Lost and Found

Glee Rhymes with Brie.

My "journalism" career is minimal. I write about once a year for Rated Rookie and four times a year for the grocery store's newsletter. I've interviewed sex therapists and Food Network hosts, as well as a handful of random folks at a coffee shop. I know that someday I want to be a "real" writer, but I've yet to take this aspiration seriously enough to do what must be done. (I need to enhance my vocabulary and sit down and write.)

Nonetheless, I just, in a roundabout huckster way, scored an interview with one of my favorite writers in the entire world. I'm reluctant to write this down, as I fear that I will jinx myself. Nonetheless, if things go well, I will be interviewing Garrison Keillor for the grocery store's newsletter.

What will I ask him? I guess we'll start with wine and cheese, and then gradually work my way up to when I can start working for him.

Hottie Tree.

Tomorrow is Lainie and Bee Dave’s combined bachelorette/bachelor party. My mom called me while I was working at the Library today, and I mentioned this to her. I was trying to work while talking to her, so I put her on speakerphone.

The first thing my mom said after she’d been switched to speakerphone is, "How’s your love life?" I immediately lifted the phone to my ear, not sure what romantic advice might come out of the tiny speakers. Libraries are, by nature, quiet. Which means that the people in the staff lounge next door to my office were a little too close for motherly advice.

I answer my mom’s question, "Good. He’s good. I haven’t seen him all week and I miss him." She offered a word or two of wisdom and I changed the subject to the party.

"Have you heard of the Hottie Tree?" she asked. I had no idea what she was talking about.

"A group of girls got together for a birthday party down here and they did a Hottie Tree." (Note. It may have not been called a "Hottie Tree". And it may not have been a birthday party. But it did involve hanging pictures from Playgirl on a plant. This much I remember.)

"That would be something fun for you girls to do at the bachelorette party," she suggested.

"Oh," I said, thinking about Lainie hanging muscle men from plant leaves, "We aren’t going to do anything like that...No...Penises or stuff." I whispered ‘penis’ just in case my coworkers still thought I was talking about my love life.

"I thought you girls would have fun."

"Nope. We’re just going to cook out and [fill in other non-penis related activities here]. Besides, Bee Dave will be there, too. We’re having a combined party."

The conversation ended shortly after that. As I hung up the phone, I couldn’t help but feel that my mom was disappointed that we weren’t doing the ‘traditional’ bachelor / bachelorette stuff. My perception of ‘traditional’ means ‘trashy.’ I don’t want to get all conservative here, but what is the fun of having strangers suck lollipops safety-pinned to an extra large t-shirt? We’re approaching the final few hours of singledom here, and I want my friends to have an experience as unique as they are.

And as far as tradition goes, my mom can breathe a sigh of relief. Although she wanted something pink, Lainie’s wedding dress is white.

But that, by no means suggests that I’m wearing pantyhose.

Career Paths I’ve Never Considered Until Now (For Whatever Reason).

Dancer on Old Navy Commercial
Voice Over on PBS Specials about Caribou
Herb Farmer

Pay Up.

I'm still in the process of doing my taxes, and, for the first time in my life, I owe the government money, My first reaction was to go back and see if there is anything else I can write off. How much did I give to National Public Radio in 2004? Can I write off the mileage used to do design for the ALS foundation? Did I donate anything to Goodwill?

I stopped digging for write-offs almost as soon as I started. I didn't donate time or money to non-profits because I wanted a tax write-off. I helped the ALS foundation because I have since college. (A great reason, I know.) And I donated to NPR because I am unhealthily attached to it.

I stared at the balance in the upper left-hand corner of Turbo Tax for a second, and then called my dad.

"Am I rich?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I made a little more in 2004 than I did in 2003. And now I have to pay taxes. Did I move into a new tax bracket; am I a new statistic? Or did I just screw up my tax forms?"

I did not screw up my tax forms. And we decided that neither of us is rich, even though he expects to pay 80 times what I have to pay. (In my book, anyone who has a garbage disposal or a dishwasher is loaded.)

I realized that with my political leanings, I should be happy to pay the taxes. I told him this and hung up the phone. I then composed a letter in my head that went something like this:

Dear American Government,

Please accept this gift. I wish I could have given more, but I know that even the smallest contribution should be of good use to you. Plus, of course, I donate twice a month through my work. (Thanks for making that so easy. You know how I hate writing checks.) I trust that you'll put this donation to good use, but I do have a few suggestions.

I would be thrilled if it could go to family farmers, an inner city school or even a park renovation. If you want to put it aside for promoting the rights of undocumented workers, that would be nice, too. I know I can't be picky, but I'd prefer if you didn't use this check to fund any wars.

Sincerely,

Jill

Home Life.

Sarah and I got Internet about a month ago. Wireless Internet. Which means that anyone who knows where we live can sit in our front yard and steal our files. Luckily, all I have on my computer is Tom Waits' oeuvre on iTunes and a poster for a Woody Allen film series that all the hip kids are going to these days.

At any rate, I just wrote this e-mail to Sarah:

"What's that smell in our apartment? I thought it was in the sink. So I did dishes. And I took out the trash. But right now I'm on the couch and I still smell it. Do you think that this is like the time that I had garbage leak onto my jeans when I was taking out the trash and kept smelling it, but didn't realize that it was on me until I noticed that the cats kept licking my pant leg?

I hope not."

Ah, technology.

I’m Not Cool. But I’m Okay With This.

I’ve long suspected it, but now I know it’s true. I have the soul of a 45 year old man. Tonight was the first night of a film series that I’m hosting at the Library. I arranged for two film critics from the local NPR station to head up viewings and discussions of Woody Allen films. My job at the Library is, among other things, to "hippen up" the image of the Library and to encourage more interaction with folks in their mid-twenties and thirties.

Apparently most folks in their mid-twenties and thirties just aren’t that into Woody Allen.

My main fear was that no one would come. My second fear was that ailing sump pump in the closet in the back of our viewing room would not die, causing sewage to slowly leak into the room as Alvie Singer begged Annie Hall to marry him at a sidewalk café in Los Angeles. My third fear was that the dvd player would go into spasms in the middle of the film. (It did.) It never occurred to me to fear that the room would be filled (kind of) with people at least a dozen years older than my target demographic and that my boss would see this.

"Well, people came," she said.

"Yes," I replied, hoping that she wouldn’t notice that none of them had lip piercings or chains hanging from their back pockets.

"It’s not really the twenty-something crowd," she said.

I looked away, regretting the promises I made during the interview process.

"We’re going to have to work on that," she said.

My (wonderful) forty-something suburban housewife librarian boss pretty much told me that I’m not hip enough.

I think that my job is still safe. It was punishment enough to be cornered by the Richard Simmons look-alike who believes that his recent divorce was a byproduct of the fact that 4% of adult women have ADD and that adults who take Ritalin should seek marriage counseling.

I’ll think twice before exaggerating my coolness in an interview again.

Flames of Silence.

There is a silent war going on in my back yard and I fear the consequences that will become of it.

Okay. It’s not that dramatic.

My landlord isn’t thrilled that my neighbors habitually have bonfires in the large oilcan in our back yard. (I don’t know what the technical name for the container is, but it’s the same kind that they use to put trash in at the State Fair.) I’m pretty neutral on the issue. Sometimes, I don’t like the fact that I can frequently find intoxicated people screaming around a burning metal container in my back yard. For some reason, fire makes them speak at higher decibels. Other times, I find myself out there with the neighbors. We drink Miller products and tell one another about the faults of our apartment units. It’s kind of like a community center of sorts.

At any rate, the landlord came into the backyard, removed the barrel and threw down grass seed and straw. He told me that it was his intent to throw away the barrel. The next day, my neighbors dragged the fire pit back into the yard and screamed at one another while pouring lighter fluid into the flames. The landlord put down more straw and moved the barrel again. I started to wonder if he had mentioned to the rest of the tenants that he did not want the fires.

My answer came today, when I saw my construction worker neighbor help a man unload an entire palette of lumber pieces into the garage. More fuel for the fire. This passive aggressive war is going to lead to something bad.

Will the drunk neighbors decide to hold the bonfires in the garage? Will the landlord threaten to evict them? With this lead to something involving a shotgun? Will the neighbor with the toddler continue to carry the kid in one arm and a six-pack in the other? Will ashes fall on the straw pieces, causing our entire yard to erupt into flames?

This must be what the cold war felt like.