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The Album of Humiliation

2009-10-22T18:25:00Z

Honoring the age-old comedic tradition of self-deprecation, I share with you, favorite Blogosphere participants, some of the most awful childhood photos in existence. I call this My Album of Humiliation, Volume I. (This means exactly what you think it means.)

This one is from my first birthday party. The poor picture quality makes it difficult to tell, but I think I may have been angry. The other thing that is hard to see is the full set of red, vinyl encyclopedias on the shelf in the background next to my Little Tikes replica mail box. I love having visual proof of something as delightfully late mid-century as the encyclopedia collection, purchased volume by volume from a door to door salesman.

It looks like I was about two when this one was shot. While the crease across my face was caused by the folding of the picture itself, I have no excuses for the hair cut. Or the chins. I think I was about nine when my aunt visited from Denver and shared with my mom the special technique for trimming bangs so the child did not look as if you had placed a large salad bowl over their head before weilding the scissors. Clearly, this photo was shot well before my ninth year. Based on the expression, I’m guessing I was either practicing the look of demurity or, I had no yet been totally toilet trained. While she may not have been an expert hair stylist, I’m glad my mother was vigilant when it came to thorough bathing. Otherwise, those numerous neckrolls would have enabled enough baby-skin-fold crud to build up that my head may have rotted off.

That’s me, on the far left in the vinyl Lucy from Peanuts costume. My humiliation is lessened by the fact the boy two down from me is in a vinyl R2D2 costume, and clearly has not developed his clapping skills as quickly as I had. The boy in the center was Jeremy, the boy who marked my ~~first foray into~~ only instance of stalking. I’d cut my teeth wooing boys the year before in three-year-olds preschool tackling Adam on the playground. Quickly realizing subtlety was the way to go, I made sure I was always within eyeshot of Jeremy. When that hadn’t worked by mid-way through the year, I resorted back to my more direct method of tackling. There was eventually an unfortunate parent conference and Jeremy and I parted ways. As of this photo, there was still hope since it was only October, and here I am again, following Jeremy down the slide.

Stalking aside, how rad is an indoor slide?

I can’t imagine what reason a superhero would have for being this angry, but perhaps all of the poolside photo taking was impeding my ability to fight crime.

These photos were from my one and only ballet recital. I danced as one of the guards in The Wizard of Oz. Don’t remember the guards from the movie? Neither did I until years later when, watching the movie, I realized they play a brief role leading the Scarecrow and the Tin Man into the Witch’s castle. They appear on screen for maybe a total of five minutes. Obviously, this recital was talent-based. Following the viewing of these photos, my career as a writer seems to make even more sense.

This photo was from sometime in the mid-80’s, when my rather distant cousin on my mother’s side asked me to be a junior bridesmaid in her wedding. Somewhere in the world, when those two other girls look back at their family photos, they probably wonder why the creepy brunette girl ruined their photo gazing psychotically at the photographer by Mary’s wedding cake.

This one was taken on my Aunt and Uncle’s deck, and I remember thinking I was the hottest thing in terry cloth, running around that porch. And let me tell you, few rocked the Miss Piggy sneaks harder than yours truly.

Seriously, what little girl didn’t want to be a cheerleader? Note how my brown hair blends into the background, giving me the delightful appearance of a face floating above Strawberry Shortcake pajamas.

No wonder it's only willing to pass Earth every 75 years.

Now that, my friends, is one fine feathered mullet.

This was taken during one of my growing-out-my-bangs phases, which, to this day are still abysmal failures. I think the looping yarn bow is an especially classy touch.

While I don’t remember a single time during my pre-adolescence carefree and confident enough to justify a smile this big, I do remember this outfit. I wore it nearly every day of fifth grade. This, however, was not as unhygenic an action as it may sound. I had several pairs of polka dotted jeans (yes! Polka dots! On jeans! A characteristic you are unable to see in the photo), and after volunteering to cheer folks running in a charity marathon, each of my family members were given one of these T-shirts. I’m not sure what it was about the outfit that made me think I should wear it every day. For that matter, I’m not sure what made me think other people would realize I owned several versions of it, thus allowing me to wear it clean every day. I remember with distinction the three times I deviated from this ensemble during early fifth grade months: I owned a long red dress, purchased shortly after my best friend at the time started wearing a long blue one; a short yellow jumper with which I carried a hot pink purse; and a stunning ensemble that consisted of bright pink parachute pants with black paisley detail, paired with a pastel argyle sweater. It’s important that you, here, that you take a moment and imagine these outfits to ensure your appreciation of just how catastrophic my wardrobe was. By late spring I owned a green and white Forenza shirt, so things were (thankfully) beginning to turn around for me, stylewise.

So thanks for sharing. This was a fun trip down memory lane.

Intentional

2009-10-22T18:02:00Z

So lately, we've been on a bit of a housing rampage, delightfully not instituted by emergencies. (Albeit delightfully instituted by a parent.) We had Sears over on Saturday for a chat about Brett Favre and unpleasant estimates on windows (I kid, I kid, it was actually $2000 less than initially expected. But $1000 more than we are willing to pay.) Tonight is round two, expected to be equally as pricey. And then next Tuesday, a local chap will stop by and, aware of our budget, will offer a far more acceptable estimate. Once we've got that all scheduled to occur, the fire guy is going to come over to talk about drilling giant holes in our brick exterior. Following that, there will be countless arguments concerning carpet remnants and metallic green finishes. Ultimately, it will result in a basement that will cost us several thousand dollars less to heat this winter. I'm looking forward to the changes, and even more so, the unseasonably warm winter we will surely be in store for once we make these upgrades.

The intention this fall was to get our porch painted (not done), and my bathroom tiled (not done), and lots of football watched (done, every Sunday). I'm glad we opted to focus on other stuff, but the original stuff still needs to get done. It's fun not having traditional work hours, kids, and acts of housing devastation interfere with our plans. Plus, it gives me more time to talk myself into painting my bathroom in the garish and offensive hot pink and black tones I miss from my apartment. Wouldn't this look lovely in a pink and black bathroom? The previous homeowners did a fairly good job of choosing lighting fixtures, so there are few that need replacing. Of course, I didn't "need" to paint the dining room either, but I did. Anyway, I'll update with pictures as things change in the basement and everywhere else.

Catching Up

2009-09-09T19:37:00Z

Shortly after updating my Facebook status the other day to include some whining about people's lack of updating, I realized I am equally, if not more so, guilty. And thus, an entry is born.

My excuses for neglecting the blogging include, but are not limited to, being extraordinarily busy with work, being terrified of inserting my memory card into my computer since it may be tainted with The Virus, and not really having a whole lot of excitement to share. Aside from The Virus, the summer has been fairly uneventful. The few things we did would have been made more exciting with photos, but you see, my updating problem is cyclical. I suppose as a writer I should be able to turn the mundane and ordinary into entertaining prose. The following five things exist in our daily life, are incredibly unspectacular, and include photos from various locations besides my memory card.

Anais and his poor toileting habits

Our eldest cat is a lovable fellow. As a matter of fact, right now he's sleeping on the chair in front of my desk, circled up like a hefty rollie-poly bug. He puts his little paw over his eyes to block out the light when he wants to sleep deeply. Dave has taught him tricks like standing on two feet when he is requesting a treat. He's full of love and affection, and all too obviously, a ton of poo.

Since he was just a wee kitten, he has shown his displeasure in being left alone by leaving tiny fecal gifts upon the carpet. When I lived alone with him and I'd spend Saturday night away, I'd return on Sunday to a tiny pile on my fluffy hot pink bathroom rug. The rug, mind you, that was directly in front of his litter box. Now, the carpet of his choice is hardly fluffy and pink, but it is still directly in front of his litter box. We've tried shampooing the carpet, reasoning maybe it was the smell of a previous cat. (It may have been. He never, ever did this during the six months he lived alone with Dave, and there had been no previous cats in that apartment. Which makes me wonder, maybe it's me Anais is unhappy with.) Rest assured, there is nothing physically wrong with him. These poor bathroom habits are a thing of spite and wit. He never leaves a permanent mess like many cats do in order to mark their territory, and he takes extraordinary pleasure in the inconvenience he creates. In the evening when Dave cleans up the offending little piles, Anais will come from anywhere in the house, regardless of any activity he was previously engaged in (sleeping) and sit and watch Dave clean up his mess. It's as if to say "That's right human. You may think you're in charge, but it's just a matter of time."

"There are entirely too many photos of me on the Internet."

"I bear the weight of the world upon these shoulders."

Henri and her one year anniversary

It's hard to believe, but it's been one year since Henri decided she was going to move in with us. Some days it feels like she's been here much longer than a year, and other days it seems as if just yesterday she was a basket case. (It's all relative, I guess.) I'm regularly intrigued by how our little human/animal family came together. One minute Dave was insisting he didn't want to own a house, and the next minute the four of us were lying in the basement watching Frasier refuns. Well, three of us were. Henri usually spends all of her time staring out the basement window, occasionally breaking to scream at us. Nonetheless, she has come a long way. We often remind ourselves when our house breaks, the reason we ended up here was because of Henri. Most days, that's a good thing.

A trip to the Dells

Hey! We went to the Ocean City of the Midwest. I wish I could say more good things about it, but, as the Ocean City of the Midwest, the thrill sort of wears off after adolescence. We took no pictures (as is par for the course) and we were forced to eat waffles and bacon with total strangers. But Dave was involved in a stage performance that included lewd jokes and we had Rachel Ray's favorite grilled cheese sandwich. What more could a boy ask of his 31st birthday?

Well. Here's an indication of what we were in store for.

Our broken garbage disposal

About a month ago, while doing dishes, I looked down to see water dripping on my feet. I'm generally a sloppy dish-doer, so I didn't think much of it. Sensing though that something was a bit askew, I opened the cabinet beneath the sink, flooding the kitchen and exposing my now barely-hanging-from-the-drain garbage disposal. After an excruciating evening of twisting and turning bolts, and an equally excruciating afternoon that left my dad covered in a rash, the disposal was propped up by a brick, appearing to be relatively less broken. Until I did dishes and flooded the kitchen again. Needless to say, a new garbage disposal is on its way.

A mundane and unappealing dinner menu

Jeez I'm tired of making dinner. I did manage to pull off some stellar stuffed shells Tuesday night, and more shrimp caesar is on the menu in the coming days. I'm nearly looking forward to some alternate food choices for autumn. From the looks of it, there are 18 million butternut squash growing in the garden, so that will be a new option. When it gets right down to it though, I'm going to miss peaches and berries, so I'll be complaining before too long about the equally mundane fall options. At least it will be chili season again soon.

That's it. Our late summer in a nutshell. A water-logged, feline-driven nutshell.

When Pigs Fly

2009-07-14T19:25:00Z

The other day, after being forcibly evacuated from our home due to a fire at the neighborhood bacon plant a little over a week ago, I stumbled on a handy evacuation checklist in Martha Stewart's Homekeeping Handbook. I was equal parts writing a review of the book for this site, while simultaneously drowning in inferiority, when I stopped marveling at the "How to Fold a Fitted Sheet" lesson, and realized how miserably we had failed during our evacuation. Following, I will share Stewart's list, in comparison to the less efficient Jamrozy/Brown method of emergency evacuation.

Step One (Martha Stewart Housekeeping Handbook Method): Be prepared for emergencies. Keep all important documents in one place, have a disaster preparedness kit, and be sure everyone knows where to meet, away from the home. Remain calm.

Step One (Jamrozy/Brown Method): Fall asleep to, and awake seven hours later to, sounds of sirens in near distance. Assume it is just another typical day in the neighborhood. Return to sleep for thirty minutes. Realize siren sounds are going to interupt sleep efforts for remainder of time in bed, rise, and view giant black mushroom cloud through bedroom window, just over treetops. Panic.

Step Two (MSHHM): Listen to the local radio or television reports to find out if the government has ordered an evacuation.

Step Two (J/BM): Realize as you are throwing on clothes that it may be helpful to turn on the local news. Learn there is an evacuation in place.

Step Three (MSHHM): Wear long-sleeved shirts, long pants, and sturdy shoes during evacuation. (Seriously Martha? Give me a break. Do I need to accessorize too?)

Step Three (J/BM): Run up stairs screaming "Dave we're being evacuated! They're evacuating us! They're evacuating the neighborhood it's the bacon plant burning that's what's burning we're being evacuated!!!" Wait for Dave's slightly more coherenct response. Begin throwing items into bag including, but not limited to, mascara, razor, deoderant, laptop, four magazines, two books, and Starbucks gift card. Slip on flip-flops, and resume panicking.

Step Four (MSHHM): Take your disaster supply kit and your first aid kit with you. Gather essential documents such as social security card, driver's license, and insurance policies.

Step Four (J/BM): Disregard essential documents such as social security card and insurance policies, not realizing it would have made sense to bring those along until a week later. Disregard disaster preparedness and first aid kits because they do not exist.

Step Five (MSHHM): Bring pets with you and go to your pre-designated pet-friendly location.

Step Five (J/BM): Realizing cats should probably be evacuated too, remember of the three pet carriers you own, only one is at this location. Put larger, less other-cat-friendly cat into carrier, load into Dave's vehicle. Carry tiny, frightened, street-savvy cat in arms to other Jamrozy/Brown vehicle, reasoning it is just a short ride to pre-designated pet-friendly location. En route, realize a) short ride or not, things are not going to work with cat sitting on dashboard over steering wheel, and b) pre-designated pet-friendly location is not outside of evacuation radius. After short news-related update at now-defunct-pre-designated pet-friendly location, and long-winded discussion over bowls of cereal, smells of smoke, and not being responsible for two adults and three additional cats while Dave is at work and unable to assist with any of this crap, damn't, determine that second pre-designated not-as-pet-friendly location needs to be used.

Step Six (MSHHM): Lock your house.

Step Six (J/BM): Exit house leaving all windows open, reasoning that this may help should there be an explosion. Right?

Step Seven (MSHHM): Use only travel routes specified by local authorities.

Step Seven (J/BM): Sit in parking lot of not-yet-opened-for-the-day pet supply store, with both boxed and loose cats while Dave travels to Target to purchase a second, inadequately sized pet carrier for tiny, frightened, street-savvy cat. Watch giant mushroom cloud several miles away grow larger and blacker. Shove tiny, frightened, street-savvy cat into inadequately sized pet carrier upon Dave's return, and head to gas station to fill empty tank for 1.5 hour ride. Purchase bottles of water to pour on cats' snouts when they begin panting with fear. Bid farewell, wondering a) how long until, and if, you will ever see one another again and b)what will he wear to work tomorrow?

Step Eight (MSHHM): Stay alert for down power lines while driving escape route.

Step Eight (J/BM): Begin 1.5 hour trip north to pre-designated not-as-pet-friendly location, with growing anxiety level over distraught, encapsulated felines. Decide that maybe tiny, frightened, street-savvy cat will fare better if the carrier is opened just a smidge, so she can poke her head through. Watch in horror as tiny, frightened, street-savvy cat leaps from carrier toward back of vehicle. Plead with larger, less other-cat-friendly cat to please, please calm down, as he realizes his sibling is freely moving about vehicle. Allow larger, less other-cat-friendly cat to poke his head out of carrier, which he in fact does, for the entire ride, sitting without complaint. Pull to side of road no less than four times during travels to calm tiny, frightened, street-savvy cat and lure her back to the front seat. Plead with her not to cram herself under brake pedal. Watch in delight as tiny, frightened, street-savvy cat slowly enters the carrier of larger, less other-cat-friendly cat, enduring bitings, and settling comfortably into ridiculously cramped carrier with equal delight. Realize all bagged belongings including, but not limited to, mascara, razor, deoderant, laptop, four magazines, two books, and Starbucks gift card have been left in Dave's car, back in Milwaukee. Arrive and remain at pre-designated not-as-pet-friendly location for two days. Create levels of havoc in pre-designated not-as-pet-friendly location the likes of which haven't been seen in nearly a decade, pondering if this, in fact, may actually be the last straw that has been threatened for nearly 32 years.

Step Nine (MSHHM): Return home once authorities give the "all safe" announcement.

Step Nine (J/BM): Return home shortly after having tiny, frightened, street-savvy cat create such a scene at pre-designated not-as-pet-friendly location that she is encouraged to "return only once pre-designated not-as-pet-friendly location owner has passed on." Return home to still burning bacon plant, openly declaring that any further evacuation order will be blatantly ignored, and furthermore, seriously? My property taxes increased this year? You've got to be kidding me. We live in the constant shadow of a possible bacon-scented explosion, which may or may not include risk of projectile pig parts careening through our windows at any moment of the night or day, and the government is telling me I have to pay more to inhabit this place?

And this, my friends, is the way in which people are driven mad.

Download This: Counting Crows

2009-06-26T18:05:00Z

In the spirit of Summerfest, and the show that I so luckily get to see this evening, I figured today was as good as any (better even!) to compile a new Download This. Dave and I will be taking Greggy Bear with us, and a few weeks ago, he asked Dave to supply him with some Counting Crows music. Greg bought his ticket based on the Keith Urban performance part of tonight's concert, and would probably be hard-pressed to identify Mr. Jones. Anyway, Dave never gave him any CDs (nor did I, so blame can only be spread so much) and Greg will likely spend the Counting Crows set bored and exclaiming "Hey! I've heard this! I think... It sounds different... Hey, where's Vanessa Carlton?" during Big Yellow Taxi.

Anyone that has ever known me knows that Counting Crows is my favorite band, although they may not know that they've teetered dangerously close to the edge of second favorite on occasion. I often threaten that one more Accidentally In Love and I'm telling David Gray to bump them off the fence. The truth is, no matter how many times they act as Shrek's pimp, they will never not be my favorite. I just forget it sometimes, and I need only listen to August and Everything After to be reminded how their music is as much a part of me as my blood, my bones, and baseball. Adam Duritz is sometimes criticized for his cryptic lyrics, which is exactly what garnered my attention in 1993. And to this day, that remains the one album that I can return to time and again to find its lyrics have grown with me and my experiences. From the summer so much of my attention was focused on Texas, to now, when I'm missing a little girl in Baltimore, Adam has managed to create phrases that are artistically subjective enough to just always fit inside of me.

Sometimes the parallels between the lyrics and my life aren't so cryptic. Adam was born in Baltimore, and his connection with the mid-Atlantic region occasionally pops up in his music. In 2003, I gave up August and Everything After for Lent. It was one of my more well-thought out Lenten sacrifices, and I was pretty pleased with myself for not assigning chocolate or cake for yet another year (or forgetting to sacrifice something altogether, which I'm typically guilty of doing). Perhaps that year was worse though. I intentionally broke my Lenten promise on two separate occasions; once in Chicago while not visiting Wrigley Field, and a second time one week later, driving around the backroads of five Maryland counties at 2 am. Let's just say listening to that album wasn't the worst sin I was committing during those weeks. (And I'd do it all again... but that's a story for a different day!)

Anyway, it isn't just August and Everything After that has kept me a fan of the band over the years, so I've put together the list of songs I should have burned onto a CD for Greg about three weeks ago. I would also suggest downloading these songs if your familiarity with the band stretches no further than Mr. Jones. Although, one of the acoustic versions of Mr. Jones would be good. As a matter of fact, let's start there:

Mr. Jones, accoustic version. These are all live, and most are bootlegged. The band encourages people to bootleg their concerts and it has resulted in a huge collection of varying performances of their songs. Some people I have known have complained about the way they change their songs when performing live. Those people sort of suck. I will admit that there are times I prefer the studio version, but you know what? It's not my song. Adam can do whatever he wants with his music and if I don't like it, I'll pass the ten minutes he's exercising his artistic license staring at his rhythm guitarist.

We'll stick with August and Everything After for the moment, and choose another single from the album. 'Round Here is usually their live performance masterpiece. I would encourage you to download the album version of the song, as well as several of the bootlegged performances.

My favorite song of all time is Anna Begins. It's the reason I enjoy sneezing so much, do download it and enjoy.

It's Raining in Baltimore is a favorite for obvious reasons. It also slammed into my life at the most opportune time, as I was putting lipgloss on in front of a full-length mirror, still walking with a limp, and not yet fully aware of how much of my existence had been formed in the months leading up to that particular August.

Moving on to their next album, I have to admit I was not fond of it at first. It rocked, and I was not into rocking at the time. The Wallflowers and Jewel were so soothing at the time, and I wasn't sure what had happened to the band that I loved. Well, what had happened was the addition of guitarist Dan Vickerey, and it wasn't until I saw the live performance of the album that I learned to really appreciate it. Having said that, the three songs I would recommend most are some of the less rocking songs on the album. Monkey should be downloaded because, as a rule, every song about monkies should be downloaded. Daylight Fading and Have You Seen Me Lately? are good choices both from Recovering the Satellites, and from the follow-up two disc collection of their VH-1 Storytellers performance. And anyone reading this that is a fan of the band already,and is shouting "What about Goodnight Elisabeth!?" fine, download that too. The live version of Goodnight Elisabeth often kicks ass.

Their next studio album, This Desert Life, could arguably be their best. As a matter of fact, the argument rages in my head on the fairly regular basis. I have a problem when I'm listening to certain songs, and I proclaim them my favorite, until I hear the next song, and that becomes my favorite. Really, this just sums up my committment issues. Anyway, Mrs. Potters Lullabye is about the actress Monica Potter, and for me, the song has often been appropriate. Also appropriate is St. Robinson and His Cadillac Dream, which can be summed up for me with the following first verse lyrics: "I was born on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay, but Maryland and Virginia have faded away." My heart breaks a little each time I hear it.

Finally from this album, the song High Life has, in my opinion, possibly the best lyrics of anything in their collection of music. Every one of their songs has at least one line that stands out for me, but this one is (dare I say it? I dare.) a poetic masterpiece.

In 2002, once again coinciding with my own personal life transitions, they came out with another album. Hard Candy didn't tear me up emotionally as some of This Desert Life and August had, but pretty much nothing tore me up during this time. It was a fun time, although by definition I guess it shouldn't have been, and dying my hair red, I enjoyed the crap out of this album. It mentions Texas! (Which for me now had duel meaning...) It mentions drawers of other summers! It mentions bananas! Really, you can't go wrong.

After Hard Candy, there was a greatest hits album, Films About Ghosts. I was surprised that it included Einstein on the Beach (for an Eggman) because I once read an interview where Adam called the song crap. It was unique because he had written the music and not the lyrics, which were written by super-hottie and band co-founder, David Bryson. This was the opposite of most of their early stuff, and it seemed a little insenstive for Adam to call it crap. Maybe his penance was including it on the greatest hits. In order to facilitate his seeking of forgiveness, download Einstein on the Beach. It's a song that is gobs of fun.

Another live album followed the greatest hits. There isn't really any particular song I'd recommend on New Amsterdam, but they did manage to put together a good show the night they recorded it. They left out 'Round Here and Raining in Baltimore, two of my favorite live songs of theirs. They seem to rarely perform RIB live anymore, which is fairly dissappointing. If you feel a need to download a song from each of their albums so as to bring your collection full circle, I'd recommend Miami. The end includes an audience sing-along and the feeling of superiority I feel in knowing every word when the album mostly just supplies silence is worth my 99 cents any day.

The thing I'm struggling with most is their newest album, Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings. I'm finding it very hard to like. I'm hoping it's a little like Recovering the Satellites, and in time it'll just stick. Although, I have seen it performed live and it didn't change my opinion much. As a matter of fact, if something would have changed my opinion, it would have been that concert. We were only about three rows back from the stage. Halfway through a guy had some sort of attack, and the band stopped playing and called for the EMTs to come get the guy. While we were all waiting for the medical emergency to be remedied, the band stood around chatting with the nearby fans, and I stood around kicking myself for not having situated myself in the front row prior to the show. So, in commemoration of my regrets, download the songs that I believe are standouts on this album: Come Around, You Can't Count on Me, and 1492. These are surprisingly singles from the album, something I sometimes have a tendency to shun. Hopefully I won't be overcome by a desire to leave tonight's concert after they've performed Mr. Jones.

That's it folks. Go forth and download. And I promise to enjoy my beer at the concert tonight.

Costumes and Psychedlic Furs!

Thirty Three

2009-06-17T16:07:00Z

Speak to me in a language I can hear
Humour me before I have to go
Deep in thought I forgive everyone
As the cluttered streets greet me once again
I know I can't be late, supper's waiting on the table

(Note the chick in the background checking out Dave)

Tomorrow's just an excuse away
So I pull my collar up and face the cold, on my own
The earth laughs beneath my heavy feet
At the blasphemy in my old jangly walk
Steeple guide me to my heart and home

(You can't tell by how happy they look, but the Brewers lost. That's no reason to not look forward to the sushi, of course.)

The sun is out and up and down again
I know I'll make it, love can last forever
Graceful swans of never topple to the earth
And you can make it last, forever you
You can make it last, forever you

(Fewer women in their 30's have cleaner hands)

And for a moment I lose myself
Wrapped up in the pleasures of the world
I've journeyed here and there and back again
But in the same old haunts I still find my friends
Mysteries not ready to reveal

(Mike made me a mix CD!)

Sympathies I'm ready to return
I'll make the effort, love can last forever
Graceful swans of never topple to the earth
Tomorrow's just an excuse
And you can make it last, forever you
You can make it last, forever you
                                      -Smashing Pumpkins

                                                 (Once you click play, you realize Dave didn't give me Keith Urban for my birthday)

Thank You Mrs. Drussel (and Aunt LuLu)

2009-06-10T02:16:00Z

Sometime around November of last fall I began spending time during official work hours not doing official work. I should rephrase that to make it less incriminating. There was often no work for me to do at my official place of work, so I started doing what everyone does in that exact situation. Due to the creation of this blog, I had begun to realize that a lot of people were getting paid to write stuff online. It was usually a very small amount of money (even though the spam would have you believe they're making millions and millions), but it was still money.

I found this terribly efficient site related to Amazon that was called mTurk. Turking (and you know I love it when a word gets verbed) is creating small, sometimes poorly written, pieces of ad copy for people all over the world. Often, people that turk are from countries where a piece of bread feeds a family of five. For two weeks. This means that website owners can put up pieces written in broken English on their sites for a very small price, and everyone seems to walk away happy.

Enter, me. And while it would be nice to think that I revolutionized the online writing industry and demanded a lot of money for my somewhat less broken English, that was not the case. Like most of what has happened over the last nine months of my life, I approached it with a fresh, green naiveté that I, frankly, haven't felt since I was about sixteen. The first two jobs I happened to see posted on mTurk were for $35 and $50. They required that I write 500 words, no research needed. It took about a month, but both turk listers paid. I was now living in a world where people were paying me an average of $85 dollars per hour for my efforts.

Months passed. There was a pleasant holiday season, a culinarily delightful trip to Las Vegas, and hours upon hours of misery getting up every day and trudging off to a place that I despised and that charged me $6 per day to escape. I continued to write, and I slowly learned that being paid in third world currency was not an option for a professional writer. Occasions kept arising in which people asked me to write things for them, not horribly complicated things or extremely creative things, and they would deposit dollar upon dollar into my Paypal account. All of this was because I was writing for them. A business plan was created. A website was built. This website was neglected because of all of those occurrences. Throughout spring (which I'm convinced still hasn't really occurred, since it's nearly mid-June and it's IN THE 50's), things converged and an idea that had been in the making since I was in second grade sort of suddenly came together.

I realize that things that take 26 years typically aren't considered sudden, but it felt sudden. One minute the main reason I got out of bed in the morning was coffee, which I was consuming WAY too much of, and the next minute, I'd decorated an office with cute things from Ikea. And best of all? People are still paying me to write for them. Seriously. I'm still in awe of it myself. I get paid to do something I enjoy doing. This past Saturday I attended a workshop for writers, and in several of the classes, the facilitator deferred to me and used the phrase "since you're working in the field." I'm sorry to say that I spent over a year and a half at my previous job, and to be honest, I'm still not entirely sure what that field was.

So. The good news? Besides the fact that I get to visit the farmer's market mid-day on Thursdays, and munch my oatmeal while perusing Craiglist in my office that no one decorates but me, all while my cats look on deeply in love with this new arrangement? The good news is I am doing what I love. Among the other projects that are bouncing around in my skull right now is updating this site. There's a Mac in the house and I intends to use it. There's a good chance there will be some other more specialized sites as well. I will (hopefully) finally complete my anniversary opus and feel a little less guilty about putting it off. And I'll be writing day in and day out, vowing to avoid the coffee that will never go truly un-avoided.

This thing we got here? Everyone wins. See how happy it makes us?

Maybe you can't tell, but this is how they look when they are blinded by joy.

Desert AND Dessert

2009-03-28T03:20:00Z

Nearly a pun, that will become more clear as you read!

I've thought about a few different ways to write about our trip to Vegas, and I think I've finally settled on rating the events we experienced while we were there. I know it's not completely original, but I figured it would give me a good idea of what to do and not do during future trips. Like next spring. Or in the fall. Or three weeks from now. The ratings scale will range from 5 (comparable to the Greatest Night of Greg's Life) down to a 1 (equal to a slumber party with Amanda Pacer).

                                                                                 Dave gives our arrival two thumbs up.

Anyway, we got in around 8:30 on Sunday night, and as usual, I figured the cab driver was ripping us off on the ride to the hotel. He took the highway, and it was the first time I've stayed mid-strip, so maybe it was legit, but as will be evidenced in a later tale, I'm not sure I completely trust cab drivers. So, about two weeks before the trip, I'd called The Flamingo, and asked for a remodeled room, which was exactly what I'd read, in reviews, to do when staying at The Flamingo. The kindly operator assured me that everything was set, and that not only would the room be remodeled, it would be upgraded. "Possibly with a view of randy flamingos, " I speculated, but would have settled for an unimpeded view of the strip. Excited that our hotel checker-inner was from Germantown (of the Wisconsin, not Maryland variety) we chatted her up about not misspelling Cudahy, and how much the weather in her old hometown sucks more than anything else in the entire universe.

That is, until she informed us all she had left was a non-smoking (lies! all lies!) room, that was indeed, not remodeled. I assured her she was mistaken. I had confirmed our 21st century room aways back, and she should just take another look. She explained to me that the operators that take the calls for the hotel state that the upgrades are confirmed in a manner in which they are not actually being confirmed. For instance, when the operator says "Ok, everything is confirmed, you are all set for an upgraded, remodeled room," they, in fact, mean exactly the opposite of that. Our non-smoking room smelled of smoke and by trip's end, everything we owned smelled of smoke. And the air-conditioning did not work. I found it a little surreal, complaining about how hot I was, how I was getting sweaty for our first night in Vegas, considering I'd spent the last four months crying bitter, frozen tears each night as I slipped off to sleep, but there I was, sweaty and needing another shower.

           So pink, and yet, so icky.


                                                                                                                                               If only we'd stayed here instead.

The Flamingo experience neither improved, nor worsened, by any noticeable degree as the trip continued. The air conditioning was sort of fixed, the bed was comfortable, but the blankets were weird and spotted with burned plastic, and on the last night we were there, Steve found some trash next to the couch and Doritos under the bed. I did walk away from their Wheel of Fortune machine $27.00 richer, and their buffet was so-so, despite the fact they went to great efforts to hide the breakfasts food. (Great for those that crave a cilantro-laced ceviche, not so much if you're craving french toast. And hate cilantro.) So on a scale of 1-5, The Flamingo gets 1 star. I would have given it less, but Donna just threw all my diet pills across the Walsh's living room.


                                                              Steve gets a kick out of spending time with the grown up boys.

Moving on, our first big event was our night at FortyDeuce. We had gone there a few years ago when we were there for Thanksgiving, but knew nothing of the bottle service, and how it's necessary if you want to actually see the show. So after donating both kidneys and a liver, I confidently handed my bank card over to Joel, the club host. He assured me he'd close out the tab right away, because I was a little nervous our friends would show up hours later, when my judgement wasn't so sharp, and I'd insist they all order bottles of Dom on my dime. There was no need to worry, as Steve and Greg were the only ones that showed up.

And weren't they impressed beyond all get out, when they were (forced to pay a reduced cover charge) and escorted up to the "VIP area" behind a velvet rope! I said to the gigantic bouncer, who we had already seen drag a passed-out college student back to the FortyDeuce secret recovery room, "They're with me," and he unhooked the rope and let them through. He even moved our tiny champagne-holding table to our newer, roomier location. From that point on, things got a little fuzzy. You'll find that when, on your first night in Vegas, pretty girls in no pants liberally pour you champagne, after you bypassed dinner in favor of JUST GETTING INTO THE CLUB THE SOONER THE BETTER, NOW, NOW!, you end up ordering every flavor of martini on the menu, and insisting that the equally drunk Navy boy, that is sharing his flask of rum with you on the casino floor, accompany you and your friends to the other club Joel said he would get us into FOR FREE, IN A LIMO! Alas, it was not to be and Greg and Steve (cruelly) put an end to my evening, and just in time, because I'm not sure I remember a taxi ride back to a hotel quite as dizzying as this one. (I'm lying, I totally do, and EWilson741, you keep your mouth shut.) FortyDeuce, you cost me a $12.58 mystery charge and $200 more than I intended and I still give you 5 stars.

Morning after Fortydeuce, I give you negative 1,000 stars. I'll hate you forever.

The dress was cute, but the face aflame was not.

Monday night Steve and I had booked a Mystery Adventures tour. I've always wanted to do one of these, and to this day I remember the murder mystery dinner that a high school friend hosted at her house, and how much fun that was. I guess I should include the screaming match I got into with the cab driver on the way to the Mystery Adventures location, but that would lessen the score I give Mystery Adventures, and that would not be fair. While waiting for the bus to pick us up at the Sahara, we met a nice couple from North Dakota named Jamie and Dirk. It was pretty much the last time anyone would speak to us. Steve and I were pretty good sleuths, but most of the time, we'd say something three or four times that we'd discovered , and then one of the louder, middle-aged people would shout it out, and they'd all high-five, and hoot-hoot. The host of our adventure tried his best to include us, and he did a great job, but this would have been a lot more fun had it been all of our friends participating. I'm usually all for meeting strangers in the middle of a faux crime scene, across the street from the number one Thai restaurant in the US, but this could have been more fun. The adventure was solved in a room filled with bloody gauze and neatly arranged medical instruments, and anyone that knows me knows that if there's something that will make my bowels quiver, it's this. The night ended with a certificate declaring Steve and I Master Sleuths, and a copy of The Manchurian Candidate DVD,so all in all, it was a fun night. Mystery Adventures gets 3.5 stars.

Steve is looking so satisfied here because now, he's a Master Sleuth.

Tuesday started rough, because apprently, in Vegas, it takes twenty-nine times more minutes to get anywhere and do anything than you are planning for it to take. I walked over to the Forum Shops to buy my obligatory Vegas vacation Swatch. I rushed back to meet Dave in front of Spago, so we could then meet our friends to eat at the Augustus Cafe, home of the world's longest wait for anything you want to eat. They separated us into two parties, defeating most of the purpose of our attendance, since the person that was leaving later that day was at the other table. I shoveled salad into my mouth, and speed-walked toward the Venetian, mumbling about this not being the best way to begin the greatest spa experience of my life. You know what? Everyone on the strip at noon on St. Patrick's Day is not only drunk, they are walking more slowly than anyone has ever walked in their entire lives. Once again, sweat threatened to ruin a much-anticipated Vegas event.

That guy on the far left? Totally worth making it to brunch for.

The great thing about Canyon Ranch Spa is that you have to walk about a mile down long hallways to arrive at the locker room/place where your soul melts into goo. By the time I arrived at the counter where the spritely woman gave me my shower shoes and cozy robe, I was no longer sweaty (but not all that in the mood for the cozy robe, either). While you wait for your therapist to call your name and escort you, miles away, to your treatment room, you get to sit in this large area where there are magazines, and water with lemon, and soft furniture in soothing colors that make you want to learn to meditate.

My massage was far better than many I've had, although probably not the best. I was returned to the lemon-water sanctuary, to prepare for my facial. The facial included the horribly painful extraction of stuff on the sides of my nose, and yet, it was probably one of the top five happiest times of my life. I wish someone could have taken a picture of the event. I was swaddled in my cozy robe, with lotion slathered on my hands and feet. The therapist placed giant, heated booties and mittens on my hands and feet. She then put goopy, wonderful smelling stuff all over my face, repeatedly complimented my shiny hair, young, firm skin, and nail polish, and massaged various parts of my scalp. When that was all over, she escorted me to another lounge, with terry cloth chairs, where I read Oprah magazines, alternately visiting hot stone and ice salt rooms, while listening to new-agey, plinkey music. I didn't (ever) want to leave, but alas, I had to get to The Burger Bar, and my date with Greg (and Criss Angel). Canyon Ranch Spa? It gets 4.75 stars.

This is how Matt would look after a day at The Canyon Ranch Spa.

I know I don't get out much, but it was exciting to have showered at the spa, using their organic-y hair products, and anti-bacterial dipped brushes (an extra plus, since Dave and I left our brushes at home.) All I had to do was switch into my burger-eatin', magician-seein' clothes, and be on my way. The show was at the Luxor, so after a pleasant monorail ride with beefy, drunken frat boys oggling half-dressed college girls, I set about my short walk across the street to the Luxor, THAT WAS THE LONGEST F-ING WALK OF MY ENTIRE BLISTER-FOOTED, DAMNED LIFE, I HATE YOU BROKEN MOVING SIDEWALKS, AND STUPID, STUPID, BROKEN ESCALATORS, AND DAMN'T CAN THE MGM BE LABELED WITH ANY LESS INFORMATION ABOUT THE APPROPRIATE EXIT TO TAKE TO CROSS THE STREET IN THE MOST CONVENIENT MANNER TO REACH EXCALIBUR, WHICH IS ALSO STUPIDLY, STUPIDLY UNLABELLED???

"I wonder why all of the moving walkways in Vegas have been disabled?"

So, my burger at The Burger Bar was magnificent. In all the writing I've done, I've probably neglected to mention that my greatest food mistake of all time was ordering their kobe beef burger well-done during a trip a few years back. Well, if for nothing else, Vegas is a land of reshaping regrets, and my burger was delivered to me cooked in a manner in which I rarely order meat. Matt R., feasting upon the same heavenly patty of meat, described it best when he bit into the burger and said "ohhh, oh, ohhhhhh." The Burger Bar, you get 4.25 stars, but only because I do not love your sweet potato fries and I am always too full for dessert.

You may have your In-and-Out burgers boys, but nothing beats Kobe beef.

It was a short walk from The Burger Bar to the Believe theatre (and yet, Greg still managed to trip (I didn't laugh too much though, because I've seen Greg during way funnier tripping experiences at the Luxor, and because he made it a point to tell me I looked nice as we walked to the theatre. Oh Greggy Bear, how I look foward to your caring for Dave and I in our golden years.)), and our seats were outstanding. We'd debated for weeks which tickets to buy, and actually passed up uber-pricey front row tickets. As it turns out, we were in the first row of the balcony, which was right by the walkway Criss Angel ran down during one of his trips through the audience. It seemed like the other side of the theatre got more action than we did, but we had the pleasure of "speaking" with one of the drunken clock moppets pre-show. The show has gotten pretty rank reviews, and the locals (at least the one I spoke to) tended to hate it. It's the only Cirque show I've seen, so I have nothing of that caliber to compare it to. I can understand why the reviews weren't so great. Angel seems a little uncomfortable at times, and the plot is a bit cryptic. If you are a Criss Angel fan though, you are probably going to love it. Greg's enjoyment of Angel's illusions has made it possible for me to admire more than just his abs (Angel's, not Greg's, although I'm sure Greg's are spectacular as well), and I especially liked the dark nature of the show. I didn't have specific expectations, so there wasn't a lot that could go wrong. Believe gets gets a solid 3.9 stars, which would have risen to 4 stars had Angel and Holly Madison not broken up, and she'd been in attendance.

Check out those guns! And those abs!

After the show, we met up at Shadow Bar, where girls dance behind screens and you see only the black, shadowy outline. Had fleshy, costumed memories of FortyDeuce still not been in my head, it would have probably been a lot sexier. As it was, I had a much better time about an hour later when we headed toward Cleaopatra's Barge, where there was dancing and a far more organized waitress. It was St. Patrick's Day, but we forewent the green beer in favor of drinks of every single other color of the rainbow. We discovered the tequila sunrise, and the valuable lesson of never letting a drunk friend out of your sight. Had the evening ended for every single one of us at exactly the same time, St. Patrick's Day in Las Vegas at Caesar's Palace would have clocked in at 4.35 stars. Alas, let's just say when you average together 4.35 and negative 12, you get negative 7.65, which seems to accurately describe things.

A dining event in which Dave and I were not involved.

During the day Wednesday, there was a lot more walking, and a lot more poorly planned pathways to "the mall with no seating and no drinks, at least that Kelly can find." I snagged some cute emergency shoes, and squeezed in a nap before heading off to MGM Grand with Dave. Surprisingly, the trip went smoothly, so we arrived an hour before our 8:00 pm reservations, allowing Dave time to toss more money into slot machines. I'm not sure mere words will aptly describe the exact experience that is Craftsteak. And if you're one of those food people, the kind that criticizes everything (which makes me one of those "everything other than food people, because I criticize basically all things but food), you may say Craftsteak doesn't measure up to something or other or something else. I say to you, good sir or ma'm, "whatever".

I knew it would be good. I knew that in the months leading up to our trip, every Wednesday when I'd see Tom Collichio's perfectly tailored suits, his coquettish smile, his tongue slipping past his pert, firm lips to suckle in the tiniest drop of soup, that it would be good. But nothing, and I mean no amount of G&M crabcake, Kansas City omellete, or Bubbala's chicken sandwich, prepared me for The Lobster Bisque. I'd aleady begun sipping my sparkling moscato (because in Vegas, at Craftsteak, my favorite grape comes in a glass with happy bubbles) when the porcelain crock arrived, shaped in such a way that one's thumb slid gently, but firmly, into either side of the apparatus allowing for appropriate tiltage, later in the consumptory process.


                                Deliciousness awaits you.

As the soup would slip into my mouth, it would leave a warm, creamy coating on the spoon, momentarily making me question if my spoon were not inlaid with some new-fangled white metal. There were big buttery chunks of lobster, filling the crock at least halfway, and I never wanted it to end. Except it had to, in order for the Best Scallops In All The Sea, Before They Were On My Plate, and Now, In My Belly and later, banana brioche bread pudding that left me speechless for at least forty-five seconds, to be delivered to me. Also, the chocolate ice cream on top of the banana brioche bread pudding? I'd cut off both my arms to eat it again, and I'd be happy about it because then I could just insert my face into the miniature casserole dish it arrived in, and later freshen up with the Meyer lemon sorbet. I realize this is the least food critic-y food critique ever, but sometimes writing must be led by emotion. Craftsteak, and your depilated patriarch, in addition to anything you may request, you receive 38 stars. I think I heart you.

When all the stars align, and Tom Collichio creates soup, Dave gets vibrationally happy.

And since nothing could top a week filled with sparkly dancing girls gyrating from the ceiling, and the greatest meal of my life, I chose to relax on our last day in Vegas, wandering from The Forum Shops, through The Grand Canal Shoppes, onward to the Palazzo, where there's a store filled with first edition books signed by their authors, and a place called Annie Cream Cheese, which is apparently the only full-fat dairy Nicole Ritchie has ever sampled. I ended my browsing extravaganza at the Fashion Show Mall, where $112.00 Betsey Johnson shoes look cheap compared to all the other loot I could have scarfed up that day. (Disclaimer: The Betsey Shoes are worth WAY more than $112.00. I want to build them a shelf and display them in my home.) Day of traipsing through some of Vegas' best shopping locations deserves 3.75 stars. One day when I am floating in excess cash, and can pillage your fashioney goodness, you will earn the full 5 star reward. Our last Vegas meal was at The Mirage, and despite Craftsteak having ruined food for me forever, the sea bass was fairly excellent, the sushi sort of sucked, but hey! sushi on a buffet! and yum, macaroons. Our waiter cracked our shit up, and got a wide variance of diet vs. regular cola orders just right. The Mirage buffet gets 3 stars.


                                                                                                            Mmmm... sea bass.

So that's it. Our Vegas trip in a long-winded nutshell. I'm fairly certain I forgot about fourteen things that were horribly important, and there's a fair chance a few things will come boomeranging back to me in a few months in alcohol-related flashback fashion. We had built the excitement of the trip up so much that there was little it could do to measure up to our expectations, and yet, Dave and I have treated the entire thing like a bad break-up since arriving home last Friday. When we drive past the airport, we mist up a little, and we stop every few hours to remember "what we were doing this time last week." Thankfully now, it's pretty much the same thing I'm doing right now. We've priced trips back to Vegas, as well as any other city I can think of that might offer me a glimpse into what it's like to jet-set. We've been mopey and grumpy, and basically intolerable to everyone accept Anais and Henri, who, thankfully, did not offend the cat sitter to the point where she refused to ever sit for them again. They were on the behavior they are best capable of, and for that we are proud. They are also now even more incapable of letting us out of their sight for more than five minutes, without going stark raving berserk. So basically, our time away did little to change things.

Lastly, my thanks to our friends who actually remembered to pack, and insert, batteries into their cameras. Along with forgetting to feed their hungry mouths, and spending their diaper money on shoes, things like that will put me in the worst-at-home mom hall of fame one day.

Lately

2009-03-07T17:34:00Z

You know what I've hardly done any of lately? Blog. Know what I have done WAY too much of lately? Shop. Spend money. Which would be OK, because I've also been doing a lot of freelancing lately, but we leave for Vegas in a week, and I'd like to have some money left for the trip. I'm not the only one shopping though. I'll be going with practically all boys, and they have been building new wardrobes for the trip the likes of what Jessica Simpson might take on a two week vacation. Anyway, if you are interested in shopping too, try this this shopping site. It is supposed to be a one-stop sort of place for all of your shopping needs. For instance, if I enter red patent leather pumps into the search engine, it will spit back at me all the places online that I can find red, patent leather shoes. This helps to narrow down the price range I'm looking for, and it weeds out the wide selection of hooker heels one is sure to get when searching the internet for red, patent leather pumps. (Of course, with a trip to Vegas on the horizon, hooker heels might be exactly what I'm looking for.)

Speaking of hookers, I got my hair cut at a new place two weeks ago. (Bear with me, this part isn't an ad.) I was describing to the stylist what I wanted, and she was trying to talk me into various shades of highlights, and I was attempting to tell her why I wasn't interested in said highlights, one because of the price, and two because I had already purchased the materials to go home that night and pour scads of boxed color all over the new work of art she was attempting to create north of my face. Knowing that stylists seethe at the box of color, I try to keep my mouth shut, and then just act surprised at my next hair cut when they point out that my hair is a different shade than the last time she saw me. Anyway, new stylist finished blowing my hair out, all puffy and crusty, in that perfect way it will never look again once I've commandeered the paddle brush and cheap hair dryer. I try to think of creative ways to thank the cutters and compliment their work, even though at least 50% of the accomplishment is owed to me, for growing their medium. I told her, "it looks perfect... if only it were six inches longer." Which was not only totally what I was thinking, but I thought, a well-thought out compliment. Her response? "Oh, you mean like hooker hair?" In my imagination, I would assume hooker hair would be an odd shade of blonde, slightly chemical green, with unsavory and unidentifiable materials caked into it. Not exactly what I was thinking, but I smiled and accepted new stylist's business card, feeling a little like I'd imagine I'd feel if my teenage daughter were to roll her eyes at my desire to french roll my jeans and listen to Pearl Jam. The stylist was about my age though, so maybe I just have bad taste in hair. But so do all of the women that are in Pantene commercials, so there.

Anyway, try shopping here. Get some cool stuff, get some hooker hair, whatever.

Wood.

2009-02-18T03:40:53Z

I've tried now, several times, to write something about 1993. I guess I'm either just not ready, or just have no interest in sharing the details, because the most I've done is gotten something half done and then decided it makes me feel sick inside. So let me just say this: drive safely, learn to knit, go fishing, and drink your beer out of a glass.

On another note (but really, eerily related), it seems recently, every time I allude to someone on here, they email me, or message me in some way, within a week or two of my posting the enry. So, just in case there is something to this, I'd like to say the following: Dr. Drew. Adam Duritz. Chris Daughtry. One million dollars. Johnny Depp. Sephora gift card. Pit beef sandwich. David Bryson. Word Series tickets.

Kindly Forgive My Indiscretion

2009-02-12T01:33:00Z

The thing is, I'm pretty early enough in my blogging career to not really be concerned about hocking products in order to fund my blog. When something pops up, I'm usually willing to try and think of a creative way to write about it without every actually saying I use this product and you should to. It isn't like when I review a book or tell you a list of songs to download from a specific year. It's usually pretty clear I'm temporarily acting as the pimp for something that I may or may not have any knowledge about.

Until now. Tuesday, I received an email concerning a website that links you to coupons to popular online stores. At one time or another, I've visited coupon sites and had some luck getting good coupons. And now that I know they offer Sephora coupons, I will visite every single day.

There is actually an entire page of the site dedicated to Sephora. It resembles the tiny part of my heart that is also dedicated to Sephora. Anyone that knows me knows that I am not typically girly, but there is something about the vast whiteness of Sephora, mixed with the neverending and constantly changing selection of crap that I can smear all over my face. It's just fun. Anyway, being asked to write about (ahem, by folks that are willing to compensate a small portion of my Vegas trip) a store that I already love? Well that's just neato. So check out Sephora , or other coupons, for all kinds of great discounts.

Leather. Fruit.

2009-02-01T17:48:00Z

Creating drama with my high school best friend was one of my favorite hobbies, and in 1991 and 1992, it reached a crescendo. More often than not, my uber-dramatic tendencies, paired with her apathy, mixed with teenage hormones, life transitions, and a group of none-too-vindictive periphery friends, made for a sort of perfect storm. Tara and I really weren't ever bigger than baseball, a concept I spent at least half of my adolescence trying to convince myself of, in an attempt to make our friendship work. We spent the better portion of five years exchanging letters concerning my perceived neglect, our supposed equal affection for the game, and my discontent with the status quo.

This, and other devastating changes!

It wasn't until years later, dealing with issues of the more grown-up variety, that I realized the drama wasn't ever entirely all my fault. The two year span, my third and fourth year as a baseball fan, were riddled with transition. My dad stopped working at the only place I'd ever known him to work, launching my mom into a morose fit of doom. I graduated from middle school, embarking on my tumultuous (and fairly boring) high school career. More importantly, the Orioles relocated from Memorial Stadium, and settled into their new home, north of the harbor. This was a relocation I struggled with nearly as long as all of my other relocations, which seems odd now that there are few images that strike me more as home than the B&O warehouse building. I also decided, after a Friday night watching fireworks on 33rd Street, listening to Jesus Jones, and sucking back colossal sobs, that I would never speak to Tara ever again. Neither the fact that I'd made this decision before, or that I would make it at least several times again, negated the impact of the declaration, perhaps due in part to the fact that it was so wrapped up in Baltimore sports lore.

It's funny now, smashing these two years down into a few paragraphs. I remember the days passing, at the time, mostly the winter ones, dragging by like a slow moving traffic jam up I-95 toward Cooperstown. Camden Yards was the place I became a veteran, and experienced baseball rites of passage and history. In 1992, it seemed like I'd never get used to it. So much went on, and now it seems like such a small portion of my entire life.The thing about these two years - the beginning of high school, the attempts at socializing and dating, and the realization for the first time, that the things going on around me weren't necessarily things I wanted to fit in with - I sort of still got caught up in my surroundings at the time, ultimately screwing things up because they always felt so weird. I guess I never really was a pep rally sort of person, but not in the the sort of way that Mike Mussina isn't a pep rally person. I had a hard time connecting, and at the time, that seemed like a problem. It wasn't until adulthood that I realized how normal I really was.

The thing is, I was always trying to force myself into molds that I never fit in, while still consciously trying to retain my passion for baseball, because even then, I knew I'd found something that was part of the core of who I was. Even my first post-fanship, non-baseball related crush, sparked and/or suffered at the hands of this fate. He sauntered past me on a Friday morning, during our pre-homeroom tradition of circling the halls of the school like a parade of cattle. It as an act less for early morning calesthenics, than it was a chance to create a pubescent meat-market. The act enabled Tara and I to follow at a comfortable pace behind him, admiring his admittedly admirable ass, clad in jeans far too tight for the 1990's. After a weekend of Tara referring to this brooding guy as "the Bill guy" she talked me into having a crush on him. I have abstract memories of eating at the Bob's Big Boy in Gettysburg with him, and driving him home late one night in my mom's Italian sports car. Much like that last sentence, his presence in my life now seems such a bizarre part of my personal history. (Gnocchi is about as sporty and Italian as I get these days. Well, and Dolce and Gabanna.)

Now, seventeen years later, it's hard to imagine there was ever a time that I was not attached to Camden Yards. As each intentionally orchestrated circumstance,launched by my continuous mistep of rushing headlong into perceived normalcy, would crash down around me, I'd lament over the ease with which my life ran, back before Memorial Stadium closed. I, undeservedly, hung a good deal of my angst on what was, and still is, the gem of baseball architecture. Mets fans should probably know that it's worth the upgrade, even though it takes awhile to settle in. Yankees fan will experience a more difficult transition, but really, I'm not one to wish anything besides difficulty on the Yankees. Like any great pair of shoes, it might take a little while to wear them in, and get them to the point where they feel as comfortable as they look. But if there's anything I'm a pro at, it's great shoes. And having more than one location that I consider home.
Sometimes I just want to go back.

Sweet

2009-01-25T04:47:00Z

Dear McDonald's:

We need to talk. Here's the thing. Your coffee doesn't really suck, and while being sort of a coffee snob, I'm willing to lay down my Arabica guns and occasionally partake of what you have to offer. There are mornings when the line is too long at Starbucks, or I drive by Starbucks swearing to myself that I will survive without coffee today, only to give in three miles down the road as I near your golden arches. On those rough mornings when I know I don't have time to stop at Starbucks, or I at least am not willing to commit to the drive-thru that early on in my commute, and I need to pass through most of the traffic lights, and be within five minutes of my office to know for sure I really have time for coffee, those mornings you seem like such a viable option. And every so often, there just isn't a "coffee shop" around and let's face it, you are always around. You have held up sufficiently McDonald's, and I like to think you get me through the tough times.

But, McDonald's, the thing is, you do not. You make the tough times tougher. Do you want to know why, McDonald's? Do you? It's because on mornings when I just can't get my head on straight by Chase and Oklahoma, when I just can't dig out that extra 75 cents for my beloved Americano, and I turn to you, McDonald's? On those times when I need you the most, YOU LET ME DOWN AGAIN AND AGAIN.

I know you're new to this coffee racket, and I know it's a tough market to compete in. And I know you rarely ever shirk away from tough competition, and you make your nuggets meatier, and you filets fishier, and you McMeals happier. But damn't McDonald's, you've stepped up to the plate in the caffeine world series, and quite frankly, you couldn't suck harder.

Let me clear up a constant misconception of yours McDonald's, that I mistakenly think is a simple concept, but apparently is the hardest F-ing thing in the world to understand. No sugar? It means WITHOUT sugar. It means DO NOT PUT SUGAR or SUGAR SYRUP or SYRUP FLAVORED WITH SUGAR or SUGAR CUBES or GALLONS AND GALLONS OF SUGAR INTO MY CUP OF COFFEE. When I ask for something that is unsweetened, without sugar, with NO sugar, not including sugar, sugar FREE, do not put the sugar into the thing that I am asking for. Please do not also instruct me, occasionally, that you do not sell coffee with no sugar. You sell black coffee. You sell coffee with cream. You sell coffee with cream and sugar. You will notice, McDonald's, that if I order one of those first two options, my coffee will indeed come without sugar. Therefore, I can't help but repeatedly notice, you do indeed sell coffee with no sugar.

You know what else McDonald's? When I am parched, and in need of a cup of coffee, and I politely order a "coffee with cream, and please, please, please, for the love of all that is holy and pure, do not put sugar into my coffee, " DO NOT ASK YOUR MANAGER IF YOU SELL SUGAR FREE COFFEE AND THEN SERVE ME A HAZELNUT COFFEE. I did not, nor have I ever, requested a hazelnut flavored beverage of any kind.

It seems rather simple, McDonald's. Pouring the coffee into the cup. Adding some cream. You can even put the tiny,plastic cream barrels into my awaiting palm if the problem is you're having a hard time telling cream from sugar. If that's what it takes to make this relationship work, I'm willing to do my part. But I can't help but think that maybe you don't want this to work. Maybe you're happy with my one-night-stand yogurt parfait, or our seasonal orgy during Monopoly month. Maybe this whole "buying coffee three times per week" thing just isn't something you're willing to commit to. I understand that. But please, let's end this now before it gets any more destructive than it already is. Franlkly McDonald's, you and your sweet, sweet, syrupy monstrosity that still sits in my fridge after three sips yesterday, destined for the drain? I've had it with you. Don't think I won't kick you to the curb harder than a moldy Hot Pocket or a Five Dollar Footlong.

Sincerely,

A Disappointed Coffee Consumer

I Read This (and I'll never be the same)

2009-01-18T21:16:00Z

So let's talk for a bit about high hopes. Seems like a timely theme, I think. I'm sure I'm not the first person to reach the realization that the higher the hope, the harder the fall. This isn't exacly the first ocassion I've had with buying the dress, planning the party, or popping the champagne, only to be let down. So I wasn't really surprised to find myself miserably disappointed with (fill in a variety of options for this blank right now) Wally Lamb's new novel.

First, let me explain why my hopes were at such a crescendo. Years ago, when I first happened upon Lamb's freshman novel, She's Come Undone, I felt as if I'd found a long lost friend. I identified with the main character, Delores, in a way you might identify with someone that resembles you but is far more interesting. Except in this case, interesting means tragic. Each time I'd read SCU (about eight in all, so far) I'd imagine myself reaching a conclusion not unlike that of Delores, patchworking a mix of unexpected people and circumstances together to create a somewhat unorthodox life. I was pleased we'd taken different paths to arrive there, but felt a sort of kinship with her and often lauded Lamb for having the talent to write a woman so well.

Lamb's second book, I Know This Much is True, used a technique that has long fascinated me, even though I didn't fall in love with the actual story. About halfway through the book, he made reference to Delores' husband, sort of in an off the cuff way that only staunch devotees would realize. It felt for me a little like a reunion that was a long time coming. I wanted to run screaming at the character, asking how Delores had been, if the waterbed was still in the living room, and if Roberta was still frequenting the dog races. Even the dullest of writers can grab my attention by weaving characters and themes and settings through books that otherwise would not interest me. It feels a bit like a great joke that I'll just never quite understand, but that I am desperate to be a part of.

So when Lamb mentioned Delores in his latest book, The Hour I First Believed, I was, at the very least, excited. I recognized her early on, possibly long before other readers would have picked up on it. It was a passing reference at first, one where I hoped he was talking about her, much like when you overhear someone talking about how an old flame is doing, and you don't really want to ask, but your ears are straining to hear. Once he got around to making it clear that he was indeed reintroducting Delores in this story, I felt my heart break in half. Without too many specifics, all of the things Delores had worked to overcome during her story, her triumphant launch into a life of average occurences and appreciation of solitude, seemed somewhat broken. It wasn't that she wasn't happy in THIFB. It wasn't as if she stalked into the bakery she was entering, grasping her fifty dollar bill intending to cram her angst and beef down her throat. But her description was flat, her whale of a man was dead, and she met a fate she had previously escaped by joining an unworthy baker in holy matrimony. Obviously, I've spoiled something here, but this information obviously doesn't spoil the main plot of THIFB, and in order to understand a good portion of this, you'll have had to read SCU, so I've clearly done no wrong.

Anyway, aside from this plot detail, one that is minor to the book while still major to me, the book was not Lamb's best work. Most of the reviews I read on Amazon were right on target. I'm glad I skipped them until after I'd finished the book. The characters were not as well-written as in Lamb's other books, and the thing that he is usually credited for most, creating characters that are well-developed and easy to sympathize with, both in spite of and because of their flaws, was missing from Caelum and the others. I could see this story being two, or even three, books. I could see this story being edited down a few hundred pages. I could see Wally Lamb rolling his eyes and doing whatever he wants, because he's talented enough to not really care what I have to say. So in that case, I'll say one more thing. The politically slanted rantings in the book? They made me weary. I know enough about writing to know that current events have an effect on what comes through the pen. And I'm also weathered enough to realize that not everyone has the same views that I do about most things in life. I have no choice but to be relatively OK with that because otherwise I'd have been taken away a long time ago in a straight jacket, shaved head and all. But what I've grown tired of is popular culture lecturing me, and not having anywhere to go to escape these lectures. Places I thought were safe where I didn't have to think about the chaos of the world have now grown preachy,and that just makes me tired and weary.

So if you are thinking about reading any of Lamb's books, I would encourage you to do so. I would also encourage you to read them backward. I promise, it will only get better.

*As a side note, I have now written the bulk of this entry three times. I had it completed and (I thought) posted on Wednesday night, only to find on Thursday that it not only did not post, it autosaved only two paragraphs. Tonight, I rewrote all but the last paragraph, saved, ate dinner, did some laundry, and returned to find that I'd been bumped from GoDaddy and the entry was now up to four paragraphs, but missing two others. Halfway through correcting this, the page automatically refreshed, and I lost even more work, including a much wittier explanation of all of this happening. I'm tired, angry, and beginning to feel like this is a little cursed. Also, I just noticed that the autosave stamp, it went from saying 10:17 to saying 9:24, so I'm also pretty sure I'm also going insane.

**And as another side note, (one for the right and the left... see? I'm not so closed-minded) I've tried unsuccessfully, thrice, to post the links to the Amazon listing of these books. I am also not totally convinced that the links were not the reason for all of the issues I've had with saving this entry. So for tonight, Amazon.com, you can go to hell. I'm tired of futzing with your frustrating affiliate racket, and I'm going to take a shower.

Cotton.

2009-01-18T19:37:00Z

Looking back on 1990, I've realized that it was a pretty eventful year, although it's tough now to remember which events fell within the confines specifically of 1990, and what happened "around" 1990. My favorite school photo ever was taken, and true to my word, here it is:

I'm really rockin' the Banana Republic tshirt, eh? And note the best friend's chain. Erica and I should get one of these.

It was taken in eighth grade, and while being at the top of the heap middle-schoolwise, I can't really claim to have been influenced much by my implied upper-classmen status. I'm pretty sure I got kissed for the first time on my birthday that year, and the fact that sitting here right now, not actually positive it was my 12th or 13th birthday, and not totally sure which boy it was, should clue you in as to how much focus I had during this time. It was during a game of spin-the-bottle, and there was debate over whether or not it actually counted as a first kiss due to that fact, so you can understand why the details are a bit sketchy. It was the first kissing I'd done following my hiatus of tackling preschool boys and kissing them nearly a decade prior, so it has to count for something.

Baseball-wise, it was sort of a sophomore jinx for me. It wasn't as if the Orioles were awful in 1990, but the 1989 season was one of the most exciting in the franchise's history, so just being mediocre back then wasn't the blessing it is nowadays. I suppose if 1988 would have been followed by .500 caliber baseball, and then 1990 would have happened, it would have been considered slowly building the team. I can't swear though, that I'd be the fan I am today if that's how history would have panned out.

A Google search of "1990 Oriole's Winter Caravan" yields basically nothing, so I'm tasked with the sole responsibility of sharing with the Interweb the details of how my dad peed in an alley behind a VFW hall with Kevin Hickey, and how Baltimore favorite Dave Johnson dribbled his nacho cheese in the back of our Bronco on the way home from Virginia. I met my future boss, Julie Wagner on several occasions that I hoped, years later during my job interview, she would have no recollection of. That first winter following my first season as a fan drew all of the dark black lines that exist between being a fan, being a groupie, and being what it was that Tara and I considered ourselves. It's probably no coincidence that the lines were often as blurry as the ones between being a little girl, being a grown woman, and drowning in the murky pool of adolescence.

It's funny now, looking back, realizing for the first time with clarity, how strange it is that I can remember the exact colors in the Benetton sweater* I wore to the Winter Carnival (yes, in those days there was a caravan, AND a carnival, funded by the team's affiliation with Provident bank... there was nary a "fanfest" in sight) but I'm unable to keep straight if I kissed Cliff or Eric first.**

I've gotten off topic again, and I guess the point I'd like to make is, that in 1990, while the entire world was wrapped up in all of their crazy Communism related activities, Marion Barry was smoking crack in a hotel room with various hookers, and Microsoft was releasing Windows 3.0, I was viewing it all from the periphery, more concerned with Brady's pinch running appearances than beginning high school in the fall. My second season as a baseball fan was when I I began to fully embrace the value of consistency and self-reliance. Chances are, I'd be looking out the window of an almond colored house in Maryland right now if it weren't for my second season as a baseball fan. Then again, at least I'd be within arm's reach of a bar showing the Ravens game this evening

*A search for a picture of the sweater reveals that while Benetton is fond of putting monkies and bare breasts in their ads, they don't often feature vintage sweaters.

**I'd have listed their last names in hopes of their finding my blog, like Kerry Stossel did, but then I realized I couldn't remember Cliff's last name. Eric's was Tupis though, and recurrent readers might remember him as the boy I loved in fifth grade. So if you're out there Eric, hi! You should know that wearing your Swatch was the happiest day of fifth grade for me)

Paper.

2009-01-07T04:55:00Z

You will probably recognize this spirited youth as me. (An ex once told me, observing the picture taken within a few hours after my birth, that I look exactly the same as I did then. I have never been one of those people where you see their picture and say "I can't believe that's you!") This picture was taken midway through my 12th year. I'm pretty sure I'm wearing earrings that are wrapped in navy blue cord. Sadly, this was one of my most fashionable outfits. Anyway, what you probably won't detect from the photo is the tremendous amount of pre-teen angst swirling in my pubescent soul, seeping out of my every pore, in the form of love for a boy in my class. The year before, in 6th grade, we'd shared moments as imtimate as almost trading Swatches, staring contests, and his incessant teasing of my unlimited variety of quirky sayings t-shirts. It's possible we may have even spoken on the phone once. I was deeply and completely in 12-year-old girl love with him, and spent a fair portion of my 6th and 7th grade evenings locked away in the bathroom, under guise of lengthy bubble baths, sobbing into my boombox and bellowing off-key harmonies of Debbie Gibson songs and Cheap Trick's The Flame.

This was 1989, and it marked my earliest foray into psychotic, depressive behavior, but it also happened to shape the rest of my life. Not the pre-teen angst and drama so much, because everyone experienced that. But my frame of mind left me ripe for the picking when I marched into Memorial Stadium on April 21st. (Come to think of it, I'd have been a prime candidate for a cult at the time... guess I dodged a bullet on that one, eh Marshall Applewhite?) If I squint really hard, I can just about remember what it must have been like to think "going to a baseball game... huh, that might be fun." This was before I identified myself through baseball, and going to a game seemed like it would be a better way to pass a Saturday evening than weeping into my pillow and writing bad poetry.

I'm trying really hard to describe the event that transpired without being melodramatic or cliche. It isn't easy. Seeing the events unfold through the eyes of a 12 year old girl makes everything melodramatic. Looking back now, it's impossible to tell the beginning of a twenty year story and leave out the details of the angst-filled little girl I was at the time. But, I'll spare you.

Walking back to the car that night in the parking lot of City or Poly, I can never remember which, humming the strains of Forever Your Girl, I bought an Orioles hat with the $5.00 I probably had earned washing my dad's golf clubs. (Forever Your Girl? City or Poly? $5.00 Oriole's hats? Man, am I dating myself...) The next day, we ordered Home Team Sports. I learned what a shutout was, and by the end of the month, realized they are not nearly as rare as no hitters. I'd spend the rest of the summer being spoiled in a way that only a rookie can be spoiled, nearly going all the way their first season. (Some rookies were lucky enough to go all the way their second season. But unfortunately, never got there again.) And in October, I'd learn the valuable lessons of coming up short. Lessons that still help me to this day.

Few of my twenty years as a baseball fan have been as good as the first was. And yet, my blog will hear all about those years over the next approximately four months. And most importantly, I'll post a plenty more ridiculous old photos.