Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Weather Report.
I'm trying to mentally prepare my self for this family weekend vacation to North Carolina. I'll bring work with me, I tell myself. I'll bring a few books with me, I tell myself. I'll buy headphones and turn my laptop into an iPod, I tell myself.
There's this neat restaurant with fancy food that we think you'll like, my dad tells me. We'll go to the beach for a day, my dad tells me. You can look at the new house, my dad tells me.
How sweet. He's as freaked out as I am.
Meanwhile, there's a hurricane heading toward the East Coast. And we're not just talking the Moorhead family.
I'm trying to mentally prepare my self for this family weekend vacation to North Carolina. I'll bring work with me, I tell myself. I'll bring a few books with me, I tell myself. I'll buy headphones and turn my laptop into an iPod, I tell myself.
There's this neat restaurant with fancy food that we think you'll like, my dad tells me. We'll go to the beach for a day, my dad tells me. You can look at the new house, my dad tells me.
How sweet. He's as freaked out as I am.
Meanwhile, there's a hurricane heading toward the East Coast. And we're not just talking the Moorhead family.
Friday, August 27, 2004
Important Notes.
1. Tonight I'm going to turn to the music of Hall And Oates to return my life to stability. Enough said.
2. My little sister came over for dinner last night. Her boyfriend of five years broke up with her on Tuesday, proving that a plague has hit the Moorhead girls. Abby's not old enough to drink, but that didn't stop us from chain-smoking. My advice? "Just pretend that he's gay."
3. I've consented to go on my first family "vacation" in twelve years. Three days at my parents' house in the Carolinas. To give you an idea of what I'll be going through, let me paint a quick portrait. The only book my step-mom has read in the past twenty years is the Bible. Abby told me yesterday that she's not going to vote for Bush; she's going to vote for Kennedy. And my dad's taking us down there to show off the countertops, the bathroom tile and his new wine rack. (Even though he doesn't drink wine.) I held out for awhile, but finally relented, knowing that this trip will mean the world to my dad. Meanwhile, that first cigarette after I'm back in Ohio will mean the world to me. (Yes, I'm twenty-five years old and still deluded into believing that my parents don't know that I smoke.)
1. Tonight I'm going to turn to the music of Hall And Oates to return my life to stability. Enough said.
2. My little sister came over for dinner last night. Her boyfriend of five years broke up with her on Tuesday, proving that a plague has hit the Moorhead girls. Abby's not old enough to drink, but that didn't stop us from chain-smoking. My advice? "Just pretend that he's gay."
3. I've consented to go on my first family "vacation" in twelve years. Three days at my parents' house in the Carolinas. To give you an idea of what I'll be going through, let me paint a quick portrait. The only book my step-mom has read in the past twenty years is the Bible. Abby told me yesterday that she's not going to vote for Bush; she's going to vote for Kennedy. And my dad's taking us down there to show off the countertops, the bathroom tile and his new wine rack. (Even though he doesn't drink wine.) I held out for awhile, but finally relented, knowing that this trip will mean the world to my dad. Meanwhile, that first cigarette after I'm back in Ohio will mean the world to me. (Yes, I'm twenty-five years old and still deluded into believing that my parents don't know that I smoke.)
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
A Good Man, Indeed.
These days, I've found it best to stay busy and keep my mind from straying to him.
(And wondering whether or not he ever cared about me, or if he just wanted a young piece of ass to keep him entertained until he was ready for a real relationship.)
So I've been focusing on other things. Like whether Ted Kooser, the next Poet Laureate of the United States, will be any good at his job.
(Because the cool thing about poets is that they're probably not emotionally unavailable.)
And I've pondered a little bit about what Ted Kooser will be expected to do while he's in office. I mean, of course Kooser will have to open the Library of Congress's annual literary series. But will he ride in parades and wave? Will he have tea with the President? Will he read some of his work, perhaps from "One World at a Time" (1985); "Weather Central" (1994); and "Winter Morning Walks: One Hundred Postcards to Jim Harrison" (2000) live on Prairie Home Companion with Garrison Keillor? Will he go to Iraq and sooth the hearts of our troops?
(Will he have the decency to break up with someone in person, rather than on the phone?)
And I think about his awards. What do poets do with their awards? Does Kooser display his Pushcart Prize, his Stanley Kunitz Prize, his James Boatwright Prize and his Merit Award from the Nebraska Arts Council on the bookshelf in his office? And when he smokes cigarettes in this office, even though the cleaning lady scoffs at him, does he think to himself, "I've received two National Endowment for the Arts fellowships; she can fuck off"?
(We used to unabashedly smoke cigarettes in all sorts of public places. He'd request the 'chain smoking' section at restaurants.)
I think that Kooser will do a fine job. He's no Louise Glück, but who could be? But he's a wonderful man and he'll make us proud with his verbal portraits of small town and rural America. And I'm sure that if I ever read or hear one of his poems, that I'll love it.
(I miss him.)
Yup. Kooser's a good man.
These days, I've found it best to stay busy and keep my mind from straying to him.
(And wondering whether or not he ever cared about me, or if he just wanted a young piece of ass to keep him entertained until he was ready for a real relationship.)
So I've been focusing on other things. Like whether Ted Kooser, the next Poet Laureate of the United States, will be any good at his job.
(Because the cool thing about poets is that they're probably not emotionally unavailable.)
And I've pondered a little bit about what Ted Kooser will be expected to do while he's in office. I mean, of course Kooser will have to open the Library of Congress's annual literary series. But will he ride in parades and wave? Will he have tea with the President? Will he read some of his work, perhaps from "One World at a Time" (1985); "Weather Central" (1994); and "Winter Morning Walks: One Hundred Postcards to Jim Harrison" (2000) live on Prairie Home Companion with Garrison Keillor? Will he go to Iraq and sooth the hearts of our troops?
(Will he have the decency to break up with someone in person, rather than on the phone?)
And I think about his awards. What do poets do with their awards? Does Kooser display his Pushcart Prize, his Stanley Kunitz Prize, his James Boatwright Prize and his Merit Award from the Nebraska Arts Council on the bookshelf in his office? And when he smokes cigarettes in this office, even though the cleaning lady scoffs at him, does he think to himself, "I've received two National Endowment for the Arts fellowships; she can fuck off"?
(We used to unabashedly smoke cigarettes in all sorts of public places. He'd request the 'chain smoking' section at restaurants.)
I think that Kooser will do a fine job. He's no Louise Glück, but who could be? But he's a wonderful man and he'll make us proud with his verbal portraits of small town and rural America. And I'm sure that if I ever read or hear one of his poems, that I'll love it.
(I miss him.)
Yup. Kooser's a good man.
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Corny Enough To Be On A Poster With Cute Puppies.
If there was a never-ending supply of Graeter's Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip ice cream...
If the Grandview Marching Band was always practicing only a few blocks away...
If the weather was always cool enough for a sweater but warm enough for flip flops...
If a library was always within walking distance...
If it was always 8.00 in the evening...
If the music of Tom Waits or the stories of This American Life was always readily available...
If I never needed my hand held, my shoulders rubbed or my forehead kissed...
...then I could be alone forever.
If there was a never-ending supply of Graeter's Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip ice cream...
If the Grandview Marching Band was always practicing only a few blocks away...
If the weather was always cool enough for a sweater but warm enough for flip flops...
If a library was always within walking distance...
If it was always 8.00 in the evening...
If the music of Tom Waits or the stories of This American Life was always readily available...
If I never needed my hand held, my shoulders rubbed or my forehead kissed...
...then I could be alone forever.
Monday, August 23, 2004
Dating Business.
K's gone. I mean, really gone. He did it with grace and poise. He used reason and logic and I wanted to throw something at him. (Not more reason or logic. I wanted to throw a large, hard object at him. Like a log. Or a piano.)
Sometimes it's easier when they're jerks. I would have accepted a matchbook cover with "I'm Done With You" written on it with open arms.
So, to numb my pain this week, I've decided to start a little business. It's a dating business. This is how it goes.
1. I go on one date with you, or your friend, or whoever.
2. You (or your friend) realize that a) you're not getting laid and b) I'm probably not going to fall in love with you.
3. You (or your friend) pay for everything on the date.
4. I write about the date on the blog.
5. In exchange for my owning the rights to all editorial content about the date, you (or your friend) get to pick what we do on the date.
On second thought, I think that I'll just stay home, chain-smoke and re-read The Little House On The Prairie series for a week.
K's gone. I mean, really gone. He did it with grace and poise. He used reason and logic and I wanted to throw something at him. (Not more reason or logic. I wanted to throw a large, hard object at him. Like a log. Or a piano.)
Sometimes it's easier when they're jerks. I would have accepted a matchbook cover with "I'm Done With You" written on it with open arms.
So, to numb my pain this week, I've decided to start a little business. It's a dating business. This is how it goes.
1. I go on one date with you, or your friend, or whoever.
2. You (or your friend) realize that a) you're not getting laid and b) I'm probably not going to fall in love with you.
3. You (or your friend) pay for everything on the date.
4. I write about the date on the blog.
5. In exchange for my owning the rights to all editorial content about the date, you (or your friend) get to pick what we do on the date.
On second thought, I think that I'll just stay home, chain-smoke and re-read The Little House On The Prairie series for a week.
Friday, August 20, 2004
Near Overdose.
I spent last night in a room full of kindred spirits. One can usually pick out a Public Radio listener in a crowd. John Kerry pins and a silly grin upon the mention of David Sedaris, Terry Gross and even Lakshmi Singh and pretty good clues.
Though I left my Kerry paraphernalia on my car, I came to "Wait Wait…Don't Tell Me" equipped with the silly grin. Peter Sagal greeted us, reminding us that a) we're sheep and b) most of the crowd paid to see what we could hear for free on Saturday.
We've already established that I have an unhealthy relationship with NPR. The symptoms are clear; it's a drug. When certain shows are on, I'm irritated when my phone rings. I've been known to name the entire broadcasting schedule of WCBE while at bars. I once screened potential suitors by testing them with a line from Car Talk.
"This is a test," I'd warn them, "Don't drive like my brother."
If the poor chap would answer, "How does your brother drive?" he'd be dropped through the imaginary trap door in the floor.
So. At any rate, I knew I was a geek last night, laughing at every word that came from Mo Rocca, Adam Felber and the rest. But I didn't mind, because I was in similar company. (It was like people laughing at a Phish show without actually being stoned. They could have read the side of a cereal box and I'd think it was genius.)
When the show ended, I had to make a decision. The previous evening, at the VIP dinner with the staff and crew for the show, I'd exchanged words with Adam Felber, while chain smoking on the balcony of the restaurant. The crew would most likely be going out after the show. I could come.
"That won't work, though," I said, "I don't want to be a stalker waiting for you backstage."
"It's okay. Be a stalker!" Adam was throwing cocaine at the drug addict.
My post-show decision was whether or not to hang around long enough to talk to Adam and see if the invite was just a by-product of free alcohol or if it was genuine. K and I walked through the building, looking for him. We saw Carl. We saw Mo. Adam was nowhere in sight.
And then sobriety hit me. I was trying to be cool, while searching for people who work for a NPR news quiz show. And I was not alone.
I grabbed K's hand and we left. As we walked back to the car, we discussed whether or not we'd ever go see Michael Feldman live. And silently I wondered if I'd missed my chance, whether we should have stuck it out five more minutes. Just in case.
Something tells me that a drug counselor would say no.
I spent last night in a room full of kindred spirits. One can usually pick out a Public Radio listener in a crowd. John Kerry pins and a silly grin upon the mention of David Sedaris, Terry Gross and even Lakshmi Singh and pretty good clues.
Though I left my Kerry paraphernalia on my car, I came to "Wait Wait…Don't Tell Me" equipped with the silly grin. Peter Sagal greeted us, reminding us that a) we're sheep and b) most of the crowd paid to see what we could hear for free on Saturday.
We've already established that I have an unhealthy relationship with NPR. The symptoms are clear; it's a drug. When certain shows are on, I'm irritated when my phone rings. I've been known to name the entire broadcasting schedule of WCBE while at bars. I once screened potential suitors by testing them with a line from Car Talk.
"This is a test," I'd warn them, "Don't drive like my brother."
If the poor chap would answer, "How does your brother drive?" he'd be dropped through the imaginary trap door in the floor.
So. At any rate, I knew I was a geek last night, laughing at every word that came from Mo Rocca, Adam Felber and the rest. But I didn't mind, because I was in similar company. (It was like people laughing at a Phish show without actually being stoned. They could have read the side of a cereal box and I'd think it was genius.)
When the show ended, I had to make a decision. The previous evening, at the VIP dinner with the staff and crew for the show, I'd exchanged words with Adam Felber, while chain smoking on the balcony of the restaurant. The crew would most likely be going out after the show. I could come.
"That won't work, though," I said, "I don't want to be a stalker waiting for you backstage."
"It's okay. Be a stalker!" Adam was throwing cocaine at the drug addict.
My post-show decision was whether or not to hang around long enough to talk to Adam and see if the invite was just a by-product of free alcohol or if it was genuine. K and I walked through the building, looking for him. We saw Carl. We saw Mo. Adam was nowhere in sight.
And then sobriety hit me. I was trying to be cool, while searching for people who work for a NPR news quiz show. And I was not alone.
I grabbed K's hand and we left. As we walked back to the car, we discussed whether or not we'd ever go see Michael Feldman live. And silently I wondered if I'd missed my chance, whether we should have stuck it out five more minutes. Just in case.
Something tells me that a drug counselor would say no.
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
I Almost Forgot!
Tonight I will be dining with the cast of "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me!", the NPR news quiz show. It's a VIP dinner, and I've somehow become a VIP. I will be eating dinner with the likes of Carl Kassel and Mo Rocca and Adam Felber.
Wait. Are you paying attention to this?
I AM EATING A CHICKEN AND BEEF DINNER WITH CARL KASSEL!
I can't wait to ask Carl why he's sounded so tired since Bush has been President.
I am a dork.
Tonight I will be dining with the cast of "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me!", the NPR news quiz show. It's a VIP dinner, and I've somehow become a VIP. I will be eating dinner with the likes of Carl Kassel and Mo Rocca and Adam Felber.
Wait. Are you paying attention to this?
I AM EATING A CHICKEN AND BEEF DINNER WITH CARL KASSEL!
I can't wait to ask Carl why he's sounded so tired since Bush has been President.
I am a dork.
Biblical Peep Show.
After my shower this morning, I threw on a black sweater - and nothing else - and ran downstairs to the living room to de-cat-hair. Although my windows and door have sheer curtains, I generally don't worry about modesty when I'm getting ready for work. Sarah's gone, and most of my neighbors have left for work by the time I'm rolling out of bed in the morning.
Can you tell there's going to be a story here?
So, Jill's naked from the waist down, fighting a useless battle against cat hair when someone knocks at the door. The people who do work for my landlord have conditioned me know that typically, the door gets opened within three seconds of the knocking.
I scream "just a minute", sprint up the stairs and slide on some jeans.
The men at the door were holding Bibles.
"Um. I'm sorry if we woke you," stutters the younger of the two. My hair is wet. It's obvious that they didn't wake me.
"Oh. I'm awake," I say slowly, eyeing the Bibles suspiciously.
We talk for a few minutes. No I don't really read the Bible. But I took a class on the Old Testament in college. Ha, ha, sometimes those classes I'm better off not taking. I show them a book I have from the class: "People Of The Covenant". Ha ha, let's talk about Jesus.
They hand me a pamphlet about Bible reading and promise to come back later to see what I think about it. I think we all know what they're coming back to see.
After my shower this morning, I threw on a black sweater - and nothing else - and ran downstairs to the living room to de-cat-hair. Although my windows and door have sheer curtains, I generally don't worry about modesty when I'm getting ready for work. Sarah's gone, and most of my neighbors have left for work by the time I'm rolling out of bed in the morning.
Can you tell there's going to be a story here?
So, Jill's naked from the waist down, fighting a useless battle against cat hair when someone knocks at the door. The people who do work for my landlord have conditioned me know that typically, the door gets opened within three seconds of the knocking.
I scream "just a minute", sprint up the stairs and slide on some jeans.
The men at the door were holding Bibles.
"Um. I'm sorry if we woke you," stutters the younger of the two. My hair is wet. It's obvious that they didn't wake me.
"Oh. I'm awake," I say slowly, eyeing the Bibles suspiciously.
We talk for a few minutes. No I don't really read the Bible. But I took a class on the Old Testament in college. Ha, ha, sometimes those classes I'm better off not taking. I show them a book I have from the class: "People Of The Covenant". Ha ha, let's talk about Jesus.
They hand me a pamphlet about Bible reading and promise to come back later to see what I think about it. I think we all know what they're coming back to see.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Four Years is Enough Time.
I think it was the Home Depot commercials, constantly reminding Sarah and I that "once we set our mind, we can do it" that inspired the two of us to make major career and lifestyle changes last night.
In the 2008 Summer Olympics, we will be the synchronized diving team representing Mexico. We have four years to learn how to dive and become citizens of Mexico. But with the powerful message provided to us by Home Depot, we can do it.
Year One: Work on our tans and get a pool membership.
Year Two: Practice speaking Spanish, find corporate sponsors (possibly Corona), pick our swimsuit colors and search for a coach.
Year Three: Move to Miami and learn how to dive.
Year Four: Become citizens of Mexico, travel the world participating in championships, get interviewed a lot and perform in the Olympics.
Thanks, Home Depot, for allowing me to realize that my dreams can become a reality.
I think it was the Home Depot commercials, constantly reminding Sarah and I that "once we set our mind, we can do it" that inspired the two of us to make major career and lifestyle changes last night.
In the 2008 Summer Olympics, we will be the synchronized diving team representing Mexico. We have four years to learn how to dive and become citizens of Mexico. But with the powerful message provided to us by Home Depot, we can do it.
Year One: Work on our tans and get a pool membership.
Year Two: Practice speaking Spanish, find corporate sponsors (possibly Corona), pick our swimsuit colors and search for a coach.
Year Three: Move to Miami and learn how to dive.
Year Four: Become citizens of Mexico, travel the world participating in championships, get interviewed a lot and perform in the Olympics.
Thanks, Home Depot, for allowing me to realize that my dreams can become a reality.
Sunday, August 15, 2004
From Styx to Sticks.
I made my first trip to the Ohio State Fair at the age of three with my Dad. I was there for the rides; he was there to see Styx. I avoided both the music (Vince Gill) and the rides (save the Sky Ride) on Saturday, but somehow managed to stay entertained. What with the people-watching, food options and my freaky fascination with Ohio Agriculture, I had the same joy as the three-year-old who was once convinced that pregnant ladies pooped out babies.
I dragged K along with me, who wins points for pretending to be interested in the fact that I work with no fewer than three companies featured in the Ohio Food Pavilion. I think that he survived that portion of our day smirking over the idea that Ohio has a Department for Sheep Improvement. (Which, I should point out, was selling gyros with lamb meat.)
We had a loose itinerary that included seeing the Pig Races, looking at chickens, eating fried food and staring in awe at the people surrounding us. All goals were accomplished.
One of the highlights was looking at the ducks. (Which were surprisingly more amusing than the chickens. I know that traditionally, ducks are pretty funny, but we’d heard rave reviews about the chickens. The ducks were smart, too. I whispered ‘foie gras’ to one of them, and it blinked at me without flinching, as if to say, “Foie gras is goose liver, you idiot.”)
And then there was the food. Between us, we tried a grilled turkey leg, a “Texas Sirloin” sandwich (think a slice of roast beef dipped in batter and fried), Dippin’ Dots (the ice cream of the future) and fried cheese sticks. The cheese was by far the best.
The people-watching was excellent. There were many highlights, but we spent some time watching fourteen state troopers surround a middle-aged man standing with what we hypothesized could be a) his daughter, b) someone else’s daughter or c) his “girl” (maybe). This occurred in front of the apple fritter stand. It was also amusing to note that not a single person over the age of twelve, aside from us, was smiling. Thousands of people passed us, in all shapes and sizes, from all over Ohio. Despite their differences, they had one thing in common: the completely lethargic expressions on their faces. (There is one exception; people who ate food off of a stick seemed to be generally happier than others.)
I feel compelled to point out that I saw a lot of wagons boasting Bush/Cheney signs. And a glow in the dark Jesus head in the window of a RV trailer. Neato.
In the end, it was a wonderful experience. We learned a little about one another (he wants a helicopter; I want a baby pig) and we were able to feel better about ourselves by making fun of other people, which is always a productive use of time.
I give the day a rating of nine. The only thing that could have made it better was a Styx concert. And maybe a second order of fried cheese sticks.
I made my first trip to the Ohio State Fair at the age of three with my Dad. I was there for the rides; he was there to see Styx. I avoided both the music (Vince Gill) and the rides (save the Sky Ride) on Saturday, but somehow managed to stay entertained. What with the people-watching, food options and my freaky fascination with Ohio Agriculture, I had the same joy as the three-year-old who was once convinced that pregnant ladies pooped out babies.
I dragged K along with me, who wins points for pretending to be interested in the fact that I work with no fewer than three companies featured in the Ohio Food Pavilion. I think that he survived that portion of our day smirking over the idea that Ohio has a Department for Sheep Improvement. (Which, I should point out, was selling gyros with lamb meat.)
We had a loose itinerary that included seeing the Pig Races, looking at chickens, eating fried food and staring in awe at the people surrounding us. All goals were accomplished.
One of the highlights was looking at the ducks. (Which were surprisingly more amusing than the chickens. I know that traditionally, ducks are pretty funny, but we’d heard rave reviews about the chickens. The ducks were smart, too. I whispered ‘foie gras’ to one of them, and it blinked at me without flinching, as if to say, “Foie gras is goose liver, you idiot.”)
And then there was the food. Between us, we tried a grilled turkey leg, a “Texas Sirloin” sandwich (think a slice of roast beef dipped in batter and fried), Dippin’ Dots (the ice cream of the future) and fried cheese sticks. The cheese was by far the best.
The people-watching was excellent. There were many highlights, but we spent some time watching fourteen state troopers surround a middle-aged man standing with what we hypothesized could be a) his daughter, b) someone else’s daughter or c) his “girl” (maybe). This occurred in front of the apple fritter stand. It was also amusing to note that not a single person over the age of twelve, aside from us, was smiling. Thousands of people passed us, in all shapes and sizes, from all over Ohio. Despite their differences, they had one thing in common: the completely lethargic expressions on their faces. (There is one exception; people who ate food off of a stick seemed to be generally happier than others.)
I feel compelled to point out that I saw a lot of wagons boasting Bush/Cheney signs. And a glow in the dark Jesus head in the window of a RV trailer. Neato.
In the end, it was a wonderful experience. We learned a little about one another (he wants a helicopter; I want a baby pig) and we were able to feel better about ourselves by making fun of other people, which is always a productive use of time.
I give the day a rating of nine. The only thing that could have made it better was a Styx concert. And maybe a second order of fried cheese sticks.
Friday, August 13, 2004
Transitions.
Today is my co-worker Brittany's last day; she's headed to college in a week, and she's leaving me alone to be the sole source of estrogen in the office.
While she's going to learn the fine art of cramming for finals and decorating with beer bottles, I'm left alone with discussions about golf courses and The Cardinals. Without Brittany, I will have no one to share weekend stories with.
"We were wasted and took a shit in a culdesac in Dublin," she's been known to say, "What did you do last Friday?"
This girl remembers the name of every person I've ever told her about. She makes accurate predictions about the guys I date. She knows which gas station has the cheapest gas in Columbus and has more common sense than anyone I know. And she's only eighteen.
Over the years, Brittany has become a little sister and a good friend, and I'll miss her. But life is about change. She'll soon learn that Febreeze is a good substitute for detergent, that professors really like you if you stop in for office hours, and that stealing food from the dining hall is a good way to save money.
Hopefully, she'll also learn to be a Democrat. I guess some changes are good.
Bye Brittany, and good luck. I expect many a drunk dial!
Today is my co-worker Brittany's last day; she's headed to college in a week, and she's leaving me alone to be the sole source of estrogen in the office.
While she's going to learn the fine art of cramming for finals and decorating with beer bottles, I'm left alone with discussions about golf courses and The Cardinals. Without Brittany, I will have no one to share weekend stories with.
"We were wasted and took a shit in a culdesac in Dublin," she's been known to say, "What did you do last Friday?"
This girl remembers the name of every person I've ever told her about. She makes accurate predictions about the guys I date. She knows which gas station has the cheapest gas in Columbus and has more common sense than anyone I know. And she's only eighteen.
Over the years, Brittany has become a little sister and a good friend, and I'll miss her. But life is about change. She'll soon learn that Febreeze is a good substitute for detergent, that professors really like you if you stop in for office hours, and that stealing food from the dining hall is a good way to save money.
Hopefully, she'll also learn to be a Democrat. I guess some changes are good.
Bye Brittany, and good luck. I expect many a drunk dial!
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Gasp.
I'm sorry for my tardiness. I've just escaped from a bunch of pirates. They've held me captive for days, now. I finally used a wine opener, a copy of the New York Times and an iPod to counterattack and bring myself back to the cool, solid ground.
In actuality, I'm working on a newsletter for work, writing about lobsters, begging vendors for photographs of chickens, planning cooking classes and wine tastings. You know, the usual. But I do have loads of stories I'd like to tell.
I have another tale of relatives trying to fix me up with a stranger they've met along the road of life. This time, it's a guy from New Jersey who "just wants a woman to be loyal and watch his back." Thanks, sis.
I had a eerie "New York" feeling this weekend, as I found myself dragging my neighbor's trash up into my apartment. I now have a new bookshelf. Nice. Sturdy. Free.
I enjoyed an 80's classic rock cover band at Indian Lake, Ohio. The lead singer was a female who looked strikingly like Meatloaf, while the guitarist was a male who resembled Michael Landon in drag. Their covers of Journey and Chicago were fantastic.
I promise to tell the above stories, and the ones from the fair (I'm going this weekend) very soon. Just as soon as I can figure out how to untie my hands and remove the blindfold and duct tape that the pirates left on me. It's very difficult to type with my teeth without seeing the keyboard.
I'm sorry for my tardiness. I've just escaped from a bunch of pirates. They've held me captive for days, now. I finally used a wine opener, a copy of the New York Times and an iPod to counterattack and bring myself back to the cool, solid ground.
In actuality, I'm working on a newsletter for work, writing about lobsters, begging vendors for photographs of chickens, planning cooking classes and wine tastings. You know, the usual. But I do have loads of stories I'd like to tell.
I have another tale of relatives trying to fix me up with a stranger they've met along the road of life. This time, it's a guy from New Jersey who "just wants a woman to be loyal and watch his back." Thanks, sis.
I had a eerie "New York" feeling this weekend, as I found myself dragging my neighbor's trash up into my apartment. I now have a new bookshelf. Nice. Sturdy. Free.
I enjoyed an 80's classic rock cover band at Indian Lake, Ohio. The lead singer was a female who looked strikingly like Meatloaf, while the guitarist was a male who resembled Michael Landon in drag. Their covers of Journey and Chicago were fantastic.
I promise to tell the above stories, and the ones from the fair (I'm going this weekend) very soon. Just as soon as I can figure out how to untie my hands and remove the blindfold and duct tape that the pirates left on me. It's very difficult to type with my teeth without seeing the keyboard.
Friday, August 06, 2004
Booky.
Studies are showing that fewer people are reading these days. Especially fiction. If people are reading they're reading fad diet books, political books sharpening partisan lines and self-help books. Go literacy!
I've single-handedly tried to sway the lines, and have been reading multitudes of fiction. Most specifically, I'm reading fiction that I'm embarrassed to have not read before now. The Grapes of Wrath. Love In The Time of Cholera. The Great Gatsby. 1984. Most all of the books are good, and they're a wonderful accompaniment for the nice cool weather we've been having recently. Reading Weather.
If you have any suggestions of more books that I should have read by now, please let me know.
Studies are showing that fewer people are reading these days. Especially fiction. If people are reading they're reading fad diet books, political books sharpening partisan lines and self-help books. Go literacy!
I've single-handedly tried to sway the lines, and have been reading multitudes of fiction. Most specifically, I'm reading fiction that I'm embarrassed to have not read before now. The Grapes of Wrath. Love In The Time of Cholera. The Great Gatsby. 1984. Most all of the books are good, and they're a wonderful accompaniment for the nice cool weather we've been having recently. Reading Weather.
If you have any suggestions of more books that I should have read by now, please let me know.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Midwest Lunch Discussion in the Operating Office of a Gourmet Grocery Store.
"I'm going to the Fair," I announced today at lunch.
"Did you look at those numbers from Nash Finch?" Mark asked Jim.
"They did look pretty good," Jim replied.
"I'm going to see chickens. And giant vegetables." I tried again.
"Did I tell you that Gary stopped in yesterday? His stories aren't very exciting. He was telling me about the remodeling of his new house. I spent the whole time wondering where he was going with the story," Jim said.
"I think Gary lives around here," Mark answered.
"I'm going to eat fried cheese and elephant ears," I announced.
"I'll have to look over those numbers again before the meeting," Jim said, as he methodically sliced his banana with a spoon.
"And there will be a Ferris wheel, and large people in bare midriffs. And bad country music." They weren't listening to me.
Silence. Mark ate his crackers. I flipped through the food section of the newspaper. Jim applied cream cheese to his bagel.
"Do you think there's beer at the fair?" I asked.
Mark looked at me, "I don’t know, Jill. I don't know."
After lunch I smoked a cigarette, watched the rain and wondered how much a corn dog at the Fair will be.
"I'm going to the Fair," I announced today at lunch.
"Did you look at those numbers from Nash Finch?" Mark asked Jim.
"They did look pretty good," Jim replied.
"I'm going to see chickens. And giant vegetables." I tried again.
"Did I tell you that Gary stopped in yesterday? His stories aren't very exciting. He was telling me about the remodeling of his new house. I spent the whole time wondering where he was going with the story," Jim said.
"I think Gary lives around here," Mark answered.
"I'm going to eat fried cheese and elephant ears," I announced.
"I'll have to look over those numbers again before the meeting," Jim said, as he methodically sliced his banana with a spoon.
"And there will be a Ferris wheel, and large people in bare midriffs. And bad country music." They weren't listening to me.
Silence. Mark ate his crackers. I flipped through the food section of the newspaper. Jim applied cream cheese to his bagel.
"Do you think there's beer at the fair?" I asked.
Mark looked at me, "I don’t know, Jill. I don't know."
After lunch I smoked a cigarette, watched the rain and wondered how much a corn dog at the Fair will be.
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
Just So You Know.
The longest three minutes in a woman's life are the three minutes that it takes for a pregnancy test to register results.
That's why it's best to show up unannounced and uninvited to a friend's house late in the evening with a pharmacy bag and whisper, "I need you to go to the bathroom with me," when she looks at you questioningly.
Thank you, Lainie. (And no, I'm not knocked up.)
The longest three minutes in a woman's life are the three minutes that it takes for a pregnancy test to register results.
That's why it's best to show up unannounced and uninvited to a friend's house late in the evening with a pharmacy bag and whisper, "I need you to go to the bathroom with me," when she looks at you questioningly.
Thank you, Lainie. (And no, I'm not knocked up.)
Monday, August 02, 2004
They Did. I'm Back.
It was a wedding weekend, and it was exhausting. Even though I was low on the bridal party totem poll (furthest away from the bride) I fulfilled my duties from buying the bride her honeymoon toothbrush to giving the speech when the four other women refused.
I flirted with grandparents. ("You're the prettiest grandma here," I whispered to the bride's grandmother, "but don't tell anyone that I told you that.") I helped plastic wrap the wrong car. I cut cucumbers for the bridal party's eyes, giving myself a noticeable allergic reaction on wedding day. I bummed cigarettes to the bride's "non-smoking" brother, the only other member of the party to partake in the habit. I danced with the groom and with little kids. I smiled for photos and sucked in my gut.
And then I relaxed. He was there, a brave date, sitting alone in the pews watching the vows of people he'd never met before. Accompanied by Sarah and Ryan, he made it to the reception at least forty-five minutes before I did. He brought me beers, chatted with the more unique attendees ("You should really let me teach you two a couples' yoga class") and drove my tired corpse back to civilization, after we knew we could leave the party.
We sat at his bar, me in a bridesmaid dress, he, in a suit, and did shots while playing "food and drink trivia" on video crack. When the evening ended, he promised to rub my feet and shoulders, and I recall there was talk of a frozen pizza. But by the time his hands touched my shoulders, it was too late. I was asleep.
When I woke up, I sheepishly apologized for passing out. He didn't seem to mind. In retrospect, knowing that the wedding was over was honeymoon enough for me.
It was a wedding weekend, and it was exhausting. Even though I was low on the bridal party totem poll (furthest away from the bride) I fulfilled my duties from buying the bride her honeymoon toothbrush to giving the speech when the four other women refused.
I flirted with grandparents. ("You're the prettiest grandma here," I whispered to the bride's grandmother, "but don't tell anyone that I told you that.") I helped plastic wrap the wrong car. I cut cucumbers for the bridal party's eyes, giving myself a noticeable allergic reaction on wedding day. I bummed cigarettes to the bride's "non-smoking" brother, the only other member of the party to partake in the habit. I danced with the groom and with little kids. I smiled for photos and sucked in my gut.
And then I relaxed. He was there, a brave date, sitting alone in the pews watching the vows of people he'd never met before. Accompanied by Sarah and Ryan, he made it to the reception at least forty-five minutes before I did. He brought me beers, chatted with the more unique attendees ("You should really let me teach you two a couples' yoga class") and drove my tired corpse back to civilization, after we knew we could leave the party.
We sat at his bar, me in a bridesmaid dress, he, in a suit, and did shots while playing "food and drink trivia" on video crack. When the evening ended, he promised to rub my feet and shoulders, and I recall there was talk of a frozen pizza. But by the time his hands touched my shoulders, it was too late. I was asleep.
When I woke up, I sheepishly apologized for passing out. He didn't seem to mind. In retrospect, knowing that the wedding was over was honeymoon enough for me.
