; if you're such a wino, why didn't you go to Napa Valley?
Oh, one more thing. Because of the winery mishap, Rach is giving us a free night at their B&B. I'm going back to Niagara Falls, um, never, so if you're ever going or if you live around there, let me know and it's all yours. If you survive Nightmares and beat my time at the maze (which you NEVER COULD), I'll even buy you dinner at the 24 hour Burger King.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
what's next
Tomorrow is the last day of school. Four years ago I put myself back into the world of campus bookstores and four-hour classes and syllabi and found out very quickly that I basically knew nothing about this thing I signed up for. During the day I worked for free at different hospitals, schools, and state-funded programs (the most random of which was waking up at the crack of dawn to test the hearing of wiggling newborns that were born overnight) and went to school at night. It wasn't the work that got to me, it was the amount of knowledge that I felt obligated to acquire, the fact that I always felt behind the eight ball, even when I really wasn't or, rather, when it was kind of okay to be; I tried to pretend that there was no learning curve and that I had to know everything immediately. Every time I started to feel like I had an idea what I was doing, it was time to go work someplace else. It's just the nature of an academic program, of course, to need to expose you to every possible part of the field you're going into. Some people thrive on bouncing around and never being in one place for too long, but I found it exhausting and I was anxious all the time and I just wanted to be settled.
Now it's been two years since I've graduated and I feel pretty good. I like being my own little department; if it goes right then I sort of own it, and if it doesn't then well, let me reconvene with myself and figure it out. Working with kids means standing on your head, literally and figuratively, and I pretty much love it. If I'm going to work hard I'm glad it's no longer about Smart Speed, which is actually the name of an e-business conference that I once sucked at developing; the first company that I worked for after college helped expose me to the most mind-numbingly pointless part of corporate America. My meetings then were just me listening to office jargon, all strategic initiatives and running the numbers and let's take this offline. I do miss working in an office sometimes, because it can be fun and interesting and, well, hardly anyone throws up on you. But I guess I just mean I'm glad to know now that it wasn't for me, because I was always bothered by the thought that it just didn't feel like I fit there. I did fit at happy hour afterwards, but alas, post-work cocktails do not a career make.
I guess I finally feel like I've got the day job somewhat under control, and now there are other things that I want to think about and pursue. It's been a long time since I've thought seriously about writing again. The sheer volume of the crap that I write here is just one indication of how much I miss it. It's also an indication of how much I like revealing my neuroses to people I've never met, but that's another issue.
Now it's been two years since I've graduated and I feel pretty good. I like being my own little department; if it goes right then I sort of own it, and if it doesn't then well, let me reconvene with myself and figure it out. Working with kids means standing on your head, literally and figuratively, and I pretty much love it. If I'm going to work hard I'm glad it's no longer about Smart Speed, which is actually the name of an e-business conference that I once sucked at developing; the first company that I worked for after college helped expose me to the most mind-numbingly pointless part of corporate America. My meetings then were just me listening to office jargon, all strategic initiatives and running the numbers and let's take this offline. I do miss working in an office sometimes, because it can be fun and interesting and, well, hardly anyone throws up on you. But I guess I just mean I'm glad to know now that it wasn't for me, because I was always bothered by the thought that it just didn't feel like I fit there. I did fit at happy hour afterwards, but alas, post-work cocktails do not a career make.
I guess I finally feel like I've got the day job somewhat under control, and now there are other things that I want to think about and pursue. It's been a long time since I've thought seriously about writing again. The sheer volume of the crap that I write here is just one indication of how much I miss it. It's also an indication of how much I like revealing my neuroses to people I've never met, but that's another issue.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
tall tales
So Carly and I are getting off the Hynes stop on the Green Line this afternoon, and she's actually saying something about not having much bizarreness in her life lately. I was starting to tell her that I have no such luck because I always seem to be a freak magnet.
As if to prove my point, at that moment a woman approached and told us that we were so lucky to be tall, and how tall is my mother? She kept saying how fortunate we were and that, "You guys HAVE IT! I WANT it, but you guys HAVE IT!" If I'd only known what it was, maybe I could've given it to her so she'd go away. Then she proceeded to tell us that in the Bible it says that the Virgin Mary is statuesque, just like us, and that she is exceedingly holy, just like us, and that EXCEEDINGLY means TALL. She asked if we were sisters, and then asked how tall Carly's mom is. Armed with this irrelevant information, our new friend continued to marvel at our luck, our height, our fair skin, our divinity. She was pretty regular person-looking too, like she was just heading off to meet a friend, or disciple, for dinner or something. We told her to take care and continued on our path of righteousness.
Then later a guy on the street handing out information about scientology looked at me, looked away, and then gave a pamphlet to the guy next to me. Apparently one's person deity is another person's lost cause.
As if to prove my point, at that moment a woman approached and told us that we were so lucky to be tall, and how tall is my mother? She kept saying how fortunate we were and that, "You guys HAVE IT! I WANT it, but you guys HAVE IT!" If I'd only known what it was, maybe I could've given it to her so she'd go away. Then she proceeded to tell us that in the Bible it says that the Virgin Mary is statuesque, just like us, and that she is exceedingly holy, just like us, and that EXCEEDINGLY means TALL. She asked if we were sisters, and then asked how tall Carly's mom is. Armed with this irrelevant information, our new friend continued to marvel at our luck, our height, our fair skin, our divinity. She was pretty regular person-looking too, like she was just heading off to meet a friend, or disciple, for dinner or something. We told her to take care and continued on our path of righteousness.
Then later a guy on the street handing out information about scientology looked at me, looked away, and then gave a pamphlet to the guy next to me. Apparently one's person deity is another person's lost cause.
Monday, June 19, 2006
but I love that dirty water
So over the weekend I'm at the Pour House with Work Friend, who will soon become Friend, as she's finding gainful employment elsewhere... but yeah, how depressing has that place become? (If you're not from around here, I'm not offended if you just smile and nod.) When I got out of college, it was one of the more fun and laid-back places in town. Now their claim to fame is "beertinis," which, take a wild guess, is a draft beer in a martini glass. It's wrong on so many levels, and I don't even drink martinis; imagine how much more appropriately outraged the klassy drinkers must be.
I've discovered the problem with my home turf and it's only recently become an issue... Boston is a college town and a bar town, which means that on any given night, every place is crawling with 22-year-olds, or better yet, 18-year-old BU freshmen (on summer break now, no less) with fake IDs. I'm 28 and Work Friend is 20-ten and to be fair, there are plenty of people out that are older than us, but the shrieking youngins seem to have taken over every single place, even the dive bars that were once endearing and under the radar, and because they're there the music is all top 40 remixes. (Can I just take a moment and say how funny that "Promiscuous Girl" song is? Don't get me wrong, I like conversations that take place during last call that are then set to music as much as the next person, but there MUST have been a better adjective to use there, don't you think? Mischievous? Adventurous? I don't know, but I feel like anything would be better than, "Nice to meet you, I'm a filthy, indiscriminate whore.")
If you really like the person you're out with, you're 90% of the way there, and I'm a girl that loves the one she's with, anyway; I'm over meeting randoms. I just wish Boston proper wasn't flooded with thousands of coed carbon copies. It's just such an interesting place and there's so much that's great about it (bands, bookstores, food, hole-in-the-wall movie theaters, product shopping... speaking of, I'm making a gleeful pilgrimage to Lush tomorrow!) and that comes across at every other time; our beloved state capital shouldn't have to sacrifice its quality mojo for bubble gumminess just because it's a weekend night.
I envy New York its little cafes where you can order wine or coffee or a smoothie and sit with a friend for hours; there seems to be more of a focus on conversation with who you came with, whereas Boston right now seems to be all about loud music and who else is there. I know Manhattan is like this too, undoubtedly moreso than anything I've experienced around these parts, but I'm glad I've been steered away from that part of it. And I'm generalizing, of course; only an occasional visitor to New York could have an Audrey Hepburn idealism about its tucked-away little places.
I was having a pedicure on the Cape over Memorial Day weekend and I met a really interesting woman who owns a pub close to my home that she says is great for a night out with friends, and I told her I'd stop by. I want to and plan to, but when? Going out somewhere other than the city doesn't really feel like going out; it's having dinner or just hanging out or being lowkey, which is my mom's kind of word. It's like the Cape... it's a fantastic break from reality, but if you ever spent the entire summer there, you'd go out of your mind (and it wouldn't be a bad way to go, but I'm just saying). If I'm going out, I almost (sorry, this is corny) want the energy of the city, or else it's like, well, let's just go someplace for dinner and call it an early night, or let's stay in and watch the game or a movie. All of those are good options and I end up having fun whatever I do, but I miss going out without having to leave my brain at home. Lately Boston is feeling like one giant, expanding stretch of Lansdown Street (i.e. sorority row) or nothing at all.
Don't get me wrong, I like a crazy night out now and then, but mostly I wish there were cute little places on the corner that weren't Starbucks that had tea candles on the tables and patrons of all ages and good music and that I could just sit for a long time and have wine with you and talk about everything and nothing. Beantown is bumming me out in this respect. Does it sound like I'm thinking about moving elsewhere? I'm really not. No one in the Boston area really leaves, and if they do they come back. You'd be hard pressed to find a homegrown that wants to cross state lines permanently. Born and bred... it's not just a Southern thing. Hometown devotion is the best kept secret among the supposedly elite Northeasterners.
I do need a brief change of scenery, though. Conveniently, I'm embarking on a kitschy road trip in a couple days, at the precise nanosecond that the school year ends. It's summer, summer, summertime, or so insisted Will Smith when I was in middle school, and I'm ready for a bit of a break, ready for sunny days and great music and sharing good food and staying out late. I'll be a responsible citizen again soon, I promise.
I've discovered the problem with my home turf and it's only recently become an issue... Boston is a college town and a bar town, which means that on any given night, every place is crawling with 22-year-olds, or better yet, 18-year-old BU freshmen (on summer break now, no less) with fake IDs. I'm 28 and Work Friend is 20-ten and to be fair, there are plenty of people out that are older than us, but the shrieking youngins seem to have taken over every single place, even the dive bars that were once endearing and under the radar, and because they're there the music is all top 40 remixes. (Can I just take a moment and say how funny that "Promiscuous Girl" song is? Don't get me wrong, I like conversations that take place during last call that are then set to music as much as the next person, but there MUST have been a better adjective to use there, don't you think? Mischievous? Adventurous? I don't know, but I feel like anything would be better than, "Nice to meet you, I'm a filthy, indiscriminate whore.")
If you really like the person you're out with, you're 90% of the way there, and I'm a girl that loves the one she's with, anyway; I'm over meeting randoms. I just wish Boston proper wasn't flooded with thousands of coed carbon copies. It's just such an interesting place and there's so much that's great about it (bands, bookstores, food, hole-in-the-wall movie theaters, product shopping... speaking of, I'm making a gleeful pilgrimage to Lush tomorrow!) and that comes across at every other time; our beloved state capital shouldn't have to sacrifice its quality mojo for bubble gumminess just because it's a weekend night.
I envy New York its little cafes where you can order wine or coffee or a smoothie and sit with a friend for hours; there seems to be more of a focus on conversation with who you came with, whereas Boston right now seems to be all about loud music and who else is there. I know Manhattan is like this too, undoubtedly moreso than anything I've experienced around these parts, but I'm glad I've been steered away from that part of it. And I'm generalizing, of course; only an occasional visitor to New York could have an Audrey Hepburn idealism about its tucked-away little places.
I was having a pedicure on the Cape over Memorial Day weekend and I met a really interesting woman who owns a pub close to my home that she says is great for a night out with friends, and I told her I'd stop by. I want to and plan to, but when? Going out somewhere other than the city doesn't really feel like going out; it's having dinner or just hanging out or being lowkey, which is my mom's kind of word. It's like the Cape... it's a fantastic break from reality, but if you ever spent the entire summer there, you'd go out of your mind (and it wouldn't be a bad way to go, but I'm just saying). If I'm going out, I almost (sorry, this is corny) want the energy of the city, or else it's like, well, let's just go someplace for dinner and call it an early night, or let's stay in and watch the game or a movie. All of those are good options and I end up having fun whatever I do, but I miss going out without having to leave my brain at home. Lately Boston is feeling like one giant, expanding stretch of Lansdown Street (i.e. sorority row) or nothing at all.
Don't get me wrong, I like a crazy night out now and then, but mostly I wish there were cute little places on the corner that weren't Starbucks that had tea candles on the tables and patrons of all ages and good music and that I could just sit for a long time and have wine with you and talk about everything and nothing. Beantown is bumming me out in this respect. Does it sound like I'm thinking about moving elsewhere? I'm really not. No one in the Boston area really leaves, and if they do they come back. You'd be hard pressed to find a homegrown that wants to cross state lines permanently. Born and bred... it's not just a Southern thing. Hometown devotion is the best kept secret among the supposedly elite Northeasterners.
I do need a brief change of scenery, though. Conveniently, I'm embarking on a kitschy road trip in a couple days, at the precise nanosecond that the school year ends. It's summer, summer, summertime, or so insisted Will Smith when I was in middle school, and I'm ready for a bit of a break, ready for sunny days and great music and sharing good food and staying out late. I'll be a responsible citizen again soon, I promise.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
who's your daddy?
Happy Father's Day, Dad. (That little boy on his lap is me, by the way.)
Friday, June 16, 2006
this just in: my appendix is useless
So I've had this annoying pain in my abdomen for a few days, ever since my cold, and finally decided to call my doctor's office after someone I work with was like, "That's what they're there for, Red." Okay then. So I called and told them how I was feeling (the pain is more I-was-recently-kicked-by-a-mule than nausea) and they thought from the way I was describing it that it sounded like appendicitis. What? That's not the "itis" where you get ice cream afterwards, is it? Damn you Cindy Brady, you made tonsillitis look like a trip to the zoo.
Anyway, they said I had to come in right away. Fine, twist my arm to leave work. It was Field Day anyway (in the elementary school that I went to they called it the Goofy Olympics, unfortunately enough) so it didn't really matter: "Oh, hey you guys, I can't referee Capture the Flag because my intestines might be rupturing. Go blue team!"
I was feeling okay, save for the mule kick, so I went home to put some stuff in a bag in case I really did have to have my appendix taken out. What, like I'm not going to want to change my clothes just because I have to have minimally invasive surgery? Then I got on IM and told Elusive Jen and Joe and Dave about it and that it was probably much ado about nothing and what was going on with them? They were all like, um, go to the hospital, Red.
So I went and they poked me and took my blood and said I looked pale, but that's how I always look. (I once had a dermatologist tell me that my complexion was made for overcast British skies. Doesn't that seem oddly poetic for a doctor?) Then I had an ultrasound, during which they concluded that I am not pregnant. Darn it all, Fake Husband Brett and I will just have to keep trying. Maybe cutting back on the Ortho Tri-Cyclen would help.
Yeah, so basically, nothing's wrong. I have a tummy ache; they're giving me Prilosec or something. It's a little embarrassing. But I still stand by the fact that it's a TOTALLY WEIRD tummy ache. I wonder if my HMO will agree.
Then I'm driving home and Dorie had left me a message on my cell that she'd come to the hospital and hang out with me if I was just waiting around. I called to thank her and accidentally called Dave instead. So I was thinking, that's fine, I'll just chat with Dave. But no, I forgot, it's not my friend Dave that's in my phone, it's the Dave that is the husband of one of my semi-estranged college friends. I heard him start to answer and I made like a seventh grade girl and hung up. That's right I did. Caller ID be damned, I still didn't want to have that awkward conversation.
And my (almost entirely decorative, as it turns out) appendix and I are home in time to meet Party Jen for soup at the Factory. I hope they have peach.
(P.S. No peach, but they had mango. Yum.)
Anyway, they said I had to come in right away. Fine, twist my arm to leave work. It was Field Day anyway (in the elementary school that I went to they called it the Goofy Olympics, unfortunately enough) so it didn't really matter: "Oh, hey you guys, I can't referee Capture the Flag because my intestines might be rupturing. Go blue team!"
I was feeling okay, save for the mule kick, so I went home to put some stuff in a bag in case I really did have to have my appendix taken out. What, like I'm not going to want to change my clothes just because I have to have minimally invasive surgery? Then I got on IM and told Elusive Jen and Joe and Dave about it and that it was probably much ado about nothing and what was going on with them? They were all like, um, go to the hospital, Red.
So I went and they poked me and took my blood and said I looked pale, but that's how I always look. (I once had a dermatologist tell me that my complexion was made for overcast British skies. Doesn't that seem oddly poetic for a doctor?) Then I had an ultrasound, during which they concluded that I am not pregnant. Darn it all, Fake Husband Brett and I will just have to keep trying. Maybe cutting back on the Ortho Tri-Cyclen would help.
Yeah, so basically, nothing's wrong. I have a tummy ache; they're giving me Prilosec or something. It's a little embarrassing. But I still stand by the fact that it's a TOTALLY WEIRD tummy ache. I wonder if my HMO will agree.
Then I'm driving home and Dorie had left me a message on my cell that she'd come to the hospital and hang out with me if I was just waiting around. I called to thank her and accidentally called Dave instead. So I was thinking, that's fine, I'll just chat with Dave. But no, I forgot, it's not my friend Dave that's in my phone, it's the Dave that is the husband of one of my semi-estranged college friends. I heard him start to answer and I made like a seventh grade girl and hung up. That's right I did. Caller ID be damned, I still didn't want to have that awkward conversation.
And my (almost entirely decorative, as it turns out) appendix and I are home in time to meet Party Jen for soup at the Factory. I hope they have peach.
(P.S. No peach, but they had mango. Yum.)
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
the following entry has been approved for all audiences
So I'm at a (utterly forgettable) movie with Mark and am intently watching the previews, as usual. Don't talk to me during them, because I like to do the five-second review afterwards: "Not even when it's on TBS in five years and I have the flu." Some comedian once said that moviegoers will pay to go see the dumbest crap but somehow after every preview you become the most elite, unforgiving movie critic on the planet: "No. NEXT." I forget who said that, but it made me laugh.
Then sometimes you watch a preview and you torture yourself with "what was he in?!" because it's driving you crazy and you can't place that guy to save your life and you have to know now. The worst is when you turn to your friend to ask them, and they're about to ask you the same thing. Then you're just screwed, because we're years away from the IMDB brain chip. No, actually, worse is when your friend says, "I have no idea," and they don't even tear their eyes away from the screen to give you a courtesy glance because it's of so little consequence to them, and then you know that you must have seen the guy in some obscure role that you'll never remember because he was something like a dancing goblin in the tossing-of-the-baby-in-the-striped-outfit scene in Labyrinth. (Please, I know the striped baby's name was Toby. I'm sorry to tell you that I knew that movie by heart when I was like nine. I know it was basically a two hour long David Bowie video, but it was also a bona fide event in my childhood.)
This just made me think about other movies I know by heart: Heathers, Dazed and Confused, It's a Wonderful Life, The Breakfast Club, The Princess Bride, Clueless, Clerks, Back to the Future, Napolean Dynamite, Singles... damn, that's a lot of uselessness taking up room in my brain.
Ahem, anyway. Then sometimes there's that preview for the most vapid, pointless piece of nothingness with Ashton Kutcher or his genetic equivalent stumbling through a series of double entendres, mistaken identity, and/or kicks to the crotch, and then at the end of the movie (while standing at the altar next to his icy, malicious fiancee, natch) he realizes that he's really in love with the sweet, underdog girl next door, and the entire thing is set to a Goo Goo Dolls song, and during this preview I'm always sitting behind the girl that turns to her friend and says, "That looks so cute!" and it makes me instantly love MY friend who's next to me all the more, because they're making a snarky comment and turning off their cell phone.
So yeah, I'm watching a trailer that features Jamie Foxx and Colin Farrell being macho. Machine guns, sunglass removal in slow motion, and lines like, "You play the wrong games and the wrong people die!" It looks like a million other movies just like it that I'd never see, but wait... are they fighting crime on a... jetski? Huh. Then we finally get to the title. And it's Miami Vice.
I almost spit out my Diet Coke. Mark had seen the preview before and anticipated my reaction, so he didn't elbow me in the beginning and say, "This is the MIAMI VICE remake." He let me experience it and then almost choke on my soda, and for that I'm grateful.
I don't so much want to say something like, "Why are they remaking everything these days?" because it's really the dumbest small talk topic, right after, "Can you believe this weather?" But really, why are they? I guess because a few of them did well and then the avalanche of mediocrity was just inevitable.
Anyway, here are some movies coming out that actually look neat: this one and that one. But they're just previews. Who can actually formulate an informed opinion based on a preview?
Besides, you know, me.
Then sometimes you watch a preview and you torture yourself with "what was he in?!" because it's driving you crazy and you can't place that guy to save your life and you have to know now. The worst is when you turn to your friend to ask them, and they're about to ask you the same thing. Then you're just screwed, because we're years away from the IMDB brain chip. No, actually, worse is when your friend says, "I have no idea," and they don't even tear their eyes away from the screen to give you a courtesy glance because it's of so little consequence to them, and then you know that you must have seen the guy in some obscure role that you'll never remember because he was something like a dancing goblin in the tossing-of-the-baby-in-the-striped-outfit scene in Labyrinth. (Please, I know the striped baby's name was Toby. I'm sorry to tell you that I knew that movie by heart when I was like nine. I know it was basically a two hour long David Bowie video, but it was also a bona fide event in my childhood.)
This just made me think about other movies I know by heart: Heathers, Dazed and Confused, It's a Wonderful Life, The Breakfast Club, The Princess Bride, Clueless, Clerks, Back to the Future, Napolean Dynamite, Singles... damn, that's a lot of uselessness taking up room in my brain.
Ahem, anyway. Then sometimes there's that preview for the most vapid, pointless piece of nothingness with Ashton Kutcher or his genetic equivalent stumbling through a series of double entendres, mistaken identity, and/or kicks to the crotch, and then at the end of the movie (while standing at the altar next to his icy, malicious fiancee, natch) he realizes that he's really in love with the sweet, underdog girl next door, and the entire thing is set to a Goo Goo Dolls song, and during this preview I'm always sitting behind the girl that turns to her friend and says, "That looks so cute!" and it makes me instantly love MY friend who's next to me all the more, because they're making a snarky comment and turning off their cell phone.
So yeah, I'm watching a trailer that features Jamie Foxx and Colin Farrell being macho. Machine guns, sunglass removal in slow motion, and lines like, "You play the wrong games and the wrong people die!" It looks like a million other movies just like it that I'd never see, but wait... are they fighting crime on a... jetski? Huh. Then we finally get to the title. And it's Miami Vice.
I almost spit out my Diet Coke. Mark had seen the preview before and anticipated my reaction, so he didn't elbow me in the beginning and say, "This is the MIAMI VICE remake." He let me experience it and then almost choke on my soda, and for that I'm grateful.
I don't so much want to say something like, "Why are they remaking everything these days?" because it's really the dumbest small talk topic, right after, "Can you believe this weather?" But really, why are they? I guess because a few of them did well and then the avalanche of mediocrity was just inevitable.
Anyway, here are some movies coming out that actually look neat: this one and that one. But they're just previews. Who can actually formulate an informed opinion based on a preview?
Besides, you know, me.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
fontal lobotomy
Usually I write my reports at home (while watching My Fair Brady I mean while carefully considering the statistical significance of the evaluation results) and I'd never really paid attention to it before, but the font is always Times New Roman, single spaced. Yesterday I wrote one at work and the font ended up being Comic Sans MS, 1.5 spaced.
I don't know if my esteemed colleagues were just sitting around waiting for something to comment on, but over this one detail I heard the following:
"This looks like when you're in school and you have to write a ten page report but you only have seven and a half pages so you try to get creative with the font and the spacing."
"Where's Red's report? I don't have it. Do you have it? Can you make me a copy? Oh, I already have it? This is it? Really? Why does it look like this?"
"This is a good font for writing about what you did last night at the mall."
I looked around at all of them, bewildered. How could they all have such a random, simultaneous opinion? But lesson learned: Mind your fonts at work, people. While Times New Roman might say, "Hey, I'm an expert; listen to me," Comic Sans MS just says you're a slacker Heather standing in line at Orange Julius. But, like, what's wrong with that?
I don't know if my esteemed colleagues were just sitting around waiting for something to comment on, but over this one detail I heard the following:
"This looks like when you're in school and you have to write a ten page report but you only have seven and a half pages so you try to get creative with the font and the spacing."
"Where's Red's report? I don't have it. Do you have it? Can you make me a copy? Oh, I already have it? This is it? Really? Why does it look like this?"
"This is a good font for writing about what you did last night at the mall."
I looked around at all of them, bewildered. How could they all have such a random, simultaneous opinion? But lesson learned: Mind your fonts at work, people. While Times New Roman might say, "Hey, I'm an expert; listen to me," Comic Sans MS just says you're a slacker Heather standing in line at Orange Julius. But, like, what's wrong with that?
Sunday, June 11, 2006
A Loving Homage to Musical Prodigy Nick Lachey on VH1's Behind the Music or, So Far Behind the Music It's Like We Took a Wrong Turn and Landed in Shit
There's a new Behind the Music and it's on Nick Lachey. Because that makes sense; his career with 98 Degrees revolutionized the face of music. Rarely does a day go by when "give me just one night! una noche..." doesn't spur me to reach greater heights than I ever fathomed were within my reach. Basically it was a shameless ploy to get him to talk about Jessica Simpson for 47 minutes. Next week Anderson Cooper will do an in-depth report on how Nick feels their divorce has impacted immigration laws, certain to include hard-hitting questions such as, "So was Jessica, like, totally bipolar or what?"
Me: They went right from their wedding to the Newlyweds show and skipped the part about Nick deflowering Jessica. That's unacceptable!
Dave: Totally.
Me: Hello, where's the sex? I could be reading a book right now.
Dave: Nick Lachey is crying.
Me: I'd venture to say he's weeping.
Dave: I bet he had to sign a contract for them and promise to cry like a little bitch. [Incidentally, that's probably the most frat boy thing I've ever heard Dave say.]
Nick, choking back tears, is talking about how "it's all about holding that little girl for the first time."
Me: What little girl?
Dave: I was wondering that myself.
Me: Who is this little girl he wants to hold? We may need to explore this.
Dave: Maybe it's Jessica.
Me: Maybe it's Ashlee. Maybe it's Lindsay Lohan!
We are informed that Nick is "emerging from the shadows of his past."
Me: This is one big personal ad.
Dave: He's dreamy.
Me: I can't believe it's over and I missed the first half hour.
Dave: Yeah. It's a shame VH1 never replays anything.
Me: They went right from their wedding to the Newlyweds show and skipped the part about Nick deflowering Jessica. That's unacceptable!
Dave: Totally.
Me: Hello, where's the sex? I could be reading a book right now.
Dave: Nick Lachey is crying.
Me: I'd venture to say he's weeping.
Dave: I bet he had to sign a contract for them and promise to cry like a little bitch. [Incidentally, that's probably the most frat boy thing I've ever heard Dave say.]
Nick, choking back tears, is talking about how "it's all about holding that little girl for the first time."
Me: What little girl?
Dave: I was wondering that myself.
Me: Who is this little girl he wants to hold? We may need to explore this.
Dave: Maybe it's Jessica.
Me: Maybe it's Ashlee. Maybe it's Lindsay Lohan!
We are informed that Nick is "emerging from the shadows of his past."
Me: This is one big personal ad.
Dave: He's dreamy.
Me: I can't believe it's over and I missed the first half hour.
Dave: Yeah. It's a shame VH1 never replays anything.
Friday, June 09, 2006
never trust a fake redhead
Apparently McDonalds is going around to elementary schools promoting their fitness program for kids, all the while peddling them the chicken nuggets that they devour like crack. And who better to run the program than Ronald McScaryassclownington himself? When he came into my office I actually gasped and put my hand over my mouth, and he laughed like I was excited and not slightly terrified. I was thinking less about happy meals and more about Stephen King. I always thought you were just misunderstood in It; please don't kill me.
God love Supergirl, she made me laugh for the first time ever. Actually, second time ever, but the first time was too much of a work-related thing to bother explaining. She looked right at him and without missing a beat, handed him a pen and said, "Sure, Ronald," without a hint of the sing-songy voice she almost always has, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He never returned the pen. I wish I'd asked him to use it to sign my copy of Fast Food Nation.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
eHorrorstory
So here's my story about how eHarmony changed my life, and it isn't because it ended with me meeting Rick, 29, English teacher. Let's just say that it won't be set to music in any upcoming commercials. (Warning: It's long and dramatic, so proceed with caution and a sense of humor.)
Okay, let's roll back to 1995 for a minute to get a little background info. In the grand tradition of freshman year roommates, the girl that I was assigned to live with when I got to college was not someone that I liked right away, to put it mildly. She was snotty, knew everything, and brought a poster of men in a sauna to tape to our wall. Of course, she probably met me and thought, "spoiled, flaky, and brought a Curious George poster."
We didn't really like each other for months, and then when we came back from winter break, she was kinda interested in this guy. I had a boyfriend (who at the time was still male); she asked me for advice and we ended up staying up for hours talking, the first of many nights we'd do that, lying on our beds, looking up at the glow-in-the-dark star stickers on the ceiling that we actually arranged into various constellations because in college you have way too much free time on your hands. After that night, the dynamic between us somehow shifted and we were suddenly inseparable. It has never made sense to anyone who has known us. We are drastically different people; you would never think to sit us next to each other at a dinner party (if anyone I knew ever actually had a formal dinner party, that is). In college we lived together for two years (the only people we know who chose to live with their assigned roommates again). We just became family. She irritated and infuriated me and I disagreed with half the things that came out of her mouth. I also adored her; sometimes it's just that simple and that weird. Ten years later we were still best friends.
A couple years ago I saw the ad on TV for the eHarmony free personality profile. I was mildly intrigued and completed it, at which point they start sending you boys. Not via FedEx, I'm sorry to say, but your inbox suddenly becomes littered with potential suitors. I didn't take it too seriously. I didn't really want to go on dates with strangers; never really have. But my friends who had nursed me through a recent difficult break-up urged me to keep an open mind.
I had an instant message conversation with one of the eHarmony guys. After a few typed lines from him, I just knew I wasn't interested. He was a realtor, living in the same town as my friend. At the time, she was thinking about selling her house, and she happened to be online as well. So I said, mostly joking, "Hey, YOU should talk to this guy." They were both game. I logged off, and then about an hour later, she called me.
"We've been chatting for awhile and he wants to call me," she said. "Do you mind?"
"No, not at all."
"Are you sure?"
I was positive. The guy couldn't spell.
She called a few hours later. "We've been on the phone all this time."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I kind of like him! Is this ridiculous?"
Oh, to have a time machine, and be able to respond to that with, "Yes, yes it is."
"...and he asked me to have dinner with him on Tuesday."
"Really!"
"Are you SURE you don't mind?"
"I'm completely sure. He's all yours."
She checked in with me about a zillion more times to make sure it wasn't weird for me. I can see how she thought it would be, but it wasn't an issue. Before she even met him, she joked that if they ended up getting married, they'd owe me big. I said they'd owe me flowers.
I never got flowers. I did, however, have to carry some in their wedding a year later. They got engaged three months after that first date. I'd love to tell you that it ended up being the sweet, accidental love story that it could've been, that I met him and loved him too, that she has everything she's ever wanted. But everything basically went as craptastic as it possibly could have.
She hadn't really dated anyone seriously before, so all of our friends were very curious about this guy. She was nervous about he and I meeting. The three of us had dinner together, and it was, um, what's the word? Horrific? I asked about him and his job, just to make conversation; he answered me flippantly and didn't ask a thing about me. I was in grad school at the time and he started pontificating about how he'd never go to grad school because it's a waste of time. He was possessive of her even at that point, chiding me for thinking I knew her so well when HE was really the expert on her. I mean, what? He was just The Classic Jerk; it was like a sitcom. He got up to go to the mens room and I was convinced that she was about to turn to me and say, "Oh my GOD, he's AWFUL." I was already plotting what we could tell him in order to cut dinner short and get the hell out of there. But she just smiled, giddy, falling in love. I was horrified.
The next day she called to find out what I thought of him without coming right out and asking what I thought of him. At a loss for words, I said (the line that quickly became infamous among our friends), "I can't believe there wasn't a wait at [the restaurant]!" In retrospect, it was inadvertently unkind of me; I should've indulged her, should've just said something innocuous like, "He seemed nice" or "You guys seem happy together." Or maybe not, I don't know. I hadn't yet had the experience of having a friend partner up with a doofus and having to choose my words delicately; I foolishly thought if he's THIS bad, she's GOT to see it, right? ...Right?
Anyway, that was pretty much it for the two of us. She essentially replaced me with him, which I think can happen to your best friend, to an extent, when you get into a relationship. But she didn't even try to juggle; she was just basically gone. She didn't even call me on my birthday. It was awful and I was, well, heartbroken, I shouldn't be ashamed to say. The worst part, though, was that it wasn't just that we drifted apart and that was it; she still called sometimes, acting like everything was fine and her life was wonderful and he, we, us and how was I doing with whatever I might be up to? She'd make a call like this about once a month or so and chat like we were distant cousins, when she had literally been like my other half for ten years. I kept wishing that if this was how it was going to be that she would just go away and give me a chance to get over it; it's funny to say that I needed closure, as though she and I were really in a relationship, but I guess we were and I did need it.
The rest of our friends thought he was a jackass too, but after my "Neat! Uncrowded restaurant!" comment, I became their unwitting representative. A few of them actually said to another friend of ours, "You guys can't let her marry him! Are you going to talk to her?" to which our friend replied, "She got a sense that Red didn't like him and it basically ended their friendship, so we're keeping our mouths shut."
I should mention that he hated me. HATED ME. He would see me and not even say hello, and I always tried to be polite and take the high road, even though I really wanted to kick him in the head. I mean, when I was with Steve, he really had nothing in common with her, but he knew how important she was to me and he made a big effort with her because of this. I can't fathom a relationship in which your significant other doesn't make an effort with your friends, where they're so inexplicably threatened by the people that you love that they can't even be bothered to say hello to them. Furthermore, I can't imagine anyone being in a relationship with this person and being flattered and not disgusted by their possessiveness and utter lack of confidence. But hey, there's someone for everyone, I guess.
Then she wanted me to be in her wedding. I decided that the right thing to do was chin up, smile, this isn't about YOU, Red. She'd been fantasizing about her wedding since we were young (I know, ew) and I just felt like this wasn't the time for everything I was actually feeling; this was the time to be a good sport. I even tried to throw her a bachelorette party that she promptly said wasn't good enough because her random cousins weren't invited, and then her childhood friend chewed me out for not honoring the bride sufficiently. I took a day and went to her house and helped her with the invitations, all the while trying to be sunny side up; afterwards all she did was talk to our friends about how she thought I was acting weird. At the wedding, every single person there KIND OF knew how they'd met; somehow a slightly altered version of the story had circulated wherein he'd basically chosen her over me. Like I needed 250 people, including my parents and my friends' parents, to hear that not only had I tried and failed at internet dating, but that homeboy had actually dissed me. And I couldn't exactly refute that rumor; no one wants to see a bridesmaid point angrily at the groom and yell, "Like I ever would've gotten on that troll!" AND to top it all off, I was wearing the most ugly, unflattering, purplest David's Bridal dress on the planet. I looked like a sad grape.
After the wedding, I was so relieved that it was all over and exhausted from being such a goddamn good sport that I sat in my hotel room (next to Party Jen and the room service breakfast that her dad had ordered for us out of kindness/sympathy/in anticipation of our mutual hangovers) and felt like crying from relief and disbelief at everything that had happened. Of course, I had to show up for the do-over bachelorette party, which was organized more to the bride's liking this time. Can you imagine the nerve, demanding a better bachelorette party, of all things, AFTER you're already married, and after your friends have already spent all that time and money on your shower and wedding? To make matters worse, she prided herself the entire time on not acting like a bridezilla. It didn't help that she took every opportunity to be condescending to me about the fact that SHE was married and I was pathetically single; she conveyed this to me in a million little ways that I've forced myself to erase from memory so that I don't walk through life with permanently clenched fists.
After a few months, the novelty of being in a relationship was starting to wear off a little bit and she started being interested in having friends again. I agreed to see the movie Rent with her; we'd been obsessed with the musical in college, and it seemed only fitting to see it together. Subway and Flux came along and I was tense the entire time. That was the last time I saw her; insert one of many appropriate Rent lines here.
Shortly thereafter I heard she was complaining to some of our friends about how I wasn't including her in my life anymore, and what was my problem? I was livid. I wrote her a long email basically saying, after everything you did over the past year and a half, how dare you complain about me finally starting to move on and have a life that doesn't include you. I wanted to write the entire thing in caps lock. I STILL KIND OF DO. She wrote back something equally hostile. Email confrontations are ugly and childish at worst and unproductive at best; I don't recommend them unless you're fairly certain that you want that to be your last interaction.
Then I heard that she and her husband had separated. That classy guy hooked up with someone else and took a picture of it, which she found. Then they got divorced. And the icing on the cake was that she'd sold her house when she first met him and moved in with him, and they basically used all the money they got from selling her home to pay for their ginormous wedding and various vacations and remodeling on HIS home (actually not even his, it belonged to his grandmother, who still lived there). So not only was she going through a divorce less than a few months after her wedding, but this woman who had been financially astute enough to purchase a home at the age of 23 had lost that entire investment. AND she'd already ordered a maternity bridesmaid dress for a friend's wedding this summer, in anticipation of being pregnant (talk about tempting fate), and then had to have it taken in when it became clear that she would not be with child, or with husband, for that matter.
I sent her an email telling her I was sorry to hear about what she was going through. She wrote back saying thanks. That was six months ago. I have no idea how she's doing or who's helping her through this, since out of her other close friends, one just had a baby and the other moved away (one of them started giving me shit for being single too, and I eventually had to distance myself from her as well, if you can believe that, but that's a whole other boring story).
Sometimes I think about her, at stupid times that catch me off guard, like when I was watching the Will & Grace series finale. Sometimes I don't even think about her at all; or if I do, it's the old her, the one I barely remember because the new version of her took over. Sometimes I even think about calling her, but never for long enough to actually do it. I do miss my old best friend a whole lot, but as with any relationship that ends, you try to move on and see what else is out there. And you hope that the best is still to come and that it isn't what you already had.
So, yeah. Like I said, that crazy white-haired guy is not exactly going to be bragging about my experience on any of the eHarmony commercials anytime soon. But you have to admit, it would make for one hell of a parody.
Okay, let's roll back to 1995 for a minute to get a little background info. In the grand tradition of freshman year roommates, the girl that I was assigned to live with when I got to college was not someone that I liked right away, to put it mildly. She was snotty, knew everything, and brought a poster of men in a sauna to tape to our wall. Of course, she probably met me and thought, "spoiled, flaky, and brought a Curious George poster."
We didn't really like each other for months, and then when we came back from winter break, she was kinda interested in this guy. I had a boyfriend (who at the time was still male); she asked me for advice and we ended up staying up for hours talking, the first of many nights we'd do that, lying on our beds, looking up at the glow-in-the-dark star stickers on the ceiling that we actually arranged into various constellations because in college you have way too much free time on your hands. After that night, the dynamic between us somehow shifted and we were suddenly inseparable. It has never made sense to anyone who has known us. We are drastically different people; you would never think to sit us next to each other at a dinner party (if anyone I knew ever actually had a formal dinner party, that is). In college we lived together for two years (the only people we know who chose to live with their assigned roommates again). We just became family. She irritated and infuriated me and I disagreed with half the things that came out of her mouth. I also adored her; sometimes it's just that simple and that weird. Ten years later we were still best friends.
A couple years ago I saw the ad on TV for the eHarmony free personality profile. I was mildly intrigued and completed it, at which point they start sending you boys. Not via FedEx, I'm sorry to say, but your inbox suddenly becomes littered with potential suitors. I didn't take it too seriously. I didn't really want to go on dates with strangers; never really have. But my friends who had nursed me through a recent difficult break-up urged me to keep an open mind.
I had an instant message conversation with one of the eHarmony guys. After a few typed lines from him, I just knew I wasn't interested. He was a realtor, living in the same town as my friend. At the time, she was thinking about selling her house, and she happened to be online as well. So I said, mostly joking, "Hey, YOU should talk to this guy." They were both game. I logged off, and then about an hour later, she called me.
"We've been chatting for awhile and he wants to call me," she said. "Do you mind?"
"No, not at all."
"Are you sure?"
I was positive. The guy couldn't spell.
She called a few hours later. "We've been on the phone all this time."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I kind of like him! Is this ridiculous?"
Oh, to have a time machine, and be able to respond to that with, "Yes, yes it is."
"...and he asked me to have dinner with him on Tuesday."
"Really!"
"Are you SURE you don't mind?"
"I'm completely sure. He's all yours."
She checked in with me about a zillion more times to make sure it wasn't weird for me. I can see how she thought it would be, but it wasn't an issue. Before she even met him, she joked that if they ended up getting married, they'd owe me big. I said they'd owe me flowers.
I never got flowers. I did, however, have to carry some in their wedding a year later. They got engaged three months after that first date. I'd love to tell you that it ended up being the sweet, accidental love story that it could've been, that I met him and loved him too, that she has everything she's ever wanted. But everything basically went as craptastic as it possibly could have.
She hadn't really dated anyone seriously before, so all of our friends were very curious about this guy. She was nervous about he and I meeting. The three of us had dinner together, and it was, um, what's the word? Horrific? I asked about him and his job, just to make conversation; he answered me flippantly and didn't ask a thing about me. I was in grad school at the time and he started pontificating about how he'd never go to grad school because it's a waste of time. He was possessive of her even at that point, chiding me for thinking I knew her so well when HE was really the expert on her. I mean, what? He was just The Classic Jerk; it was like a sitcom. He got up to go to the mens room and I was convinced that she was about to turn to me and say, "Oh my GOD, he's AWFUL." I was already plotting what we could tell him in order to cut dinner short and get the hell out of there. But she just smiled, giddy, falling in love. I was horrified.
The next day she called to find out what I thought of him without coming right out and asking what I thought of him. At a loss for words, I said (the line that quickly became infamous among our friends), "I can't believe there wasn't a wait at [the restaurant]!" In retrospect, it was inadvertently unkind of me; I should've indulged her, should've just said something innocuous like, "He seemed nice" or "You guys seem happy together." Or maybe not, I don't know. I hadn't yet had the experience of having a friend partner up with a doofus and having to choose my words delicately; I foolishly thought if he's THIS bad, she's GOT to see it, right? ...Right?
Anyway, that was pretty much it for the two of us. She essentially replaced me with him, which I think can happen to your best friend, to an extent, when you get into a relationship. But she didn't even try to juggle; she was just basically gone. She didn't even call me on my birthday. It was awful and I was, well, heartbroken, I shouldn't be ashamed to say. The worst part, though, was that it wasn't just that we drifted apart and that was it; she still called sometimes, acting like everything was fine and her life was wonderful and he, we, us and how was I doing with whatever I might be up to? She'd make a call like this about once a month or so and chat like we were distant cousins, when she had literally been like my other half for ten years. I kept wishing that if this was how it was going to be that she would just go away and give me a chance to get over it; it's funny to say that I needed closure, as though she and I were really in a relationship, but I guess we were and I did need it.
The rest of our friends thought he was a jackass too, but after my "Neat! Uncrowded restaurant!" comment, I became their unwitting representative. A few of them actually said to another friend of ours, "You guys can't let her marry him! Are you going to talk to her?" to which our friend replied, "She got a sense that Red didn't like him and it basically ended their friendship, so we're keeping our mouths shut."
I should mention that he hated me. HATED ME. He would see me and not even say hello, and I always tried to be polite and take the high road, even though I really wanted to kick him in the head. I mean, when I was with Steve, he really had nothing in common with her, but he knew how important she was to me and he made a big effort with her because of this. I can't fathom a relationship in which your significant other doesn't make an effort with your friends, where they're so inexplicably threatened by the people that you love that they can't even be bothered to say hello to them. Furthermore, I can't imagine anyone being in a relationship with this person and being flattered and not disgusted by their possessiveness and utter lack of confidence. But hey, there's someone for everyone, I guess.
Then she wanted me to be in her wedding. I decided that the right thing to do was chin up, smile, this isn't about YOU, Red. She'd been fantasizing about her wedding since we were young (I know, ew) and I just felt like this wasn't the time for everything I was actually feeling; this was the time to be a good sport. I even tried to throw her a bachelorette party that she promptly said wasn't good enough because her random cousins weren't invited, and then her childhood friend chewed me out for not honoring the bride sufficiently. I took a day and went to her house and helped her with the invitations, all the while trying to be sunny side up; afterwards all she did was talk to our friends about how she thought I was acting weird. At the wedding, every single person there KIND OF knew how they'd met; somehow a slightly altered version of the story had circulated wherein he'd basically chosen her over me. Like I needed 250 people, including my parents and my friends' parents, to hear that not only had I tried and failed at internet dating, but that homeboy had actually dissed me. And I couldn't exactly refute that rumor; no one wants to see a bridesmaid point angrily at the groom and yell, "Like I ever would've gotten on that troll!" AND to top it all off, I was wearing the most ugly, unflattering, purplest David's Bridal dress on the planet. I looked like a sad grape.
After the wedding, I was so relieved that it was all over and exhausted from being such a goddamn good sport that I sat in my hotel room (next to Party Jen and the room service breakfast that her dad had ordered for us out of kindness/sympathy/in anticipation of our mutual hangovers) and felt like crying from relief and disbelief at everything that had happened. Of course, I had to show up for the do-over bachelorette party, which was organized more to the bride's liking this time. Can you imagine the nerve, demanding a better bachelorette party, of all things, AFTER you're already married, and after your friends have already spent all that time and money on your shower and wedding? To make matters worse, she prided herself the entire time on not acting like a bridezilla. It didn't help that she took every opportunity to be condescending to me about the fact that SHE was married and I was pathetically single; she conveyed this to me in a million little ways that I've forced myself to erase from memory so that I don't walk through life with permanently clenched fists.
After a few months, the novelty of being in a relationship was starting to wear off a little bit and she started being interested in having friends again. I agreed to see the movie Rent with her; we'd been obsessed with the musical in college, and it seemed only fitting to see it together. Subway and Flux came along and I was tense the entire time. That was the last time I saw her; insert one of many appropriate Rent lines here.
Shortly thereafter I heard she was complaining to some of our friends about how I wasn't including her in my life anymore, and what was my problem? I was livid. I wrote her a long email basically saying, after everything you did over the past year and a half, how dare you complain about me finally starting to move on and have a life that doesn't include you. I wanted to write the entire thing in caps lock. I STILL KIND OF DO. She wrote back something equally hostile. Email confrontations are ugly and childish at worst and unproductive at best; I don't recommend them unless you're fairly certain that you want that to be your last interaction.
Then I heard that she and her husband had separated. That classy guy hooked up with someone else and took a picture of it, which she found. Then they got divorced. And the icing on the cake was that she'd sold her house when she first met him and moved in with him, and they basically used all the money they got from selling her home to pay for their ginormous wedding and various vacations and remodeling on HIS home (actually not even his, it belonged to his grandmother, who still lived there). So not only was she going through a divorce less than a few months after her wedding, but this woman who had been financially astute enough to purchase a home at the age of 23 had lost that entire investment. AND she'd already ordered a maternity bridesmaid dress for a friend's wedding this summer, in anticipation of being pregnant (talk about tempting fate), and then had to have it taken in when it became clear that she would not be with child, or with husband, for that matter.
I sent her an email telling her I was sorry to hear about what she was going through. She wrote back saying thanks. That was six months ago. I have no idea how she's doing or who's helping her through this, since out of her other close friends, one just had a baby and the other moved away (one of them started giving me shit for being single too, and I eventually had to distance myself from her as well, if you can believe that, but that's a whole other boring story).
Sometimes I think about her, at stupid times that catch me off guard, like when I was watching the Will & Grace series finale. Sometimes I don't even think about her at all; or if I do, it's the old her, the one I barely remember because the new version of her took over. Sometimes I even think about calling her, but never for long enough to actually do it. I do miss my old best friend a whole lot, but as with any relationship that ends, you try to move on and see what else is out there. And you hope that the best is still to come and that it isn't what you already had.
So, yeah. Like I said, that crazy white-haired guy is not exactly going to be bragging about my experience on any of the eHarmony commercials anytime soon. But you have to admit, it would make for one hell of a parody.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
blech
I'm the most clichéd sick person ever right now: The weather is gloomy and it's raining buckets, I lost my voice while calling in to work, there's a gallon of orange juice in the fridge, a quart of the best chicken vegetable noodle soup on the planet (from The Factory), peppermint tea, Oprah (they were on their honeymoon and the groom just disappeared!), blue moon pajamas that you all know so well, and Harper's Bazaar, which promises to tell me about how Jennifer Aniston apparently has a whole new life. Not to mention quite a tan.
This is the second time this year I've gotten sick, and I'm not usually someone who gets colds. I don't know what the hell is up with my immune system (it can handle a New England winter but abandons me in June?) but I'm attempting to ply it with vitamin C, extra strength Tylenol and the Travel Channel. After last summer's parasite, I can't be brought down by a few piddly little germs. Strong like bull.
This is the second time this year I've gotten sick, and I'm not usually someone who gets colds. I don't know what the hell is up with my immune system (it can handle a New England winter but abandons me in June?) but I'm attempting to ply it with vitamin C, extra strength Tylenol and the Travel Channel. After last summer's parasite, I can't be brought down by a few piddly little germs. Strong like bull.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
don't mess with the bull, young man, you'll get the horns
Dave and I were talking about our parents' best idle threats when we were teenagers. You know, the things that would come out of their mouth when they were yelling at you for the 400th time and they just couldn't find it within themselves to make sense anymore. His dad once yelled, "You're trying to fuck with fire, but fire don't fuck!" I love that. One time I told my mom she was stupid and she came back with, "I'll stupid your head!" which really only proved my point.
Her favorite saying when I was growing up was, "Nine months with my head in a toilet, thirteen hours of labor, for THIS." But because of her slight Boston accent, the ending would always come out, "fahTHIS."
My dad once told me that if I slammed my bedroom door again he'd take it off the hinges, but other than that he didn't really get mad at me, I think because he usually understood me.
He was at my apartment fixing my modem the other day, and he noticed that one of my old Sweet Valley High books was on my bookshelf right next to Crime and Punishment. He pointed to it and said, "That sums you up pretty well."
Then I told him I was reading C&P (because I already read all the Sweet Valleys in fourth grade) and he took it out and said, "Where's your bookmark?"
That's so my dad. No yelling, but incessant ball-busting.
Her favorite saying when I was growing up was, "Nine months with my head in a toilet, thirteen hours of labor, for THIS." But because of her slight Boston accent, the ending would always come out, "fahTHIS."
My dad once told me that if I slammed my bedroom door again he'd take it off the hinges, but other than that he didn't really get mad at me, I think because he usually understood me.
He was at my apartment fixing my modem the other day, and he noticed that one of my old Sweet Valley High books was on my bookshelf right next to Crime and Punishment. He pointed to it and said, "That sums you up pretty well."
Then I told him I was reading C&P (because I already read all the Sweet Valleys in fourth grade) and he took it out and said, "Where's your bookmark?"
That's so my dad. No yelling, but incessant ball-busting.
Monday, June 05, 2006
schoolhouse rock
As in most schools, 60% of the people that I work with are intelligent, proactive, and roll with the punches. The other 40% are disgruntled, passive-aggressive, and indignant at the slightest disruption to their schedule, to the point where you wonder if they stop their car at crosswalks and yell at pedestrians.
My school is getting a new principal in the fall. He came in today to introduce himself during a faculty meeting. He spoke for fifteen minutes and promised four times that he wouldn't try to change anything. Of all the things he could've said, this seemed like a fitting, albeit disconcerting, promise to make to educators, appealing to the 100-year-olds that are technically my colleagues but that I still feel weird not calling Mrs. We only have a few of these (and some that are elderly only in attitude) but they wear on the rest of us. Next I expected to hear him promise not to dissuade anyone from teaching an entire year's worth of curriculum out of a workbook that was written in 1972, and vow not to keep anyone a minute past 2:40 because it's not in my contract and I'm not staying I don't care I told you it's not in my contract.
I'm totally over the education system being the last holdout of non-professionalism (except for that tow truck place on Goodenough Street in Brighton, which is actually a gaping portal to hell). I've long thought, as I know many people have, that education should be as difficult to get into and as prestigious an endeavor as medicine, attracting the brilliant, innovative, and kid-intuitive, and, of course, pay accordingly. I'm fortunate because I happen to work in a district in which most of my everyday colleagues fall into that category, and I'm working to get there myself. I'm optimistic that a new generation can... wait, I'm sorry, this isn't a commencement speech. I'm hoping that the young people in education, who have had to go through more hands-on training and get more degrees and levels of certification and come into the profession armed with and having access to more cutting-edge information than their school marm predecessors, can shake things up a little bit (or at the very least eliminate the ridiculously long summer vacation, which is the most blatant disregard of children's intellectual well-being since GameCube)... or will the energetic fresh-outs of today just eventually get old and prune-like, silently pass out worksheets, and insist on every precious coffee break? Hard to say, I guess, but I'm holding out hope.
My school is getting a new principal in the fall. He came in today to introduce himself during a faculty meeting. He spoke for fifteen minutes and promised four times that he wouldn't try to change anything. Of all the things he could've said, this seemed like a fitting, albeit disconcerting, promise to make to educators, appealing to the 100-year-olds that are technically my colleagues but that I still feel weird not calling Mrs. We only have a few of these (and some that are elderly only in attitude) but they wear on the rest of us. Next I expected to hear him promise not to dissuade anyone from teaching an entire year's worth of curriculum out of a workbook that was written in 1972, and vow not to keep anyone a minute past 2:40 because it's not in my contract and I'm not staying I don't care I told you it's not in my contract.
I'm totally over the education system being the last holdout of non-professionalism (except for that tow truck place on Goodenough Street in Brighton, which is actually a gaping portal to hell). I've long thought, as I know many people have, that education should be as difficult to get into and as prestigious an endeavor as medicine, attracting the brilliant, innovative, and kid-intuitive, and, of course, pay accordingly. I'm fortunate because I happen to work in a district in which most of my everyday colleagues fall into that category, and I'm working to get there myself. I'm optimistic that a new generation can... wait, I'm sorry, this isn't a commencement speech. I'm hoping that the young people in education, who have had to go through more hands-on training and get more degrees and levels of certification and come into the profession armed with and having access to more cutting-edge information than their school marm predecessors, can shake things up a little bit (or at the very least eliminate the ridiculously long summer vacation, which is the most blatant disregard of children's intellectual well-being since GameCube)... or will the energetic fresh-outs of today just eventually get old and prune-like, silently pass out worksheets, and insist on every precious coffee break? Hard to say, I guess, but I'm holding out hope.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
sing, sing a song...
I received an invitation from Crazy Neighbor to attend a party at an allegedly schmancy restaurant on Tuesday. And by "received an invitation" I mean that I wrote down the name of a guy to ask for at the door and was told to tell him that Crazy Neighbor sent me. The only problem is that I can't remember Crazy's last name but I don't think it's Neighbor. It all started because he dropped a line about borrowing people's mansions to host parties, and I immediately wanted in on that crazy-sounding shit. I wouldn't even know how to go about asking to borrow your mansion, but I want to be people who know people, especially people who work out arrangements like this that walk that fine line between pimping and squatting. As for Tuesday, Carly seemed game to be my date and I have to admit that I'm intrigued; honestly, I can't fathom an event that requires dropping Crazy's name for admittance. And God knows that any party that starts at 6 PM on a Tuesday can only mean one thing: we're gonna rock out like Girl Scouts.
But all that pales, PALES in comparison to something that I found out last night: My TV has karaoke. FREE karaoke. How did no one think it relevant to tell me before now that MY TV HAS FREE KARAOKE? There's even a soft rock category. I really can't describe the feeling you get when you suddenly find out that you can sing Rock the Casbah or Every Rose Has Its Thorn WITH BACK-UP in your own living room: it's like your birthday and Christmas and the anticipation of partying with the elderly on a Tuesday afternoon all rolled into one.
But all that pales, PALES in comparison to something that I found out last night: My TV has karaoke. FREE karaoke. How did no one think it relevant to tell me before now that MY TV HAS FREE KARAOKE? There's even a soft rock category. I really can't describe the feeling you get when you suddenly find out that you can sing Rock the Casbah or Every Rose Has Its Thorn WITH BACK-UP in your own living room: it's like your birthday and Christmas and the anticipation of partying with the elderly on a Tuesday afternoon all rolled into one.
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