Tuesday, July 27, 2004
I Eat Glue.
I ran into my first-ever date Saturday night. I use the word "date" in the loosest meaning of the word. It was a high school dance, and he and I rode in a limo with two or three other "couples" to dinner, the dance, and then home. I don't remember talking to him, and I'm almost certain that we never touched - even while dancing - that fateful night.
He was a geek and I was a freshman. The other kids in band called him "Noggin'" because of the shape of his head, or nose, or something. I had a crush on his best friend.
The most memorable moment of our short courtship was when his mother came over to my house to meet my parents. She did not want her son going to a dance with a girl whose parents she didn't know. We all sat uncomfortably on the plaid couch in my parents' living room. There were five of us: he and his mom, my dad, step-mom and I. His dad sat out in the car in the driveway.
The reason for that is far too long to explain.
The meeting took forever, and I know this because I stared past the chatting parents, zoned in on both The Lawrence Welk Show *and* Dr. Who. They drank coffee and talked about marching band. I watched a giant green creature (created out of some sort of glowing plastic wrap) move across the television. The guy cracked jokes that my parents didn't "get". I watched bubbles fill the screen as music played.
That day was horrible. As was the dance. Noggin' and I didn't talk for the remainder of my freshman year. And I didn't mind that.
When I saw him Saturday night, he was hitting on my friend. I said his name and he turned to me.
"We went to homecoming together," I said.
"Oh. What's your name?" he asked.
I wasn’t crushed. He was wearing a t-shirt that said, "I Eat Glue."
I ran into my first-ever date Saturday night. I use the word "date" in the loosest meaning of the word. It was a high school dance, and he and I rode in a limo with two or three other "couples" to dinner, the dance, and then home. I don't remember talking to him, and I'm almost certain that we never touched - even while dancing - that fateful night.
He was a geek and I was a freshman. The other kids in band called him "Noggin'" because of the shape of his head, or nose, or something. I had a crush on his best friend.
The most memorable moment of our short courtship was when his mother came over to my house to meet my parents. She did not want her son going to a dance with a girl whose parents she didn't know. We all sat uncomfortably on the plaid couch in my parents' living room. There were five of us: he and his mom, my dad, step-mom and I. His dad sat out in the car in the driveway.
The reason for that is far too long to explain.
The meeting took forever, and I know this because I stared past the chatting parents, zoned in on both The Lawrence Welk Show *and* Dr. Who. They drank coffee and talked about marching band. I watched a giant green creature (created out of some sort of glowing plastic wrap) move across the television. The guy cracked jokes that my parents didn't "get". I watched bubbles fill the screen as music played.
That day was horrible. As was the dance. Noggin' and I didn't talk for the remainder of my freshman year. And I didn't mind that.
When I saw him Saturday night, he was hitting on my friend. I said his name and he turned to me.
"We went to homecoming together," I said.
"Oh. What's your name?" he asked.
I wasn’t crushed. He was wearing a t-shirt that said, "I Eat Glue."
Hey Ya'll.
Sorry it's been so long since a post. I'll have one up soon - a real one. Later today, even. I Promise. And no spatting via comments. This is a friendly blog atmosphere.
Sorry it's been so long since a post. I'll have one up soon - a real one. Later today, even. I Promise. And no spatting via comments. This is a friendly blog atmosphere.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Summer.
I'm sitting at my desk, eating cherry butter from Petoskey, Michigan. I want to be in Northern Michigan right now, sitting on the deck of my Aunt Marcy's cottage in Baldwin. I want to be twelve years old, coloring paper dolls and making friendship bracelets with my older sister.
I want to walk into the lake and feel the soft mushy bottom between my toes. I want to swim out into the center and float on my back, looking at the moon above me. I want to swat at the dragonflies and try to catch the tiny frogs.
I can't do any of those things right now. But I can eat this cherry butter. It tastes like the summer of 1991.
I'm sitting at my desk, eating cherry butter from Petoskey, Michigan. I want to be in Northern Michigan right now, sitting on the deck of my Aunt Marcy's cottage in Baldwin. I want to be twelve years old, coloring paper dolls and making friendship bracelets with my older sister.
I want to walk into the lake and feel the soft mushy bottom between my toes. I want to swim out into the center and float on my back, looking at the moon above me. I want to swat at the dragonflies and try to catch the tiny frogs.
I can't do any of those things right now. But I can eat this cherry butter. It tastes like the summer of 1991.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
About A Boy. And His Neighbors.
His neighbor left me a note telling me that I'm not supposed to park in his lot. I laughed off the note, correcting the grammar in my head and decided to park all the way to the left, in front of his condo, so as not to piss off any more neighbors.
Parking altercations in the Midwest amuse me. It's not like we're in San Francisco or New York City. We have at least two things to trump our coastal neighbors. We have cheap cigarettes and we have space.
Nonetheless, people are serious about their parking here in Ohio.
About six months ago, I left my car at the Treebar overnight, which was a very smart move, given the other option. When I returned in the morning, a Suit from the business that shares the parking lot with the bar came out to yell at me.
"You shouldn't have parked here overnight," he said.
"I don't think you - or anyone - would have wanted me to drive," I laughed.
"I could have had you towed," he replied.
"I could have driven through the window of your showroom," I countered, silently.
A week later, there was a sign on the door of the Treebar asking customers to please talk to a bartender if they plan to leave their cars overnight.
So. Back to the condo parking lot. I mentioned the note to him and he hypothesized as to who left it on my windshield. And then I immediately forgot about the incident.
Until today. On our way back from lunch, my co-worker took an interest in my car.
"Who keyed you?" he asked.
"What?" I don't notice things like this.
"Dude. Someone got you bad. Do you have anyone who hates you?"
From the front panel of my car all the way across to the middle of my trunk, there is a very distinct key line. The artist even went so far as to key over the dealer's applique on the back of the car.
"Yeah," he repeated, "some fucker hates you."
I guess the poorly written note on the windshield wasn't enough.
And now I feel sick.
His neighbor left me a note telling me that I'm not supposed to park in his lot. I laughed off the note, correcting the grammar in my head and decided to park all the way to the left, in front of his condo, so as not to piss off any more neighbors.
Parking altercations in the Midwest amuse me. It's not like we're in San Francisco or New York City. We have at least two things to trump our coastal neighbors. We have cheap cigarettes and we have space.
Nonetheless, people are serious about their parking here in Ohio.
About six months ago, I left my car at the Treebar overnight, which was a very smart move, given the other option. When I returned in the morning, a Suit from the business that shares the parking lot with the bar came out to yell at me.
"You shouldn't have parked here overnight," he said.
"I don't think you - or anyone - would have wanted me to drive," I laughed.
"I could have had you towed," he replied.
"I could have driven through the window of your showroom," I countered, silently.
A week later, there was a sign on the door of the Treebar asking customers to please talk to a bartender if they plan to leave their cars overnight.
So. Back to the condo parking lot. I mentioned the note to him and he hypothesized as to who left it on my windshield. And then I immediately forgot about the incident.
Until today. On our way back from lunch, my co-worker took an interest in my car.
"Who keyed you?" he asked.
"What?" I don't notice things like this.
"Dude. Someone got you bad. Do you have anyone who hates you?"
From the front panel of my car all the way across to the middle of my trunk, there is a very distinct key line. The artist even went so far as to key over the dealer's applique on the back of the car.
"Yeah," he repeated, "some fucker hates you."
I guess the poorly written note on the windshield wasn't enough.
And now I feel sick.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
The Number You Have Dialed is Not in Service.
I have recurring nightmares about communications technology. In the dreams, I'm desperately trying to reach someone through e-mail or by telephone, and spend valuable minutes misdialing the phone number or typing in the wrong address. These sequences reappear in slow motion in my dreams, as I dial repeatedly, trying to reach the person who will bring my luggage to me for a flight I'm about to miss, or the person who will stop me from being chased by my elementary school principal.
I always wake before I can make the life-changing connection.
A few years back, I had a true-to-life technology nightmare. I was stuck on a plane at the Detroit Airport, after returning from a winter trip to England. I had a connecting flight to New York City that I would not make because, for some reason, the International Terminal of the Detroit Airport was on fire. My trip to New York City was a timely one, and if I didn't make that flight, the rest of the trip would be moot; I would have to go home. After an hour on the runway, they freed us from our Northwest Airlines Prison. I hurried off the plane, not realizing that my backpack was open until I heard my cell phone hit the ground. I didn't think anything of it; I drop my cell phone quite frequently.
I was at the ticket counter, bartering with an unsympathetic customer service rep for a direct flight to Ohio when my phone rang. I tried to answer it, but none of the buttons would work. Someone was trying to reach me - someone who would most likely save me from my fate of being stranded at the Detroit Airport in a snowstorm - and I couldn't make contact with them.
When the woman at the desk told me that an itinerary switch to Ohio would cost me something in the arena of $300, my phone rang again. It was my dad. I couldn't answer him - or her. I left the counter and sat along a wall, bawling, while people lugging holiday packages and skis tried their luck with the good people of Northwest Airlines.
I went outside and stood in the snow, smoking a cigarette, crying, and trying to figure out how to get out of Detroit. I found a dollar and tried the payphone. My dad was on the internet, seeing if he could Priceline the same flight I needed to get on, for less money. When my dollar ran out, the phone went dead.
Outside, again. Try to dial. Nothing. The phone kept ringing and I couldn't even check the messages.
And then a stranger lent me his cell phone. "You look like you need some help."
It was there that my living nightmare ended. Had I been dreaming, I wouldn't have been able to make contact on that phone. A dog would have stolen it. I would continuously type the number in backwards. I would have woken up before I heard a "hello" on the other end.
It was calming to make the connection, even though the person on the other end could do nothing to help me.
After I regained composure, I thanked him and decided to try the folks at the International desk. I missed the last flight of the evening by five minutes, but managed to get back to Columbus only paying $100 for the flight, and receiving hotel and food vouchers for the evening.
Half an hour later, I sat at the hotel bar, drinking a beer and looking simultaneously at my broken cell phone and the snow falling outside, happy that no one could call and disrupt my meditative holiday moment.
I have recurring nightmares about communications technology. In the dreams, I'm desperately trying to reach someone through e-mail or by telephone, and spend valuable minutes misdialing the phone number or typing in the wrong address. These sequences reappear in slow motion in my dreams, as I dial repeatedly, trying to reach the person who will bring my luggage to me for a flight I'm about to miss, or the person who will stop me from being chased by my elementary school principal.
I always wake before I can make the life-changing connection.
A few years back, I had a true-to-life technology nightmare. I was stuck on a plane at the Detroit Airport, after returning from a winter trip to England. I had a connecting flight to New York City that I would not make because, for some reason, the International Terminal of the Detroit Airport was on fire. My trip to New York City was a timely one, and if I didn't make that flight, the rest of the trip would be moot; I would have to go home. After an hour on the runway, they freed us from our Northwest Airlines Prison. I hurried off the plane, not realizing that my backpack was open until I heard my cell phone hit the ground. I didn't think anything of it; I drop my cell phone quite frequently.
I was at the ticket counter, bartering with an unsympathetic customer service rep for a direct flight to Ohio when my phone rang. I tried to answer it, but none of the buttons would work. Someone was trying to reach me - someone who would most likely save me from my fate of being stranded at the Detroit Airport in a snowstorm - and I couldn't make contact with them.
When the woman at the desk told me that an itinerary switch to Ohio would cost me something in the arena of $300, my phone rang again. It was my dad. I couldn't answer him - or her. I left the counter and sat along a wall, bawling, while people lugging holiday packages and skis tried their luck with the good people of Northwest Airlines.
I went outside and stood in the snow, smoking a cigarette, crying, and trying to figure out how to get out of Detroit. I found a dollar and tried the payphone. My dad was on the internet, seeing if he could Priceline the same flight I needed to get on, for less money. When my dollar ran out, the phone went dead.
Outside, again. Try to dial. Nothing. The phone kept ringing and I couldn't even check the messages.
And then a stranger lent me his cell phone. "You look like you need some help."
It was there that my living nightmare ended. Had I been dreaming, I wouldn't have been able to make contact on that phone. A dog would have stolen it. I would continuously type the number in backwards. I would have woken up before I heard a "hello" on the other end.
It was calming to make the connection, even though the person on the other end could do nothing to help me.
After I regained composure, I thanked him and decided to try the folks at the International desk. I missed the last flight of the evening by five minutes, but managed to get back to Columbus only paying $100 for the flight, and receiving hotel and food vouchers for the evening.
Half an hour later, I sat at the hotel bar, drinking a beer and looking simultaneously at my broken cell phone and the snow falling outside, happy that no one could call and disrupt my meditative holiday moment.
Monday, July 12, 2004
Praise the Lord. Jill's Brought the Cake.
It was a soul-searching weekend. We've all been there, pondering questions about Life and Self. Where do I want to be in a year? Didn't I make July 1st, 2004 my "Get The Fuck Out of Ohio" date? Why can't I just do laundry once a week like the rest of suburban adult society? Does it really make a difference what brand of ham I buy if I'm not shopping at "My" grocery store? Shouldn't I be able to complete at least half of the Columbus Dispatch crossword puzzle without help by the age of twenty-five? Is there such a thing as emotional blackmail in the business world?
Am I a "dog" person?
Luckily, these thoughts and all others were erased from my head when I attended the Miller Family Reunion at the Moose Lodge in Newark, Ohio. By the time I arrived with a "happy birthday" cake in tow, I was soaked with sweat and filled with dread. The lodge was filled with people ranging from genuine rednecks to religious freaks, all waiting for me to deliver the cake my parents had forgotten to bring with them.
Apparently I had missed the part where they sat in a circle and said who they were, what they were doing in life and why they were there.
I'm Jill. I'm sweating and I'm here to deliver the cake.
They ate the cake, took family photographs and made small talk with one another. After forty-five minutes of fake smiles, I decided my work was done. As it was my step-mom's family, I felt that I had no responsibility to stay. I have no blood ties to Aunt Mona, who thanks the dear Lord that He's allowed her to live 72 beautiful years.
I pulled out of the Moose Lounge parking lot into the streets of Newark, smoking a cigarette and asking myself more questions.
How much is freedom worth? How much would it cost to get my air conditioning fixed? With my allegiance to expensive hair conditioners, would I be able to survive on a hippie commune?
Most questions remained unanswered. But aside from the yippie bouncing kinds, and the kinds that stick their noses in your crotch, I might be a "dog" person.
It was a soul-searching weekend. We've all been there, pondering questions about Life and Self. Where do I want to be in a year? Didn't I make July 1st, 2004 my "Get The Fuck Out of Ohio" date? Why can't I just do laundry once a week like the rest of suburban adult society? Does it really make a difference what brand of ham I buy if I'm not shopping at "My" grocery store? Shouldn't I be able to complete at least half of the Columbus Dispatch crossword puzzle without help by the age of twenty-five? Is there such a thing as emotional blackmail in the business world?
Am I a "dog" person?
Luckily, these thoughts and all others were erased from my head when I attended the Miller Family Reunion at the Moose Lodge in Newark, Ohio. By the time I arrived with a "happy birthday" cake in tow, I was soaked with sweat and filled with dread. The lodge was filled with people ranging from genuine rednecks to religious freaks, all waiting for me to deliver the cake my parents had forgotten to bring with them.
Apparently I had missed the part where they sat in a circle and said who they were, what they were doing in life and why they were there.
I'm Jill. I'm sweating and I'm here to deliver the cake.
They ate the cake, took family photographs and made small talk with one another. After forty-five minutes of fake smiles, I decided my work was done. As it was my step-mom's family, I felt that I had no responsibility to stay. I have no blood ties to Aunt Mona, who thanks the dear Lord that He's allowed her to live 72 beautiful years.
I pulled out of the Moose Lounge parking lot into the streets of Newark, smoking a cigarette and asking myself more questions.
How much is freedom worth? How much would it cost to get my air conditioning fixed? With my allegiance to expensive hair conditioners, would I be able to survive on a hippie commune?
Most questions remained unanswered. But aside from the yippie bouncing kinds, and the kinds that stick their noses in your crotch, I might be a "dog" person.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
Epiphany.
You know you're a huckster when you realize you've spent an hour trying to convince Amish chicken farmers to buy radio advertising on a station that plays beer commercials no fewer than sixty times a day.
You know you're a good huckster when they seriously consider the concept.
In other news, I guess the arrival of "he" to my blog is less shocking than the history of panties...er, undergarments.
You know you're a huckster when you realize you've spent an hour trying to convince Amish chicken farmers to buy radio advertising on a station that plays beer commercials no fewer than sixty times a day.
You know you're a good huckster when they seriously consider the concept.
In other news, I guess the arrival of "he" to my blog is less shocking than the history of panties...er, undergarments.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
The Panties Superstition.
Let me tell you about the Panties Superstition. As long as I've been buying my own underwear, I've been taking advantage of the "5 for $20" cotton bikini brief sale at Victoria's Secret: plain, reliable standbys usually in black, grey or beige.
In the past two years, though, with the coaching of Sarah, I've been trying to add a little color, variety and excitement into my undergarment collection. So. About two years ago, whenever I started to date a new guy, I'd use the fact that someone other than myself might see my unmentionables as fuel to visit different sections of Victoria's Secret. After two or three tries at this, I started to sense an unfortunate pattern.
1. Meet a new guy. 2. Buy a pair of, say, light blue satin panties. 3. The relationship ends immediately.
The guys never actually see the panties. And although I never mention the trip to the lingerie store, they somehow sense my actions and all goes to Hell.
So now I refuse to buy panties at the beginning of a relationship. It’s a curse. Same thing with condoms. If you buy a box of condoms with a certain boy in mind, chances are, there will never be an opportunity to use them with said boy.
Women all around the world agree with me on this.
This Panties Superstition is not alone. I have others. There's the Wedding Superstition. (The moment you ask him to be your date to a wedding, all goes to Hell.) And then there's the Blog Superstition. (The moment you mention him on the blog, no matter how coded the reference is, all goes to Hell.)
That said, I'm breaking all of my rules. There's a new guy around, and he's passed the three-week elimination round. I've actually found myself saying "sweetie" and it's not tongue-in-cheek.
So, blog readers, I'd like to introduce a new character to you: The Man With Four Cheesehead Hats, or TMWFCH. To avoid confusion, I'll just refer to him as "he". Let's hope it doesn't all go to Hell.
Let me tell you about the Panties Superstition. As long as I've been buying my own underwear, I've been taking advantage of the "5 for $20" cotton bikini brief sale at Victoria's Secret: plain, reliable standbys usually in black, grey or beige.
In the past two years, though, with the coaching of Sarah, I've been trying to add a little color, variety and excitement into my undergarment collection. So. About two years ago, whenever I started to date a new guy, I'd use the fact that someone other than myself might see my unmentionables as fuel to visit different sections of Victoria's Secret. After two or three tries at this, I started to sense an unfortunate pattern.
1. Meet a new guy. 2. Buy a pair of, say, light blue satin panties. 3. The relationship ends immediately.
The guys never actually see the panties. And although I never mention the trip to the lingerie store, they somehow sense my actions and all goes to Hell.
So now I refuse to buy panties at the beginning of a relationship. It’s a curse. Same thing with condoms. If you buy a box of condoms with a certain boy in mind, chances are, there will never be an opportunity to use them with said boy.
Women all around the world agree with me on this.
This Panties Superstition is not alone. I have others. There's the Wedding Superstition. (The moment you ask him to be your date to a wedding, all goes to Hell.) And then there's the Blog Superstition. (The moment you mention him on the blog, no matter how coded the reference is, all goes to Hell.)
That said, I'm breaking all of my rules. There's a new guy around, and he's passed the three-week elimination round. I've actually found myself saying "sweetie" and it's not tongue-in-cheek.
So, blog readers, I'd like to introduce a new character to you: The Man With Four Cheesehead Hats, or TMWFCH. To avoid confusion, I'll just refer to him as "he". Let's hope it doesn't all go to Hell.
Thursday, July 01, 2004
It Makes Me Drink Beer.
Last night, I was driving through Los Angeles with Ricky and Maya while looking for a parking spot at the beach.
In my head, at least.
I took myself out to a show last night. Toenails painted, hair straightened and eyelids painted, I went by myself to see Andrew Bird play with the Magnetic Fields. Although I've done the movie thing by myself and I've done the bar thing by myself, this was a new experience for me.
But last night's experience proved, once more, that when music is around, you are never truly alone. The tunes played last night reminded me of the first time I'd heard the Magnetic Fields Album, 69 Love Songs.
We eventually found a parking place, and I remember that it wasn't cheap. That afternoon, Ricky, Maya and I walked the beach and bought a coke. Or was it iced tea? I guess the point is that the journey to the beach was more memorable than the beach. Thank you, Stephin Merritt.
Last night, I was driving through Los Angeles with Ricky and Maya while looking for a parking spot at the beach.
In my head, at least.
I took myself out to a show last night. Toenails painted, hair straightened and eyelids painted, I went by myself to see Andrew Bird play with the Magnetic Fields. Although I've done the movie thing by myself and I've done the bar thing by myself, this was a new experience for me.
But last night's experience proved, once more, that when music is around, you are never truly alone. The tunes played last night reminded me of the first time I'd heard the Magnetic Fields Album, 69 Love Songs.
We eventually found a parking place, and I remember that it wasn't cheap. That afternoon, Ricky, Maya and I walked the beach and bought a coke. Or was it iced tea? I guess the point is that the journey to the beach was more memorable than the beach. Thank you, Stephin Merritt.
