SouthBound

Ground Control to Major Tom

2007-12-01T19:37:00.001-08:00

Here is what people do in the South: own cars. Here is what else they do: drive EVERYWHERE! And finally, while driving, they're inevitably multitasking with GPS devices and it is so dangerous!

I got to upgrade my cellular telephone a few months ago. And I was excited to purchase some Bluetoof technology right along with it. I'd noticed after moving back that driving a stick shift and talking on the phone at the same time was, well, challenging at the very least, to say nothing of its danger. My Bluetoof headset makes me look like Robocop, which is what I call it, and I also find that in spite of the perils of driving while talking NOT hands-free, because my headset acts up from time to time, I often forgo its technological luxury and just talk into my phone itself. However, when it works I do love using the headset. It definitely puts my mind at ease because then I'm left with both hands to shoot the bird to other drivers.

Here is what scares me more, though. Those people with those things that sit on their dash and tell them, "In 214 feet, make...a...left." Except that about 38% of the time, they're wrong and/or the map they are displaying is too tiny to see anything and so the person slows down and inspects the tiny jumbled screen and nearly gives everyone behind them a heart attack. This happened to me yesterday, in fact. I was leaving my school, and got stuck behind a parent who was deccelerating without putting on the breaks down this road that says it's 35, but most people do about 10 over that. This woman was doing a good ten under 35 (That would be 25.) and I was afraid someone might ram into the back of her if they couldn't tell she was going so slow. By the time I was able to pull around her, what did I see but her, jabbing her finger to the screen of her in-flight navigator. Ok, not even pilots are given this kind of thing, and most of them have co-pilots, who can fly the plane when Pilot Numero Uno needs to drink his coffee or do some lines. This lady had her kid in the front seat who no doubt had his nose jammed into a Gameboy.

I dated someone for a while who insisted on using a little gadget like this, and pretty much the only arguments we ever had were about his seemingly boundless desire to nearly kill us in a motor vehicle accident as he took his eyes off the road and pondered the messages his hand-held do-dad was telling him. The worst part was that they were nearly always wrong, so not only did we wind up narrowly escaping death periodically, but we did it in unknown quadrants. He thought this was fancy. He also read books on his PDA. But I found both to be unnecessarily idiotic.

Who knows what kind of intuition is lost to these devices. My father used to tell me after I turned 16 that if I ever had a car wreck, he just knew that I'd be found with my finger stuck to the radio tuner on my car. But to that I now say that radio tuners pose far less threat to me and my fellow road warriors than GPS devices that get you lost. In some places, they've started to outlaw talking on a phone while driving unless it's hands free. I have a hard time seeing how these gizmos are any less dangerous, and they certainly are not advantageous for finding one's way around. Besides, if you've got your eyes glued to that little screen, how will you ever see Robocop driving by shooting you the bird??

Back in Black

2007-11-29T19:26:00.001-08:00

Well, my people, it's been a looooonnnnngggg time. The most recent post before this one will tell you why (i.e. grad school half over and untold miserable power point presentations later) and the one before that will tell you just how long it's been since I posted. It is actually cold outside. And usually, I jack up the thermostat with reckless abandon, but have found myself feeling very torn about that of late as the water shortage in the area has now reached Defcon 5 and well, every little bit helps, right. Where are my sweaters?

The truth is that I have no business spending time trolling the blogosphere this evening, mostly because I have no time. I turned in three papers this week and have another due Tuesday along with a big fat final that is terrifying. But I miss this. All the writing I do these days must adhere to APA standards and let me tell you, after years of using the much simpler and more intuitive MLA format, I am struggling with this. Why can't theory writing by like legal writing in which the "ibid" form is used with abandon. I know case names are long; it's also long when forty-eleven authors write up a study, so save me the time, please.

A funny aside about graduate school and writing: I had an environmental assessment paper due in a few weeks ago in which our professor asked us to write about our school placements in a very detailed way in about 7-8 pages. Most people clocked in at over 20 and his notes to me were that I needed to work on my writing. I will admit that I'm not an editor, nor do I receive paychecks from any number of prestigious institutions or publishing houses known to support writers. However, I do feel that I have a knack for stringing subjects, verbs, nouns, and some punctuation together in a relatively interesting way. I took his critique rather personally. And then remembered that he is old and washed up and HIS writing is exceedingly dull and useless and promptly ceased to feel crappy about his assessment of my work.

On the whole, the part about my last post saying that I barely had time for full sentences is true. I have hardly had much time for a social life either, squeezing in engagements here and there only to pay for it working late some nights to finish school work. The upside to compressed programs like this one (it's about 14 months) is that it's not much time of your life devoted to getting your learn on. The downside is that those 14 months are strictly devoted to what you're doing and little else.

A lot has happened since last June. For starters, I've been saying the words "I love you," an awful lot, primarily to a single individual. My brother moved to Australia. I visited my friend Nina in Chicago. I've been to New York twice. My cat of fifteen years died at my mother's home. I got a new cat at my home in Durham. I've been duped into spending far too much on textbooks. I've written a lot of papers. I've met a lot of adolescents, and even explained sex to one of them. Here's to trying my damndest to get back into this.

Hate Power Point

2007-06-07T17:45:00.000-07:00

Started grad school last wk. No time to eat/breathe/sleep, let alone write full sntncs. Must save for paper draft due tmrw. Weathered 2 tests this wk. 2 more next, then a wk off. Also weathered load of svrly dull Power Point presentations on "Why I Want to Be a School Counselor." Hate Power Point. Observed every last transgression seen here. Esp bad spelling. Prof loves PPT... Rough yr ahead.

(Thanks, Tater! ;)

It's getting hot in herre

2007-05-20T23:30:00.000-07:00

One irony I'm not sure I've ever mentioned about moving back South is that Broommate is a Yankee. He is from Vermont, and a few months ago, his sister moved in to stay with us for a bit. So I'm living with a brother-sister Yankee duo and that is all well and good, but there is one thing about this that really makes me laugh. When the weather started turning warmer, mid-March, around 70-75 degrees on a regular basis, Sister Broommate began to complain about just how hot everything was. And I warned her that she had no idea whatsoever about how hot it can get.

You see, the charm of summertime in the South isn't the lightening bugs at dusk or the warmth of the evening that allows you to sleep with your windows open. Nay, it is but the sticky humidity that descends long about now and doesn't release its sweat-lodge grip until sometime around late September. It is this swampy existence that Sister Broommate has no idea about, having spent all 21 of her years living above Massachusetts. Does it even summer up there? I have no idea whatsoever. I just know there's exactly three days each summer when the water at "The Cape," is warm enough to tolerate, which I find extremely inferior to the bathwater nature of the Atlantic down on the NC coast that starts around now and lasts all summer.

I can winter mildly. I don't need a frigid blast of air or several feet of snow to remind me that it's cold and sucky outside. In fact, I'd live well never seeing another single snow flake in my life. But summering without all the charms of sweat and the requisite constancy of ceiling fans seems downright wrong somehow. New York always delivered on this front, and I made it through most summers without air conditioning. I did the same growing up in the South. And while I'm certain I accused my parents of child abuse for this at times, I wear that badge proudly now and am aware that there will be an impending battle for supremacy of the thermostat this summer as Broommate and Sister Broommate attempt to acclimate to anything about 80 degrees outside.

At the start of each season this year, I've said to myself "This is why I came back here." The spring did not disappoint with its Dogwood blooms and azalea bushes. I know the summer, although spent in school, will please me to no end, even as I throw all the bed covers off night after night to beat the heat.

I'm quite certain it was not manganese*

2007-05-08T09:35:00.000-07:00

I've gotten so bad at this. I think the key to blogging is having your computer surgically attached to you in some way. That helps. Because even though I don't have a television (well, technically, we DO have one now, but I choose to ignore it and march steadfastly on as a non-television-having hippie) I don't gravitate towards the computer anymore than I have to. When I was working full time, it was right there and there was nothing to do. I now have a social life and also do not feel as if Dementors have sucked out my soul at the end of each day leaving me with only enough energy left to brush a tooth.

I still have plenty to rant about, however. Like, for instance, the fact that the Tarheel State has forsaken me as one of its own and denied me the in-state residency status I need for cheap tuition. The rule of thumb is that you have to have lived in-state for 12 months, and it helps to establish banking accounts, property ownership, vote, pay taxes, do something otherwise civilian and residential-seeming. I've done most of that. Oh, and I LIVED HERE FOR 18 FREAKING YEARS!!!

My initial application was denied, so I appealed. And all it got me was another denial and a $15 parking ticket, which I feel legally bound to not pay, though I feel certain that neglecting to pay it will ultimately have some perverse effect on my registration or a loan or some nonsense like that. The appeal was a totally nerve wracking experience because I had to wait for a full hour on a hard wooden bench and then get called in at the last minute, only to have these four women stare down their noses at me and while I groveled to convince them to accept me as a Tarheel. Perhaps I'd have done well to take a photograph with me of myself at the age of 2 in a light blue Carolina sweat suit. Whatever. They were autobots, they wouldn't have found it charming.

I got denied again on the appeal, so I have to wait until the fall semester to re-apply, at which time, having been here a full 12 months, I'll be eligible. I can't say I fault the state for being conservative with its educational investments when it comes to potential moochers. But I cannot help but feel that the fact that my birth certificate is stamped in the Old North State should count for something. My parents paid oodles of taxes, and I'd like to be considered just this once on the basis of the sins of my fathers. The sinning being tax paying, of course.

Speaking of which, filing taxes this year was kind of fun. I am now an independent contractor, so I had to track down a bunch of 1099s and talk about write-offs and stuff. It was cool. Here's what: when you're a yoga teacher, you can write off clothing and books and music. Those three things are my life as a consumer, with the exception of a few periodicals, so this was awesome. I've never saved so many receipts in my life!

Finally, and wholly un-related, if you've never listened to this you haven't lived. (*Track 2)

Fire and Ice

2007-04-23T11:26:00.000-07:00

I don't mean to go on about the weather, because I find it a generally dull topic, but I'll say this for my visit to New York last weekend: that rainstorm was not nearly as ridiculous as the temperature of upper-40s that was going on. It was kind of tough to leave the weather here, which has consistently been in the 60s and 70s since early March, and go back in time to winter. Most of the trees hadn't even bloomed yet and since everything was very overcast during my whole visit, it all seemed rather drear. It was especially strange since my daily drive to and from work kind of turned green overnight several weeks ago. We've had some of the most gorgeous blossoms, and I spent yesterday afternoon in the Duke Gardens admiring the azaleas. They were just unbelievable.

I have also enjoyed seeing the Dogwoods blossom this year. That's one thing I palpably missed each year living in New York. They are not anywhere near the loveliest flower around, but there is something about the way the trees sort of look like they've had a pale white quilt laid on them that is very charming each spring.

I'd already switched out my closet to my spring/summer clothes before leaving for the city, and had to sadly return to wool sweaters and cords for a few days. It was like a tiny piece of my soul died. I have no clue how I put up with those interminable winters for so long. Or how people reside on an extended basis in, say, Saskatchewan. Or North Dakota for that matter. I'll never be convinced we're meant to be a cold-weather species. We're just smart enough to make it bearable indoors by harnessing fire and other heating measures. Thank you, Prometheus, for hanging on that rock for us. But really, I'll stick to temperate climates whenever possible.

If you're not bleeding, you're not listening

2007-04-20T15:55:00.000-07:00

There's so much to write about! Like, my recent trip back to New York in which I could not hide my contempt for being there from anyone really. Not even good friends who are still there and ask me if I miss it. I equivocated before going about whether I should answer this honest inquiry truthfully, but as soon as people started asking me, the decision was made when my negative answer just burst right out of my mouth. I'm not sure I could say I was surprised; I've never been much good at telling lies.

It was a stressful visit because most of the time spent with friends was under pressure to watch the clock before moving onto the the next visit with friends. I also did some working while there and a good bit of yoga, which I relished in spite of getting up at 6:00 each morning to get to class. It was worth every minute of sleep deprivation. The yoga, that is.

But this isn't really what I want to write about. I want to write about this article in the Times today about birth control and its long-term effects and also the suggestion that when women tell you they "loooovvveee" getting their periods because it makes them feel feminine or whatever other crap they say, they are lying. They are lying liars who lie lie lie, and I don't know a single woman who's EVER said she enjoys the monthly process of shedding her uterine lining. It's inconvenient and painful (I passed out at work once and wound up in the ER!), and also stressful and emotionally draining. In short, you feel like shit no matter who you are and so whatever woman says she enjoys hers, or appreciates it because it makes her feel like a woman is, in actuality, a fembot. And full of it.

So the article is discussing a new type of birth control that will eliminate periods altogether. As well as one, Seasonale, that reduces your periods to four times a year, which I am on. Not so long ago, I was highly opposed to being on birth control. I had been on it briefly in college and recalled feeling strange and hormonal and also like I was tinkering with something in my system that was better left alone. I also ate like a garbage truck. So I took myself off it and decided that I would just resign myself to a life of severe pain once monthly. I can't tell you how many days I took off work thanks to Aunt Flo's visits, and since I am allergic to all pain relievers save Tylenol, I was often reduced to just drinking a lot of ginger ale and loving my heating pad for all it was worth. Until my brother had his wisdom teeth out and bestowed his leftover Vicodin on me. I used those like they were made of gold. And when my gynecologist tried to convince me to go on the pill, I recounted my unsuccessful story of a few years' past and also the bit about feeling weird about altering my hormones. She pointed out that it was no more unnatural than popping prescription medicine that wasn't mine on a monthly basis. Touche.

Someone in the article is quoted as saying that it's a tough decision for women to make to give up their monthly periods. I disagree. It's not that the decision was about stopping bleeding. It was about the effect that birth control and its hormones would have on my system overall.

A few months later, as my witch doctor crackers-and-heating-pad routine wasn't improving my monthly situation, I caved and went on the pill. And it changed my life. I did not live with dread about getting my period and I also got to love that I could actually function on the first couple days of it. About a year later, I asked my doctor about Seasonale, which sets you up so you have a period only four times annually. She agreed to put me on it and I am here to tell you that it is amazing. I'll say it again, anyone who tells you she awaits her period monthly as a reminder of being feminine must be crazy enough to thrive on pain and bouts of psychosis because this pill is a complete life saver. Those episodes each month did not do a damned thing to make me feel like a woman, they only made me feel like shit. And if that is what being a woman IS, then, I'll sacrifice bleeding for it any day. Or month!

In which I invoke the White Rabbit for fiscal purposes

2007-04-03T13:05:00.000-07:00

I am a smart person. But I think I missed that Home Ec class in which we all learned how to be savvy about finances and money. About the last thing I recall learning that was useful to understanding accounts was when we watched this film strip in second grade about bartering and currency. There was a puppet lion and some cardboard scenery in it. I skip the financial section of just about any periodical I have ever looked at and in spite of having done Calculus in high school, I generally eschew the maths. Which is why yes, at the tender age of 26, my dad still files my tax returns for me. Hey, I am an independent contractor, it's complicated! (Thanks, Dad.)

This year, though, tax season worked me into a particular swivvet because it also coincided with filing my FAFSA for school. This is this glorious form published by the government that you fill out to see how much you qualify for in federal loan monies. It turns out, one should file it as soon after January 1 as possible. Seeing as how it appeared logical to ME to file this form AFTER receiving confirmation that I'd actually be attending this program, I waited until mid-March to start the ball rolling. March 1 being, of course, the recommended deadline for filing. In the words of the White Rabbit: "I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date. Like the one where I try to apply for funding so I don't become insolvent and have to file for bankruptcy!"

When did being an adult get quite so complicated? Determined to grow up a bit here, I managed to figure most of what I needed to do on my own, but it was not without some amount of confusion and frustration. And also general irritation at how late I am past these deadlines. I must offer kudos to the feds, however, for making the FAFSA process as relatively painless as anything I've ever experienced at the hands of the government. You file online and when they start asking you detailed questions about tax returns and just what a "farm business" is, they do you the courtesy of telling you which lines to look at on your tax forms to find the necessary information. Aside from just taking a while to answer the barrage of financial inquiries, it is pretty straightforward. They even tell you up front exactly what you'll need in your hot little hand before you get started, like tax returns from the previous year, bank account statements and pretty much anything else having to do with your fiscal worth. Ostensibly so that if you begin the process and find yourself unprepared, you've no one to blame but yourself.

All of this was further complicated by the fact that since I start my program as a summer student, I have to file one FAFSA, the 2006-2007 form, based on my 2005 income, etc. And the OTHER FAFSA form for 2007-2008 for the fall based on my 2006 tax return. But here is where they make it easy on you again: if it's a renewal, which technically this was, they will auto-fill a lot of the basic stuff for you, so you save a good five or ten minutes on arcane personal data that doesn't change from the day you are born, unless you've gotten married or divorced in the 12 months prior.

This all consumed me for a couple of days last week. It gave me headaches and made me concerned and then I did it and it was over. And now I pretty much get to sit and wait until the feds and the state tell me how much money they want to loan me to fund my education, if at all. Perhaps that is the point at which I should start to get agitated about my habitual avoidance of the financial pages, because that will be when I am really wishing I knew just how to get into funding hedges.

Just Don't Call It A Comeback

2007-04-03T12:41:00.000-07:00

I don't mean to be lame and make my comeback post after a month-long-plus hiatus be a link, but I'm just going to have to bite that bullet now aren't I?

But believe me when I write that this is for a good cause, which is: HOW MUCH WE ALL HATE FERGIE!!!!

I've never been much of an Allanniss Morrissette fan either (seriously, double consonants much?) but I have to hand it to the lady here. I think whole "I've out You-Tubed You-Tube by appearing to be low rent" touch is nice too.

I am working on my taxes. And writing about it too. So I'll be back soon.

On Getting Educated

2007-02-26T15:06:00.000-08:00

I got accepted to graduate school last week. And this is a pretty exciting thing. Although I only applied to one program and felt fairly confident of my acceptance, I held the admittance envelope in my hand and trembled the slightest bit. It felt strange to consider that perfect strangers who only know a handful of your accomplishments get to make a life decision for you.

Even though I'm sending in the admissions deposit today, I'm still feeling a bit ambivalent about it. I am going into a School Counseling program and each time I say that to someone, I kind of snicker in my head about the fact that I'll be trained to be a GUIDANCE COUNSELOR at the end of all this. I mean, who EVER took their guidance counselor seriously? Pshaw! Maybe it was just the ones we had; I know I can be cooler than that. And I also know that when I do get the opportunity to work with kids, I do a bang-up job at it. I kind of turn into this completely different person who is allowed to be a big goofball about things. Which is so much fun. In short, I can connect. It's a knack, and I have it and it is ever so gratifying. In fact, I taught some yoga on Friday to some seventh and eighth graders on a middle school track team nearby and it was a total thrill. And that kind of work is my long-term goal, developing a yoga curriculum for students that can be taken seriously. Which is why I need a real education, not just a bunch of yoga trainings.

But a part of me feels like it would be so easy to just go back into the professional world and raise more money for more people; the opportunities abound around here, especially with all the universities and such. It's scary to consider that I'm embarking in this direction, this career that is pretty much entirely foreign to me. And I think that's why I'm feeling ambivalent. Because it all seems so uncertain. What if I hate this? Or worse, what if I feel like being schooled for it is a waste of time and money? It's this latter thing that's become a fear for me lately, because as I've watched a lot of friends go through graduate programs, I feel like so many of them have confessed extreme disappointment in what they end up studying not so much on a content basis, but rather the whole shebang. The programs lack pith and energy, and the people in them are just idiots. As much as I love being in school, I don't suffer either of those things well. I had thought I'd dodged the proverbial bullet about it having waited an extra year or two to go back to school, but I am not so sure immunity can be guaranteed at any age.

The truth is, I love being in school. I wrote close to 17 papers my first semester in college and I proudly bear that badge of honor, followed by countless more drafted throughout. I cannot wait to sit at a desk, in a class, have a discussion and take notes. I know it sounds extremely nerdy, but have I ever professed to be anything but? I think not. And by virtue of my love for getting some edumacation, I could pop at how excited I am to have this opportunity, especially because I have a lot of friends in school at UNC currently and can now hang out on campus with them. I'm MEANT to be on a campus. But somehow, it doesn't make me feel less apprehensive about moving in a new direction. I just keep thinking about the decision I made when I was 18 to go to college. I can recall feeling like being asked to make such a large decision all by myself at that age was fairly overwhelming. Even though this program is much shorter and I do not have to move anywhere, a bit of that sensation has returned, eight years on. It is like this every time I have to make a big decision in my life. And at the end of the day, I cannot say there are any that I've regretted so much that I can't get out of bed each day. Perhaps I should put a little more faith in myself about these things from now on.

Resolve the New Year

2007-02-19T10:20:00.000-08:00

I have this mental block against running and while some people might blame their father or a creepy uncle for the issues they face throughout their adult life, I'd like to blame no one but my elementary school PE teacher. A lot of us can point to various childhood traumas that we experienced in school at the hands of some bully that changed us for life; somehow we allowed a single random incident of adolescent violence to alter our entire psyche. I never really had anything like that, except when it came time to run the mile every fall and spring in school. Because I could never ever do it. Ok, I think I did it once somewhere around sixth or seventh grade, but not without a few painful side stitches, the very supportive help of some friends who did extra laps to keep me going, and collapsing at the end thinking I was going to spontaneously combust.

In short, I hated being judged on my physical (de)merit twice a year. I excelled in every other subject and I thought it rather hateful of the school/state/federal government (it was, after all, the President's Fitness Test, complete with national percentiles, certificates and even badges!) to single me and a handful of other physically unfit kids out. Not only could I not run a single mile, I was painfully slow at running at all. I remember watching friends of mine lap me multiple times and then getting hollered at by the teacher by the end of everything. Adding injury to this great insult was that our PE teacher was fat. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to be goaded into running something that the person who's commanding you to do it cannot even do? In my memory, this was the first great injustice I suffered in my life. I'm having trouble coming up with the second, so pervasive was this one.

So, although I played two varsity sports in high school and with a moderate degree of success and enjoyment, I stayed away from running altogether. Excepting the one random year in which I joined the track team, but that was because it was the only sport available to sixth graders and besides, I did mostly field events. Running embarassed me. When we'd have to warm up for softball practice, I was always the last one in. And I didn't take the bases with any shocking speed either. Of course, around my freshman or sophmore year was when Forrest Gump came out, so that made for some good fun for those shouting at me from the bench, but I still felt extremely foolish straining against myself to make first base.

At a certain point in college, I decided to give running a second chance. I have no idea now what possessed me, but I rarely laced up my sneakers without recalling the childhood anguish it had created and it took me several months of running at a snail's pace and with little improvement to even begin to get past it. I did find, however, that running on the streets of the city provided a much more stimulating and interesting run, except of course during rush hour when it just provided frustration. I think eventually, I worked myself up to about three miles, although I do recall having run about 4 one evening, on a fluke. And the run I took the night of September 11 was so filled with adrenaline and anxiety, I must have run close to 5 miles because I couldn't stop.

But after that, I spent countless hours on treadmills hating life, and then discovered yoga and distinctly recall swearing off running forever and ever amen. I did a bit of it last winter preparing to go hiking in Nepal, and some more over the summer to make my gym membership worthwhile. But mostly, it's been a strictly yoga diet the last few years.

Until now. Last fall, I met a client at the studio who runs marathons. In fact, I've met several clients who run marathons or triathlons. It seems to be all anyone does down here and there are miles and miles of trails to facilitate this training. Anyway, this one particular client doesn't really remind one of a marathon runner. She's a perfectly normal and ordinary woman. I don't mean ordinary in a bad way, she just isn't one of those runners who LOOK like they popped out of the womb with gazelle-like legs. God knows I am not. And when I first met her, I thought she was kind of crazy for running a marathon, just like I think most anyone who runs them is slightly unstable. I still do. But each week, we talked about her running, and I got more and more interested in her approach to it. So when January rolled around, and she'd recommended a road race to me, I started thinking about my resolution. It became to run a 10K. In April. And yea tho it make take me well over an hour to complete, I've sought out a lot of support this time (I even have a coach!) and all of the people supporting me have been good to remind me that I can do this at my own pace. That's the other new approach for me. Seeking out help, which I never do. Particularly if it means admitting inadequacy in some department. And if I've learned a single thing on my yoga mat, it's that my running speed is what it is for now and I can only change it with persistence and acceptance.

The specter of PE teacher's past has begun to fade and for the first time in my life, I feel like running is something I look forward to thrice weekly. It helps to do it outside, instead of on a treadmill to be sure. And I'm still pokey as hell, but setting my sights on a particular date and distance seems to be helping me along. To be honest, I have no idea why I didn't think of this sooner. I'm very goal-oriented and with the running plan I'm using, I can mark my progress weekly towards that goal. It's very gratifying in that respect, as well as the idea that I am in control of my own body and can test it at will.

Thought for the Day

2007-02-14T16:05:00.000-08:00

Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticize them, you're a mile away and you have their shoes.

Bitterosity can be such a wonderful illness.

Square pegs and their round holes OR: Why we don't leave

2007-02-06T16:00:00.000-08:00

I had to stop doing something last week that I'd really come to enjoy, and that was dating. I don't mean dating entirely. Good God, if I thought I could stop that entirely, I'd die of sheer bliss. No, this was dating someone specific, someone I've kept out of my writings here for a number of reasons, not least of which because I believe that once you commit something to writing, it becomes so much more irrevocable. I wasn't ever ready to do that; to devote time and words to him in ink, because that meant that I couldn't take it back. And what is more, I'd have had to go back and read it at some point, the way we read old love letters (Does anyone even WRITE those anymore?) or look at photos from happier times and that always, in a word, sucks. Ok, to be fair, I've written about him peripherally here, but only as a "friend." And no, I will not say when or where, so don't ask. Just use your powers of detection.

So yeah. We split up. And even though the whole thing was relatively short-lived and never had much opportunity to become too involved thanks to his schedule, I had come to quite like him. And going through something like this at any juncture always brings up that eternal dilemma that I think most people face about relationships, which is this: at what point do I stop tolerating X behavior from this person because being alone is superior to putting up with said behavior. Because really, that is why we ever stop seeing someone: they do something we don't like. Perhaps once; perhaps repeatedly. And there are lots of people out there-I'd venture to say more women than men, but what do I know-who put up with a lot of shit before they ever even begin to consider being without their other half. Which means one of two things: we're either gluttons for maltreatment, or we are just not meant to be solitary animals. I suspect it's some of both, because everyone needs something to complain about, so a little crap of one kind or another now and again is essential to the whole ballgame.

As for this person, things were fine and then they weren't and I spent about two or three weeks banging my head on the wall about the way fundamental things weren't fine and trying to determine how to just make it acceptable to myself, because I still really liked him and wanted so badly for them to work. I wanted to get that square peg in there, refusing to see the obvious truth that the hole was round. I've been labeled as stubborn on more than one occasion by people other than my mother. Maybe I'm more puzzled about why we engage in THIS behavior than I am the part about putting up with things people do that we don't like. I think we put up with things we think the other person will change; we eternally hope that WE might be the one to motivate them to change. Here is where heartbreak sets in: it's not due to loss, it's due to disappointment in not being the one they want to change for.

I have a lot of friends who've suffered loads of dysfunction and still sworn their love for someone, on constant watch for evolution in their partner, sticking around as useless and fruitless inspiration. I'm still mystified by it, even though I've done it myself too. I had a long conversation with my cousin last night about the fact that we're fast approaching that age at which people often move from being excited for your being young and single, to being suspect about it. Like you're a really cute blouse on the sale rack and just why did you end up there? WHAT DID YOU DO? Again, I think this is really more of a problem for women than it is for men, so perhaps that is what motivates us to try our damndest to work things out, even when we know it's futile. It's something to do; it keeps the singledom critics, and our own fears, at bay.

I don't anticipate having to write about this person anymore. Where I wasn't willing to devote words to it before, I'm now unwilling to spill ink like tears. It's simply not worth it. I will confess to tremendous disappointment at the outcome of things, but I cannot say it was entirely unexpected as things go. Just a shame. And oh, how I dread venturing back into the fray.

Psychosomatic pneumatics

2007-01-28T13:02:00.000-08:00

Thursday night was chock full of fitful sleep that didn't really get its start until about 3:00 a.m. after a solid hour of requisite tossing/turning followed by another hour of watching Sex and the City DVDs on my computer. The truth is, I might as well have stayed awake because I dreamt about tires and it was awful.

I think I'm terrified of my car. In my dream, all four of my tires were flat. And when I called a friend to come get me, he arrived in my driveway only to have all four of HIS tires deflate before my eyes. He happened to have his bike with him and those tires went flat as well. Did I mention all 10 of said tires were actually animate objects who stuck out their tongues and gnashed their terrible teeth and taunted me in their flat way? Well they were and they did. And it was a nightmare. I've been thinking about it for three days on.

I have always had a somewhat tenuous relationship with tires. I've never, touch wood, been in a serious car accident in which I was driving. I've a spotless driving record (again, touch wood!) But the one plague that I've faced ever since I was sixteen is that I have destroyed enough tires to suit up a couple of cars. Mostly, it's holes torn into sidewalls by parking a little too close to the curbstone (Who knew tires with large holes deflate so quickly and loudly as well?), but there was also the mysterious deflating tire I wrote about earlier this fall that ultimately cost me TWO tires, not one. In short, tires have been the bane of my automotive existence. I suppose in some sense, I should consider myself lucky that this is all the more trouble I have. But it is an expensive and persistent problem. As my father will tell you. (Thanks, Daddy! ;)

Ok, so what do a series of flat tires mean in dreams? Particularly ones that harass you? I'm too scared to look this up. But I will say this: I've become OBSESSED with checking tires. Not just my own, but those of other motorists on the road. I'll be behind someone and swear that their left rear tire looks a little under-inflated. I peer at friends' wheels before getting into their cars. I size up 18-wheelers viciously on the highway. I happen to have very good powers of observation, but I could also just be hallucinating.

Bibliofile

2007-01-23T23:22:00.000-08:00

Someone once asked me what the most romantic gift I'd ever received was. "A book," I told her. She made a face. But it was the truth and if you know me, you know that it is the truth. I've not been on the receiving end of a terribly large number of romantically-associated gifts, but I suspect that even as I hope to receive scores of others, books will remain among the most wonderful things to receive. I'm certain I frustrate my family each year at birthdays and Christmas requesting little else besides books. And when I DO come up with an alternative, it is almost always utilitarian like monogrammed bath towels or plastic tumblers. I have another friend who finds this receipt proclivity of mine highly risible. Each time she pulls a glass from my cabinet, she asks if it was a Christmas gift; it often is the case that it was. I got wine glasses for Christmas this year, on request.

But back to books.

The simple truth is that I worship the written word and I've come to realize that more and more as I've developed my online writing persona in this space and also at the OhReallyFactor. Etymology is intrigue; wordplay divine. I once read Motherless Brooklyn and decided Jonathan Lethem, the author, a genius for creating a character with Tourette's Syndrome that manifested itself in rhyming fits and nervous tics.

I've never been to inspired to write fiction. I simply don't think in fabrication or fantasy, but I can design an argument with the best of them and I do enjoy learning about things so as to report back. Perhaps this is why I always did well in school: compulsory pedagogy.

In addition to the wine goblets I received for Christmas, I also got a book entitled Through the Children's Gate by Adam Gopnik. He wrote From Paris to the Moon, essays about the five years he lived in Paris with his wife and toddler son. After they moved back to NYC in the summer of 2001 shortly after the birth of his daughter, he started writing this series of essays. His children are arguably two of the most charming on the planet. It's almost enough to make me want to move back and raise my own set in that city. Almost. Except that they might wind up having imaginary friends who are always too busy to play and who require dates be made via cell phone calls to his assistant as his daughter's does. It also happens that said imaginary friend's wife dies of something the daughter identifies as "Bitterosity." From the mouths of babes, indeed.

I read the portion on Death By Bitterosity and laughed about as loud as I ever have at a book. I've laughed quite a bit at this book, the other salient moment being the one in which I identified with his plight of having a therapist who fell asleep during their sessions. Have we all been there? At least it turns out I'm not alone.

And this is what I adore about reading certain books. You conjure up this unexpected relationship. Any given book you pick up has the ability to charm you into attachment and it is a perverse one because you move forward wanting desperately to know what happens next, but hoping against hope that it will never end. It's possible this is a good and true reminder that life is never constant in the way it delivers felicity. Books equate to small microcosms of humility; we cannot enjoy everything all of the time because sometimes those things find an end.

But in the meantime, we create a small, intimate knowledge of one another and it is safe and special. Nearly every book that I keep on my shelf has in one capacity or another filled a void of a sort in my own psyche and thus earned its place there, both on the shelf and in my head. Some even get re-read, to the exclusions of other new ones awaiting courtship. This often alters the relationship because what I am receiving in my own life affects how I receive the innards of the book.

I couldn't be reading a more perfect book at the moment than Through the Children's Gate. Gopnik writes to so much truth about living in New York City and it eloquently speaks to the way I think about living in the city as well. The things I loved; the things I miss; the things I certainly do not miss. It seems that in addition to sharing my misfortune at having a sleepy shrink, we share a common sentiment about the Big Apple. I think we share it with most of the rest of the 8 million neighbors in town. Gopnik says so much about the city that I've never quite been able to say that sometimes when I pick up the book I almost want to cry at its truth. To cry at the realization that I was never the only person who felt the way I did of being a citizen there in spite of how it nearly always seemed. It turns out that every New Yorker feels they are poorer than they should be, fiscally and spiritually. It turns out that every New Yorker feels bereft at the loss of personal space. It turns out that every New Yorker feels far less cool than they appear to consider those they see around them. It appears we are all inadequate, but we don't allow this to prevent us from our Sisyphean existence as citizens there. Because we're all in it.

Gopnik writes a good deal about the experiences he had with his family just after September 11. It is this event too that he addresses in a way that I could only imagine writing about. And perhaps it is this fact that makes my relationship with certain books so much more intense than any other gift I've ever received. Because these books demonstrate a sentiment that I know I too feel, but cannot find the eloquence to express. It helps to restore my faith in language as an adequate means of communication. The words are out there; that they should not be mine becomes a compromise to me. At least someone is writing them and perhaps I can learn. When I read something like it, I want to talk to the world about it and yet I want to savor the encounter as something between only me and this book. Can anyone else really understand how we two see the world? The best I can do is recommend the book to others and say, "Read this and see a tiny piece of me in it; let me poach his thoughts and know that some of them are mine too."

This book will undoubtedly hold a very special spot on my shelves for me. It has come to me at a time when I seem to need most to process the last 8 years of my life. What was that that I just experienced? I'm not far enough away from it to be able to pen it all on my own; I am more than greatful to Mr. Gopnik for doing it on my behalf.

On trying new things

2007-01-19T00:23:00.000-08:00

I'm not particularly adventurous and have a general rule to which I adhere: play it safe. Making bad decisions is a terrifying prospect to me, not necessarily because they're irrevocable (they often aren't) but rather because then I have to say, "I made a mistake." My other rule is: I'm always right. Consequently, when I do something wrong, this effs with my track record.

But lately, well really since I huffed and puffed my way to the top of a mountain in Nepal and lived to tell the tale after nearly, NEARLY allowing myself to quit in a moment of weakness when I made the mistake of sitting down and actually thinking about how ridiculous the endeavor seemed at that exact minute in time, lately, I've been more game to try stuff that I might get wrong. I don't know what it was about that thin mountain air, but it got into my lungs and told me I can do anydamnthing I want. Like climb Masada, snitty tour-guide or no.

Like knitting this pair of socks that I'm working on right now. Sure, I could play it safe and get back to work on that baby blanket I've started crocheting for a friend who's due in April, but my feet are cold NOW. And that baby's got some time. Mostly, I was seduced by this really adorable ball of yarn that shouted "MAGIC STRIPES" from its wrapper, because when you knit it, it automatically stripes up and looks cute, and I spent the $6.50 for it and bought the set of five size-3 needles (do you KNOW how tiny those are?!?!) and got started. And I'm not sure I've done a single stitch correctly yet. Oh sure, the ankle's shaping up nicely, it's just the stitches look like crap. And you know what? It totally doesn't matter to me. Because no one but me is ever going to inspect their craftsmanship and at the end of the day, they'll serve the same purpose, which is to keep my feet warm when I go to sleep at night.

I think this is a good lesson for me to be learning.

You like meme. You really, really like meme!

2007-01-14T18:15:00.000-08:00

Mr. Furious, who has expressed "anger" at my lack of writing from time to time, tagged me with this meme. I'm not sure I've ever done one before because I find them rather dull. Some might call that pretentious of me. I've been called worse. But either way, it's appropriate then that I should choose this one to dispell that. Or, perhaps, prove it.

I tag Shannon, Scott and the Doc to parry with their wit!

Seven Easy Steps to Complete Pretentiousness—And How To Avoid Them

1. Name a book that you want to share so much that you keep giving away copies:
Hmmm. I loan books out a lot, but usually I give away ones that I don't cherish enough to keep. I'll tell you a book I recommend the hell out of and that is the Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving. Lots of people seem to prefer Cider House Rules or A Prayer For Owen Meany by Irving, but I think Hotel... has loads more hilarity and edge to it. I mean, a lesbian bear, a live-in hooker, a taxidermied dog, a dwarf circus, Freud-in-Vienna, anarchists, a gay brother, wrestling, and Chipper Dove. I read it about once a year. Just keep passing the open windows.

2. Name a piece of music that changed the way you listen to music:
Ok, this is a one BIG GIGANTIC cliche, but I'd have to say "OK Computer," by Radiohead. I remember watching the video for Karma Police in high school and hating it. I thought it was weird and dissonant and icky and the video just made me uncomfortable in its cartoon way. But I borrowed the CD from a roommate junior year and I've never looked back. I distinctly remember that day and how altered my ears were. I hear everything now through that lens. (Can you hear through a lens?) An earlier alteration might have come with "Aquemini" by OutKast from freshman year. Whatever it is, it came during college when I ceased to hitch my wagon to the Indigo Girls and Dave Matthews.

3. Name a film you can watch again and again without fatigue:
I lately stumbled onto Three Kings with Mark Wahlberg, Spike Jonez, Ice Cube and George Clooney and after having watched it at least five times in the last three months, I'd say that's the front runner at the moment. The long-standing choice would be Woody Allen's Manhattan. It is just so simply beautiful. I watch it every couple months.

4. Name a performer for whom you suspend of all disbelief: Hmmm...perhaps Meryl Streep? Most definitely Paul Newman. Although really neither of these has ever done anything all THAT obscenely ridiculous that requires a suspension of disbelief. Except perhaps when Meryl's character smoked peyote in Adaptation.

5. Name a work of art you'd like to live with:
Any piece of photography by Richard Avedon. Or maybe that Degas statue of the dancer. I did a paper on her in the eighth grade and have really loved it ever since. And I'm not big on sculpture.

6. Name a work of fiction which has penetrated your real life:
To Kill a Mockingbird (both the book and the film.) It's one of my favorite books and I've read it several times. I once auditioned to play the part of Scout in a local community production and my mother knew one of the children who was in the original Gregory Peck movie. As well, being from the South, I identify with the characters' upbringing to an extent. I also find that I have an instant bond to any book that I read that takes place in New York City.

7. Name a punch line that always makes you laugh:
"Stop this rhyming and I mean it!"
"Anybody want a peanut?"

Anything from Three Kings. Like:
"Is that one of them cubes you put in soup?"
or the "dayjob" montage,
or "I'm not in shock, it's a fucking car!"

Also, in the Big Lebowski when Jesus comes over and gives Donnie and Walter and The Dude the riot act about not being willing to "roll" on certain nights of the week and he threatens to...um...shoot them in a particularly graphic way and Donnie says "Jesus..." under his breath and Jesus says "You said it, man!" and John Tuturro delivers it with his eyebrows raised in this really cracked-out way that is just hysterical to me.

Ok, so it looks like I'm reasonably pretentious. That's what we were supposed to get out of this, right MF?

E.V.O.O. to that!

2007-01-14T09:50:00.000-08:00

The last couple weeks have been sort of lackluster over at Toothpaste for Dinner, but not today.

Safety Dance

2007-01-12T18:15:00.000-08:00

One of the things everyone has asked me about after returning from Israel is whether or not I felt safe. I joked with my family before leaving that all I wanted for Christmas was a Kevlar vest. I'm not entirely certain I would have been allowed on the plane with it, as it would have no doubt aroused one suspicion or another as to my allegiances. "Gee, I dunno, saving my own ass," I might have replied. I generally don't have trouble following the commands of authority, but I tend to develop an acid tongue when it comes to responding to the idiotic and paranoid inquiries of those charged with keeping the Homeland secure. It all just smacks of spectre-making and I can't really tolerate being made party to it. One of the things I actually enjoyed about flying in and out of New York City while living there was that although it was the most likely target in the country, it was one of the least concerned with security measures. I spent a Thanksgiving a couple years ago visiting distant relatives in Syracuse. I left around 7:00 one morning from a very tiny airport to return South and I guess out of boredom or duty or both, the security personnel interrogated me needlessly in their polite, flat accents. It was absurd. Who cares about Syracuse? The same goes for flying from Raleigh. I love North Carolina, but let's not get bigheaded about the security threat around here: Osama bin Laden is utterly clueless about this part of the country. And besides, it's irrelevant to him even if he CAN locate it from under all those dialysis machines in that cave of his.

With all this in mind, I was highly skeptical of the security we encountered when leaving from Newark to board our flight. Our gate was at the very end of the terminal, and closed off from entry until a certain point in the night, at which time they allowed us to herd through but not before being inspected and wanded by a crack squad of high school dropouts who shouted to one another about their weaves over the din of the bored crowd. Matthew, my travel companion, and I couldn't help but roll our eyes in exasperation and disbelief at one another. He took a quick snapshot of us waiting to get on the plane and I joked that they might come over and break his camera. And also his leg for good measure.

We landed with little fanfare and all Matthew warned me about was not to say the "T-word" out loud or joke about bombings or suicide in public. Or at all for that matter. I could handle complying with that. It seemed much more legitimate in a place like Israel where not five months ago, these things were all taking place in populated areas. In areas that we were to visit. In fact, we even had lunch one afternoon at Maxim's in Haifa, the site of the first female suicide bomber five years ago. A guard stood outside in the cold wind, and waved us inside, barely offering a second glance at the group of white American tourists.

Racial profiling is committed unabashedly in Israel; if you're dark or remotely swarthy looking, they'll stop you. Otherwise, you're "safe." Tour groups do not pose a threat and we were waved through easily at each checkpoint, our bags barely groped passing through certain gates and doors. Most places had minimal security and certainly less than say, every public venue save movie theaters in the United States. I had to laugh each time I came to a place where I assumed heavy security might be and wasn't. I'd been trained to be paranoid by living in America, where the threat of a terror attack is nowhere NEAR as high as it might be on any given day in Israel.

Perhaps the Israelis feel that it's practically impossible to prevent these bombings so why put the citizenry through the humiliating charade that impressive security checks become. I'd also anticipated encountering a lot of paranoia, but outside of warnings not to board public buses, I found no one who seemed afraid to go about daily life. Parents let their children roam the streets; the market place that had seen so many bombings in years past was crowded as people readied themselves for Shabbat dinner. Americans could learn a thing from how Israelis have come to live with the threat of fear and danger, which is to say they could keep it from changing their lives at all.

It is true that nearly every tour group we saw had an obviously armed guard accompanying them. Our tour guide and driver both were ex-military and carried weapons on them at all times. I went into a restaurant one evening in Jerusalem with Matthew and a resident friend of his and the guard outside, who chatted on his cellphone, briefly stopped Matthew to ask if he had a gun. Matthew laughed. It did truly seem absurd, but people carry them there. But I had to wonder if there was ever cause to use them. And what exactly are the statistics about non-military gun use in Israel anyway? Seeing young people toting guns around was weird for me, especially in restaurants where they'd leave them lying carelessly on the floor (they were large automatic rifles).

The thing about Israel is that it is a brutally honest country. It has no choice. Having more or less set up camp and refused to leave, the Israeli government has perhaps been more vocal about its legitimacy than any country ever invented. The people are tenacious; that they've cultivated the desert to provide for them, serves as testament to their will. And that tenacity is also reflected in the straightforward attitude they have about safety. Israel is not a safe country, and yet I never felt any less safe than I do on any given day of my life. Their reality is the threat of death and instead of using that to terrify their own citizens for the sake of political foolishness, they effuse a sentiment of "it is what it is." It is not resignation; it's motivation to keep at it.

The night Matthew and I left from Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv, we stood in line as an attractive young woman questioned us. This was no "did you pack your bags yourself" nonsense. (Seriously, where is the oath of honor people have to take to answer that question...um, our politicians lie, don't you think the people in this country do too??) She wanted to know how we were related to one another. That we were childhood friends seemed to raise suspicion only because it was out of the ordinary. It doesn't help that MAtthew and I have been mistaken for siblings on more than one ocassion so contradicting people's eyes wasn't winning us any points. She went on to ask if we had family in the country and if so where. What were our religious affiliations? And on and on and then we were sent to have our bags dug through by a team of about four different people. We were re-questioned about our relationship as well as our reasons for visiting to country at least twice more as our passports were scrutinized. I've never had someone look so carefully at my photograph and I was almost worried that it would be rejected. It reminded me of the year after I turned 21 and always worried that a bouncer somewhere would turn me away, certain that my ID was fake.

Our bags in shambles, and our possessions mixed among one another, we were left to re-pack our things as the group of searchers moved on to some other poor soul. The nice thing about being rummage through was that we were allowed to jump to the front of the check-in line, ensuring us seats together on the plane.

It was a bizarre experience to be asked so many detailed questions before getting on a plane and it felt like a test. This was the only time I felt unsafe. I felt I could possibly be a danger to myself, even though I'd only come to sightsee. Paranoia is a remarkably strong emotion. It's no wonder that K Street has marketed it like catnip in campaign after campaign. But time and again, it made me consider how risible the American concern about safety really is. Sure, we shuttle millions of people through our ports every year, and many of them have dubious intentions with respect to our Constitution. But the per capita danger quotient is ridiculously lower than in Israel. It would seem would could allocate our resources elsewhere than making airports re-build their parking lots and confiscating facewash.

On Being Exceedingly Proud of Oneself for Trivial Things

2007-01-09T22:59:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I wrote my last post about how not being able to sleep in makes me an adult. But I think the ACTUAL measure of my adulthood is the fact that I grilled something last night for the first time in my life. I've never used a big, old, gas-powered hot box on my own. Sure, I've turned a chicken breast or two, but up to this point in my life I've maintained a respectful fear of grills. Broilers I can do. Grills not so much.

Broommate has this honkin' grill on our deck. It is large and silver and has a host of knobs and even this little smaller grill/warmer thing on the side. He really loves it a lot. In fact, he chose purchasing a grill over getting a television for the house, so that should tell you something. And last night, I wanted to cook this fish that I'd bought at Trader Joe's a few weeks ago that I had in the freezer. The trouble with making fish at home inside the house though is that it ultimately stinks up the kitchen for days and while the meal is tasty, you're still smelling that fishy reek come Sunday. What to do?

I ventured out onto the back deck and peered down at the instructions for how to use the aforementioned silver monstrosity and found it was quite simple. Just like turning on a gas stovetop, only with more flame and considerably more thrill. Giving credit its due, I did place a strategic phone call to my bro (thanks, dood!) to ask about cooking times for fish, so the venture wasn't something I got through entirely on my own. But I did pretty damned good. And Broommate wasn't even around, so I was unsupervised. Like the title says, I'm exceedingly proud of myself for this considerably trivial thing.

Morning Becomes Electra

2007-01-07T14:41:00.000-08:00

I have a friend who says being an adult equals being married with kids. And since he's without either, contends that he is not yet an adult. Even though he is 40 years old. But I've recently decided that being an adult equals losing the ability to sleep late. To stay stuck to the sheets on a Saturday morning until well after the sun has risen in the sky. And with that in mind, I have officially become an adult at the tender age of 26. I have been finding it nearly impossible in the last few months to sleep much past 8:00 a.m.

I can remember being a kid and marveling at the fact that my parents would be up and awake by 7:00 or 7:30 in the morning on a weekend. I thought they were freaks. I mean, what on earth were they doing waking up so early when there was no one expecting them to BE anywhere? And why weren't they watching cartoons to pass the time?

Kids make up reasons for explaining to themselves why something is the way it is. I was no different, and it was clear to me that the reason my parents were early risers was because they were adults and therefore not only needless of sleeping in, but also incapable of it. It wasn't because they had things to do; it was because they were big people. As if the body turned a certain age and at that point, you ceased to engage in the joys of extended stays in bed. I think there is some truth to this theory, because my mother NEVER uses an alarm clock. I've always marveled at this, since it took at LEAST four tries for my own alarm clock to drag me out of bed in high school. And college. And the last few years.

I continue to use an alarm clock, but lately it's become pointless. Just set dressing, really. Because I almost always wake up before it goes off. And go ahead and get up. I went to see a good friend on Friday night who now has a child. And she apologized that her little boy would likely be up around 7:00 the next morning, thinking it might disturb my sleep. That comment seemed to set the natural alarm clock I now have implanted in my system (thanks, Mom!) and sure enough, I awoke the next morning at 7:03. I was back home Sunday morning and woke up before 7:00 as well and at the studio an hour later doing yoga. What is this about? I have yet to come up with a child-like explanation for it that doesn't pertain to aging.

It would be easy to blame this week's irregularity on my jetlag, which has been something to deal with for sure, but it's not a new phenomenon. The phenomenon, co-incident with moving back South, is adult-hood I am afraid. And I'm not even married with kids yet!

Dead Sea Float

2007-01-02T22:28:00.000-08:00

It's really easy to end up spending a lot of money on novel activities when you travel because the thinking goes like this:

Well, here I am in the middle of X and it's all pretty darned cool. And it took me umpteen hours on a jet to get here, not to mention a bumpy bus ride or three and when on EARTH will I be HERE again? So you pay whatever amount is asked to say you've been sky diving in Australia. Not that I've EVER done that. Nor would I recommend that CERTAIN FAMILY MEMBERS just go and do it without warning either because it is just plain crazy. But yes, novelty in a foreign land is a very motivating factor to get off your duff while there.

There was a similar logic to my swimming in the Dead Sea. It is, after all, the lowest place on the entire planet (below sea level, people!) and also one of the saltiest. And in spite of my need for a bikini wax, I decided that I was among friends and how idiotic would it be to let this, of all things, prevent me from taking a float? First, in the sulfur spring hot tub thing with a lot of far hairier men, and then down to the sea, a few hundred yards away. The weather out was the warmest it had been the entire trip, at a balmy 73 degrees. You can imagine, then, that the water wasn't exactly boiling. And although I was reticent at first to dunk myself in up to my neck (getting your face wet was warned against thanks to the salt content aggravating your skin), I decided that a) when would I be here again and have the chance to do this and b) I swam in a rather questionable and definitely frigid river in Nepal on several ocassions and if I had the guts to do that, I could hardly back out of getting more comfortable in the Dead Sea claiming cold.

Here's what's amazing about this: you really do float. In fact, it's kind of hard to NOT float. Once you lift your feet off the thick mud on the bottom, getting them back down takes a bit of effort. Especially without splashing. (Seriously, there are multi-lingual signs on the beach strictly prohibiting it.) We dug up the muddy bottom and found not sand, but mineral deposits the color of a clay tennis court that had large chunks of salt crystals in them and then scrubbed ourselves pink with it.

I suppose what's particularly spectacular about this region of the world is that if you look around you, and through the thick still air that hangs over it, you see an imposing, rocky and fairly barren landscape. I've never spent much time on the desert, so this was all new to me. I think I prefer greenery, because the place was eerily still and void even of insect life. The cool thing about the geology of the area, though, was the way in which you could see how eons ago the water had covered so much more and carved out sharp hillsides and caves. I've never seen the Grand Canyon, but this is what I expect it looks like.

We got a good view of the landscape by hiking up Masada. Well, some of us hiked, but hiking it at all was a bone of contention for our tour guide (see the aforementioned lying liar who lies in my previous post). According to her, there simply wasn't TIME for us to all hike it. What is more, she was insistent that some people did not have appropriate footwear for the climb. Basically, Masada is a village on top of one of the proud mesas jutting out of the earth. It was built by Herod and co-opted later by a small sect of Jews known as the Essenes who, when attacked by Roman soldiers ultimately all took a suicide pact rather than lose their settlement to the soldiers. It holds a lot of significance to the history of the Israeli people and part of the amazement of seeing it is walking up the steep trail that winds along one side of the mountain.

I had really looked forward to hiking Masada. It was pretty much the one thing I really really wanted to do on the trip, but in an effort to be polite, I didn't push it too hard when the hike nixed by the guide, although I didn't appreciate her assumption that we were all too lily-livered to handle it. After trekking in the Himalayas last spring, I've come to find that my will to believe I can accomplish things has grown exponentially and this was no exception.

Fortunately, the nephew of one of my travel companions joined us for the day and was willing to take her on, finally convincing her that we could hike it, basically by refusing to take the cable car. So, four of us hiked. And certainly I was winded, but it was far from impossible. We could have all done it; she was just being lazy. The cable car would take about five or ten minutes, putting the rest of the group at the top far before the four of us. The dispute about how much time to spend at the top became the next issue and on the hike up, I learned from our Israeli companion that the tour guide had blamed not wanting to start her speech about Masada's history on yours truly, saying that I was "very intellectual" and would want to hear every last word spoken on the subject.

While it's true that I soak up arguably useless trivial factual information like a sponge, the fact is that I already knew a good deal about Masada thanks to my fancy book larnin' at yooniversity. We wound up with an hour to cover a lot of ground at the top of the mount and by the end of it all, the guide was in quite the snit about how no one was paying attention any more and we were all dragging our feet. Which is to say, we were trying to take things in through our powers of observation. But the guide wasn't having it and we pretty much walk/ran across the top of the mountain and back to the cable car, chancing to see some impressive baths, cisterns, concubine's quarters, the top of Herod's palace and the spot for officers. Oh and the synagogue later used by the Essene inhabitants.

This was the general theme for the better part of the trip. That and overeating. I can't even begin to think about the amount of things we saw, with three or four stops to view per day. It was overwhelming and exhausting and I'm still trying to process all the history underneath the spectacular modernity of the Israeli people. We drove right past the site of the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls. We touched the Western Wall. We visited the Holocaust memorial museum and passed an evening chatting with a former editor of the Jerusalem Post. We spent time in a settlement on the border with Gaza that serves double duty not only as a kibbutz of a kind, but also a reminder to the Palestinians that Israel isn't going anywhere, Katushya rockets or not. It is a complex land, Israel, and the country is in the process of taking in anyone who will subscribe to the Torah in a way that very nearly resembles proselytizing.

In a way, Israel reminded me quite a bit of the United States in its diversity. It's one of the only other countries in the world established by a motly crew of immigrants. Everyone has a story to tell about how they came to live in Israel, usually involving a flight by their parents to the Holy Land. Which is rather fitting considering that the three primary religions of the world sprung up here and so in a way, we who believe in those all have a means of tracing ourselves back to it in spite of the corners of the earth we now inhabit.

Eretz Israel

2006-12-28T11:41:00.001-08:00

We are moving a mile a minute here, so I sadly have not had time to write. More on why I have no time of my own later, but the long and short is that our tour guide (who's a hired gun...literally) is a total lying liar who lies and told us we could stop and be leisurely at any point on the trip. Sure. Like how I was attempting to buy postcards yesterday for all my loyal blog friends and family and got left behind by the group because they just COULDN'T wait. To go see this cheesy video about the Turkish baths, hosted by a guy who evidently walked into the audition room thinking he was trying out for the Sopranos.

ANYWAY, here's a snapshot. Some salient points from today's adventures. I'm on roll of film number four...and counting. Three days left, including more time at the Western Wall and a trip to MAsada and the Dead Sea. Woot woot!

After a bit of deliberation, we went to Nativ Ha'Aserav, a cooperative settlement on the border with the Gaza Strip today and met this guy who's lived there for over 25 years. It's pretty much the closest village on the entire border...like, we just stood at the wall that runs between the two which was fairly amazing for several reasons. Not least of which, our host who was South African by birth referred to Palestinians as two-legged rats. I have yet to meet anyone in this country with the same opinion as anyone else about how exactly things can or should be reconciled with respect to peace. Which is to say, it's little wonder things have been so difficult to settle up to now.

The other reason it was interesting was because we were right in the area where the Palestinians have been firing rockets into Israel of late. So that was its own kind of thrill. Also, since they live in the desert but have somewhat of a mandate to produce something, they farm crops and flowers by "fertigation" technique. It was v. cool.

Christmas was the other day and it was totally non-existent here. Christians are a lot more difficult to spot than the rest of the crowd here, but about the most Christmas-y thing I saw was some lights hanging over a street in Jerusalem. Oh, and we ate lunch yesterday at a restaurant in Haifa owned by a Christian Arab, so there were a few decorations in the place (Incidentally, this was the site of the first suicide bombing committed by a woman about five years ago). The truth is, I'm kind of appalled at how the Christians are falling down on the job of shouting above the crowd around here. All the Stations of the Cross we saw in Jerusalem were mostly on a dingy alleyway and/or stuffed between Muslim stalls in the Arab market (aka souk.) As well, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which houses chapels that belong to at least four distinct denominations and also claims to house the marble slab upon which Christ was crucified (it's suspiciously well shaped) was practically falling down. WTF, my people? There are churches everywhere, but we haven't really been into any of them, since everyone else I'm travelling with are the people of Moses. S'alright; I don't hold it against them ;)

Ok, so the truth is that I wrote most of that in an email to someone and then just cut and pasted. I have remarkably limited computer access here. That too has something to do with the guide who tells lies. And talks our ears off!!! I am now officially earless, I swear it.

In case you ladies need any Xmas suggestions

2006-12-19T18:16:00.000-08:00

Blogger's motto:
When you've got nothing else to post, send people to other places. With that in mind, I'm becoming a YouTube slut.
This is arguably rival to the Lazy Sunday video of a few months back.

Note: Any adult family members that read this, you probably won't really appreciate that link, so go ahead and skip it.

Found To-Do List

2006-12-16T12:10:00.000-08:00

I used to spend about two or three hours DAILY reading blogs, surfing the web, and generally wasting time all while getting paid by my employer who simply didn't have enough work for me to do. Also, the work I DID do was sometimes so mind-numbing that I had to take long breaks. Hey, it's no different than people who feed a nicotine addiction. (An aside: I think smoking is down in the younger crowd these days. I went out dancing last night in Chapel Hill and was all ready to come home and Febreze everything down to my tongue, but it was not necessary.)

I do not have this luxury these days, so I've neglected a lot of the sites I used to read quite regularly. I do, however, make the rounds religiously at Toothpaste for Dinner.

Today is no exception.

In other news, it's like 75 degrees here today. I was looking forward to the milder winter this year since leaving New York, but this is kind of ridiculous. What would the Baby Jesus have to say if he showed up on earth RIGHT NOW in preparation for his birth and saw crocus bulbs attempting to shove their way out of the soil? Methinks he'd be freaked right out of his tiny squishy baby skull. The other weird thing about the weather is that it was below freezing all LAST weekend. Being the sucker for non-profit fundraisers that I am, I agreed to volunteer to help entertain people who came to ride the "Santa Train" at the local life sciences museum last Saturday night. It was fun, but I couldn't feel my feet for two solid hours after going indoors. Could we settle on a middle ground here, please?

Speaking of the Baby Jesus, I was looking forward to going to Israel and gloating about how I was in the warm, arid desert for several days while everyone froze their noses off back home, but it seems my thunder about that will be stolen by poor planning on the part of the meteorologists in these parts. Boo and hiss to that.

It is rather strange to spend Christmas in warm places when you're not used to it being temperate. I once went to Hawaii in late December and wore a bathing suit for a good part of the time, and I was a lot less aware of it being near Christmas. There were some decorations up in places, but not a lot and the warmth itself made the idea of Santa's reindeer and sleigh seem a might absurd. I wonder what kids who grow up in places like that think of the suggestion that some old guy who's overdressed for Arctic activity is going to stuff himself down chimneys they don't have or use. Does Santa instead take on a surfer dude persona, akin to say, Poseidon? He had a beard. And I'm certain I've seen him depicted as riding a large sleigh-looking shell with some seahorses dragging him about. Most importantly, mermen are about as fantastical as Santa Claus, so I think this could work. Oh, and Joseph of Nazareth can wear a lei in the creche scene.

Ate opponents brains, invented cocaine

2006-12-11T23:30:00.000-08:00

UPDATE: That was a dud link I put up last night, which I realized when I sent it on to a friend who sent it back to me with some nonsense about asking me out to dinner to eat live octopus. Somehow, he was sent here. But THIS is what I really wanted y'all to see!!
____________________________________

I'm working on a project for NYC at the moment that is making me cranky. So what do I do? Procrastinate, naturally. I spent the better part of the evening chatting online with the Bunny and then a high school friend popped up to share a bit about daily life in Chattanooga. He sums it up as follows:

"I work for a multi billion dollar company and everyday is like going to a comedy concert." He also mentioned "blowing shit up," working with ex-cons, and getting scars on his arms from the cutting torches. Hilarity, indeed.

Anyway, he shared this with me. And in an effort to replace the fabled Cherry Tree tale our Founding Father couldn't lie about, we think it might be nice to convince the land that the ORIGINAL George Dubya did, in point of fact, fuck the shit out of bears. Among other things. So I'm sharing this link with the blogosphere to help get that party started.

Otto, I don't know if you make it round to these parts much anymore, but I think you'll enjoy this one.

It's got a good beat and you can dance to it!

2006-12-07T00:24:00.000-08:00

I can't write about music. I just end up sounding like some lame-o on Dick Clark's American Bandstand using words like "nifty" and "swell." So I'll leave it to the pretentious professionals out there who describe someone's talent with the snare drum as something like this: "So-and-so plays the snare drum with such skill and depth as well as a gentle touch that it evokes a Trappist monk tapping skulls and brings ovations of shivers to the album" or something otherwise idiotic. The only respectable music writer I've ever read is Sasha Frere-Jones who reviews for the New Yorker. Which, is obviously hilarious since it's arguably one of the more pretentious magazines around. But whatever. I know what I like; I don't spend a lot of time coming up with obscure ways to characterize it. If it makes me want to turn it up to an obscene volume and jump around and/or hug the entire world, it gets a pass.

So with that in mind, I'll just assure you that you should take my word for it when I direct you to this link, and encourage you to download/buy/steal/rip the whole album by Regina Spektor. I haven't been this addicted to an album since Bloc Party. It is changing my life! See, how ridiculous does that sound? It doesn't tell you anything about the music itself. Then again, just what DOES a monk tapping skulls sound like?

Whatever. Just go buy Regina Spektor's record. TAN, this means you in particular as she's like what I imagine Tori was like before she got wacked out.

Cousin the Friendly Ghost

2006-12-05T13:19:00.000-08:00

My aunt sent me this email yesterday:

"Just want you to know that the kids now consider you so much a part of the family that J tried to blame you for 'leaving toys all over the living room' today, but R took up for you and said that 'you weren't even here today'. head bobs and all."

I've mentioned before how charmed I am by my two younger cousins who live nearby, but this about takes the cake. I suspect it has something to do with the fact that whenever I look after them, I MAKE them clean the living room as well as their own bedrooms. (I'm awful, I know!) I took them to school last Thursday morning and we didn't have time to do any cleaning, so since this time the room had gone uncleaned, well, it was clearly MY fault. I called my brother yesterday and told him this story and he said it sounds like Jackson has taken a page right out of his book in blaming his own missteps on improbable scapegoats. Like the time my brother and our next-door neighbor scrawled indelible chalk drawings all over our OTHER neighbor's car and then confessed to me he'd tried to frame one of the older boys down the block by writing the boy's name on the car. He'd have succeeded, he told me, if only he'd known how to spell the boy's name.

My aunt says Riley and Jackson fight all the time. Riley once told Jackson that she only loves him as her brother on Wednesdays because those are the days she gets to go to ballet class and he cannot bother her there. He responded by asking her how she felt on Fridays and would she please love him then too. She gave it some thought and said yes, but didn't sound convinced. When I'm around, the bickering usually stays at a dull roar, and Jackson often drifts off to his own room to entertain himself with his Transformers (he literally has close to 100!) and dinosaurs, while Riley and I hunt for her cat, Princess Sweetie Pie. Occasionally, Jackson will make an appearance as T-Rex Incarnate, which irritates Riley and her myriad dolls to no end, but she also seems to understand a need to tolerate his behavior as if stowing away sisterly brownie points for later in life. I could tell her now that no matter the hell they put one another through, she and her brother will be the best of friends some day. He is, after all, the only brother she has. He is the witness to the childhood they both share and for that she will be forever grateful.

The House that Walton Built

2006-11-30T13:47:00.000-08:00

Today, I went into a Wal-Mart for the first time in a very long time. Like, years. And it was like walking into a foreign land. All of the trappings of Target were there, except they were ugly and poorly lit. Shopping in that place is oppressive, I tell you. I even prefer the concrete floors and freakishly large bags of cheese at Costco, simply because they kind of embrace the warehouse-y feel. But Wal-Mart, yikes!

I've been crocheting a blanket for the little boy I spent the spring and summer nannying and I'm running out of the yarn for it. I ventured to Michaels' to find some more and they don't carry the brand I need. Wal-Mart, which I've been able to happily resist and also happily bash for the last few years, was just next door. I know my grandmother buys yarn there sometimes, so I decided to see if they had what I was looking for. And as soon as I entered and witnessed the gloomy aisles, retired people, and children who are so large they look five but are actually two, accompanied by their mothers who clearly still think it's ok to eat for two, my insides screamed as their little fists pounded silently on the walls of Marceau's box. I began to debate with myself if even if they DID have the yarn I needed, would I be able to spend a single dollar in a place that I loathed more than just about anything I've ever loathed in my entire life.

Truly, there is little I hate MORE than Wal-Mart. Perhaps cockroaches. But those are easily disposed of and, to that end, oddly satisfying. The best I can do towards Wal-Mart's extermination is avoid the place.

They didn't have my yarn, so my crisis of conscience was averted thanks to a poor product choice on the part of their crafts buyers. But as I swiftly left the store, I began to notice that much of the merchandise was, although branded by well-known names, quite sub-par. The bad, cave-like lighting just adds insult to the injury that low-income Americans must face in shopping at a store like this. There is a palor over the place; the employees look surly and the customers haggard. Somehow, Target gets it right. And even K-Mart doesn't make its customers feel second-class. But Wal-Mart. Well, Wal-Mart makes no attempt at making you feel like your shopping experience there is a pleasant one. Even if you ARE saving money while watching out for falling prices.

Belated thankfulness

2006-11-29T10:32:00.000-08:00

For the last 8 years, it's taken me about 5-10 hours to get to and from home for the holiday. I've had to deal with craploads of people, cranky flight attendants and the general stupidity of the American public to the point that it easily threatened to ruin just about every Thanksgiving past. But this year, I just hopped in my car and zoomed home in an hour down the highway. It was phenomenal. And so stress-free. And I got cheap(er) gas on the way. And it was a total breeze to get back to my house on Friday. No hassle! Why didn't I do this sooner?

Not that I was able to escape entirely from the airport nonsense of the holiday. I had to take Broommate and a friend to the airport last Tuesday, braving the piles of traffic on I-40. At least they were leaving at the same time, so I only had to make one trip. (An aside: Perhaps it's the years spent sharing subway cars with fellow commuters, but I cannot express enough how satisfying carpooling is. A full car is a beautiful thing. I was filled with glee at the happy coincidence that Broommate and my friend were leaving at the same time. They don't even know each other. It just happened. It was glorious! End aside.)

I got home to relax for the afternoon and received a frantic phone call from Bunny who'd left her iPod at her home. She had made it to the airport a little after I'd made my own drop off (how awesome would it have been if she'd left at the same time as the other two??!) and was on her way to Italy via New York and wanted to know if I could bring her her iPod. By the time I got to the airport on my second trip, the traffic had picked up considerably and it had begun to rain. I waited for 20 minutes just to get up the off ramp and onto Airport Boulevard. Fortunately, the Bunny's flight had been delayed and we made the hand-off, but not without having to strategize about how she had too many ounces of cosmetics stuff in her bag that had somehow been overlooked on her first pass through security, and how would she get out and back through.

I am, needless to say, an excellent friend. Then again, I would die on an airplane without something to listen to. And that Amy Grant crap they play on the programmed stations that are piped through the arm rest is not music, people.

I've been on my own at the studio this week, and y'all, it is kind of stressful being responsible for someone else's child. At the same time, it's kind of fun. Things have been relatively un-stressful or frantic for me in the last few months and I welcome that tremendously, but revving the engines every now and then is kind of nice.

Fa ra ra ra ra. Ra ra ra ra!

2006-11-25T09:49:00.000-08:00

God help me if I were working in retail this season. I would no doubt go on a killing spree by the end of it all, for the music alone, to say nothing of the idiotic masses that darkened the door of whatever chain store employed me.

A few days after Halloween, I scanned across a radio station that appeared to be playing Christmas music exclusively. WTF??? And last night, I heard a Nat King Cole tune about chestnuts and open fires wedged between two winey rock songs. My Grinchey heart shrunk two sizes. I've barely heard any of the stuff yet, and I'm already cringing at Christmas carols. It's terrible, especially to consider that if fate is kind to me, I'll have at LEAST another 30-40 Christmases of the stuff. And by the logic that my heart has already shrunken two sizes at the age of 26, I'll be the Crypt Keeper by the time those 40 years are up. My grandchildren will be terrified of me. Unless, of course, I get to them before the elves do and convince them to join me in my crusade against holiday songs. See what I mean about being Grinchey????

I really do love Christmas. I like the cards people send, the food we make, trimming the tree, the parties and colors. Every bit of it is exciting and interesting to me. Christmas morning is pretty much one of the best feelings all year, bested only by my own birthday. A lot of it is nostalgia that keeps it going for me, but that's only because I have some really lovely memories of childhood Christmases, when my brother would come and wake me up before sunrise and we would creep into our living room to unpack our stockings. Every year holds a little bit of that excitement, and so in spite of my distaste for the music, I am somewhat sad to be missing the chance to share an early morning rendezvous with my brother this year.

I leave for Israel on December 22, and even though I'm going to where this whole Christmas Caboodle got its start, it feels a little strange to be leaving my family behind. Perhaps that is because it's been a long time since Christmas was actually about the Baby Jesus for me. Is it really about that anymore for anyone? Given that stores opened at 5:00 a.m. yesterday morning and some people wound up injured fighting over gift certificates and coupons at a mall in California, I'd say not. Before buying my plane ticket, I called each member of my immediate family and told them about this chance I had to take this trip and would it be ok with them if I left for the holiday. I got a resounding, "DO IT!" from everyone. It would seem that Christmas and its importance is all in my head. I'm not saying I was expecting anyone to rend their clothes and wail at the thought of my absence, but I was a little surprised at how willing they all seemed to send me off into the bullet-ridden desert. (When I saw my extended family for Thanksgiving on Thursday, they all joked that they were going to pitch in and buy me a Kevlar vest for the trip. Save it for the troops, I say.) My brother DID use some choice words with respect to his not having my companionship for Christmas, but ultimately supported my wish to go. He's a good guy like that.

But yeah, the idea of being in the Holy Land, in weather that feels like Southern California, surrounded by people who don't actually believe in the miracles that some claim to have occured there with respect to the Baby Jesus should be kind of interesting. I feel like I've prepared my entire life for this trip, and if the truth is known, I have very high expectations for it with respect to my own spirituality. I'm usually mystified by people who say things like that, because my rational mind doesn't easily get tricked into the metaphysical realm. There is a rare exception. A few years ago, I took a trip with my father to Berlin. We rented a car one day and ventured East and we stopped in the town of Wittenberg, where we saw Martin Luther's church. The door to which he nailed his theses was lost in a fire at some point, but the church itself, as well as the entire town, had an immense amount of power to me. I could not help but feel entirely overwhelmed that this unassuming village was one in which the modern world had been fundamentally altered.

Naturally, going to Israel is that sensation tenfold. It is the place where the modern world arguably BEGAN. Jacob was given twelve tribes, but he spawned a million races. And much of the tribal turmoil that began with it is still there in one form or another, just with more sophisticated weaponry. And perhaps its all my own speculation about what this trip holds, the hours I spent as an undergraduate studying the history of the land, and parsing the language of the Bible that grew out of this area, that make my visit there so paramount to me in terms of what it should mean. But perhaps it is also this speculation that has lessened my annual tolerance for Christmas music as I am forced to become more aware of just what it means to miss the holiday entirely and go instead to the place that it began.

Family Ties

2006-11-19T22:39:00.000-08:00

One of the more entertaining parts about living back South is that I have lots of family nearby. My dad is the oldest of six, which makes ME the oldest of 14 grandchildren. I'm 26 and the youngest just turned 2. Ok, he's technically a first cousin once-removed, but whatever. We span a generation; it's awesome. The family is so large that we require not one but two houses each summer when we make our mass Exodus to the beach for a week. Take that, Moses!

One of my dad's sisters lives in Durham, about ten minutes from my house and she has two kids who are both a total riot to be with. They're six and seven; a girl and a boy. I was very pleased when I got the day off from the studio today to be able to take my cousin Riley to the ballet. Most six-year-old girls would have a hard time sitting through something like this, particularly when the matinee performance is chock-full of members of the geriatric tribe, but her mom swore she'd love it. And she did. She was so anxious about arriving on time, that she kept asking me about the clock on my dashboard, which was an hour fast (thank you, Daylight Savings Time) and how much time we had before the show started. When we pulled up outside the theater, she exclaimed that she'd been ten times before and this would be her eleventh...and that was more than she was years old!!! She was a total joy to spend time with, and she was completely entranced by every performance we saw. When we got home, she leapt around the living room imitating the dancers and telling her mother how beautiful it had been. Obviously, this charmed the hell out of me.

Her brother, Jackson, ran around the living room with a throw pillow in his mouth imitating a Tyrannosaurus Rex. This too had a charm of its own.

When I first moved to New York, it never much bothered me to be away from my extended family. I'd never had terribly much to do with most of them except on holidays and birthdays growing up. All the younger cousins I had were kind of like strangers to me, and I only kept up with their activities at a distance. I also felt pretty removed when I did come home from school, because I got the sense that the family sort of thought I was some Crazy Liberal, although I suspect that some of this was merely projection on my part. And then at some point, it became important to me to be more involved in getting to know my greater family. I think I kind of got tired of my younger cousins never remembering my name and regarding me with the suspicion that one reserves specifically for family members that they have met and feel like they should know but don't really care all that much about. It goes both ways.

Riley and Jackson know me by name now. I get hugs from them on command. And back before I'd found a place to live in Durham, I was staying at their house quite a bit and one morning they both woke me up around 6:30 and asked to crawl into bed with me. I nearly DIED of charm! I suppose the beauty of children that age is that their affection is fairly indiscriminate. They still have the capability to find things (like the ballet) enjoyable regardless of their surroundings or company (like the old people). It's a completely fascinating age to me and spending time with them always makes me feel that much wiser for having moved back here to be witness to it.

Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto

2006-11-17T17:16:00.000-08:00

Many thanks to Shannon who went to Japan recentry and sent me this postcald. I am preased she opted out of sending me a postclard of Mt. Fuji and sent me this one instead:

I know a lot of people like to say there's no effing way we're related to apes, but c'mon. Can you honestly look at this photograph and deny that we share 98% of our DNA?

I think I mentioned briefly that I'm going to Israel next month. If anyone would like a postcard from the hotbed of civilization, just email me your mailing address and I'll be happy to oblige. But the deal works like this: you have to send me a postcard either from where you live or the next cool place you visit!!

He may be an a$$hole, but at least he's OUR a$$hole

2006-11-13T19:28:00.000-08:00

So, Rudy Giuliani filed the papers today for an exploratory committee to run for president in 2008. No surprise there, but it would be an interesting turn of events were the election to come down to Rudy and Hilary. Decisions, decisions!

A lot of people in New York City royally dislike Rudolph Giuliani. He had the ocassional shady dealing down on the docks for sure, but he got the city well on its way to being safe and liveable. And more to the point, a great place for people to bring their families on vacation. At the end of it all, he held that town together so well after September 11 that there was a very sizeable movement that advocated for fudging the election laws and extending his term in office as a means of continuity during crisis. For someone people hated most of the time, I'd say getting so many people will to flout legal process on a scale like that is a fairly remarkable feat. I mean, Christ, James Freaking Woods portrayed him in the movie about his life. And James Woods, who has also appeared on Entourage as himself, is far from a washed-up Lifetime Special actor with no chops of which to speak.

The thing that I've long contended about Giuliani is that if he ran for any other office, he'd be handily elected by just about every last New Yorker in spite of any bad memories they might harbor, because he's one of their own. It's like the idea that you can beat up on your kid brother allll you want (not that I EVER did that) but as soon as someone ELSE beats up on him, well, then you MUST wail on the person who's hurting your kid brother. The same goes for Giuliani and at least he, unlike Hilary, is not a poacher, who went from being a Razorback's wife to choosing one of the bluest states in the union to reside in an effort to ensure her political election. It may have been shrewd on her part, but it was also kind of sissy, no? And if there's one word you can NOT call Giuliani, it's "sissy."

Kegerator

2006-11-12T10:07:00.000-08:00

People often ask me how I liked my experience at NYU. After all, it was an unusual choice to make as far as collegiate planning goes since there's not really a traditional campus there, to say nothing of the absence of formals and fraternities that drive social life in other places. In general, there's a lack of social cohesion and that can be both good and bad. It's good because you are never forced into a pigeon hole of one kind or another about who you are and the people you're friends with. You can do or be just about anything. The downside, of course, is that without those defining boundaries, you'd better be pretty damned certain going in about who you are because you can get tugged in a lot of directions and it is also a challenge to meet people.

I got lucky: I met some fantastic people. But rarely when someone asks me about where I went to school and I tell them do I get met with this response: "Ooooh, and I bet you regretted that, right? I mean, school in New York City, that just isn't really college." Ummmm...what? Welcome to my house, please, insult my decision making!

Broommate and I threw a housewarming keg party last night and a few stragglers came along with other friends to help us out. And one of those stragglers was the person who put things to me so untactfully about my college choice. Were there times I was unhappy at NYU? Of course, but I don't think that was symptomatic of the school, but rather college in general. No one loves every last minute of those four years do they? Do they? I assured this individual, who'd attended UNC and clearly adored his alma mater (with good reason) that I did not regret my decision to go to school in New York. Sure, I'd given up the chance to experience a lot of the more traditional aspects of college life like single-sex dormitories, hall bathrooms, booting and rallying at frat parties, and camping out overnight in the cold for the worst seats in the basketball arena, but I wasn't sorry about that. I also made it all the way through both high school AND college without ever rooting for the home team in a football game. Because neither school had a team.

Really, the only shortcoming it left me with was when I tried to order the keg for the party this week and had to meekly ask the distributor to explain things to me a bit. Good thing Broommate knew what he was doing, because once we got the keg home, I was also puzzled as to how we actually got the beer OUT. I was also dubious about the fact that since we have like a third of it left, if it would go bad by this morning. Evidently, we can sip on that puppy for a couple of days. It's too bad we don't have a television, or we could host a football party this evening. What's a touchdown again?

Ya HEARD!

2006-11-08T13:21:00.000-08:00

wooohooo!! wooohooo!!! woohoo!!! woohooo!! wooohooo!!!
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wooohooo!! wooohooo!!! woohoo!!! woohooo!! wooohooo!!!
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wooohooo!! wooohooo!!! woohoo!!! woohooo!! wooohooo!!!

On my patriotic duty and how it's going un-done

2006-11-07T18:39:00.000-08:00

I did not vote today. For the first time since I turned 18, I abstained from exercising my democratic right (Interesting semantic note: those two words rarely appear next to one another if either is used to mean their alternate meanings) to vote. Shocking, I know. And also not intentional on my part.

I think voting is about the coolest thing you can do. Seriously. I know that sounds ridiculous, but as laypeople, we're really pretty far removed from the Democratic process short of running for office itself, or writing letters to your Congresspeople. And who really has the time to write letters to their Congresspeople? I got into an argument with a former colleague during the last presidential election because he felt too disillusioned to vote and tried to sell me some ridiculous story about why it doesn't count at all. I think that's total crap. Voting is worth every minute and if you don't vote, then you get positively no right to complain about what's going on in office since you did nothing to prevent it. It's a bit like that Dante quote: "The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in times of great crisis, maintain their neutrality."

The thing is, these days when every candidate is just certain the race was rigged and/or can only be won by a nose, every vote does absolutely count. Even if it gets swallowed up by a Diebold machine. Which is highly likely.

But as to why I myself did not vote: I'm not sure where to go and since I'm not currently living in a hotspot state with any elections more major than the local DA, I didn't bother to sort it all out. If I'm not mistaken, North Carolina has a DMV/voter thing going on. Which means that when I got my new driver's license here, I was automatically registered to vote. And, presumably, de-registered in New York. (Although, does anyone really know how that happens or if it does at all? I mean, could I conceivably have sent away for an absentee ballot and given Eliot Spitzer one more pat on the back to handily defeat his nameless opponent even though he accomplished it months ago?) However, I now reside in Durham County, but I got my license in Guilford County, so I'm registered there, not here. And I didn't file absentee for Guilford County either. So, no voting.

Three people asked me about this yesterday. My friend Alison, my friend Monika, and my dad. (Hi guys!) And I rationalized things this way: If I'd voted in New York, things would have inevitably stayed pretty much the same. Spitzer will win, as will Cuomo (for Atty. Gen.), and WHO was running against Hillary again? That's what I thought. So, no losses in NY. And as for NC, like I said, there's nothing too exciting going on here. A couple of Congressional races in districts not my own; although it might have been fun to unseat the DA in Durham who's completely botched the now-infamous Duke Lacrosse rape case. Jackass.

What I should have done is moved to Virginia or Pennsylvania for a short while. The Webb/Allen race in VA is beyond hysterical at this point and who wouldn't welcome the chance to pull the lever to unseat that notorious dead-baby-hugger Senator Rick Santorum?

To the rest of you who voted: well done!

Here is what I love:

2006-11-06T18:49:00.000-08:00

That even though Daylight Savings Time is over, it doesn't get dark here until well after 5:00, whereas if I were in New York this winter, preparing yet again to freeze off the gonads I've lost countless times already (to say nothing of their loss in the womb...) well, it would be D.A.R.K. there by like 4:15.

Mean what you say

2006-11-05T10:32:00.000-08:00

I never much liked John Kerry when he ran for office. Certainly, he was the superior choice on the ballot, but he is also a walking definition of patrician and while he shares that trait with George Bush, Dubya somehow managed to shirk it. I'm thinking it was due to his lack of vocabularical skills.

Kerry's stock increased for me last week when he made the statement that if you don't get educated, you get stuck in Iraq. Because that statement is arguably true. Finally, he was cutting lose and saying what he really thought about the state our country is in. Except that then he apologized and his stock totally plummeted. This means one of two things: Perhaps he was responding in a knee-jerk habit that he hasn't kicked since the election a couple years back that required every word he utter be in line with what his People had in mind for him, lest it get skewed by the Swift Boat Captains for Truth. Or, perhaps he is planning another run and would not want such a comment to be on his permanent record going forward lest it be dug up by future Swift Boat Captains for Truth that may lay upon the trail.

Sadly, it gave the Bush Machine an opportunity, albeit weak, to try to prise apart the halfway decent job the Democrats are doing of heading towards taking back the Senate next week, and Kerry's apology played right into their hands. The Dems, having now been portrayed for some time as lacking backbone (or, interchangeably, cojones), proved it once again. It's lamentable that although what Kerry was trying to say was anti-Bush but ended up sounding anti-troops, but he should have stood by his statement and taken the uproar about it as a chance not to backpedal, but to assert himself.

I saw Al Gore speak last winter about global warming. And the man that stood in front of the room would have made a fantastic president, but he was an entirely different man than the one who ran for office and was restricted to run only as far as his handlers' leashes would allow. I would have thought that Kerry would view his own political career as having nothing to lose at this point either, but I thought wrong. He is still just as guilty as the Bush camp of saying one thing, and meaning another, or even not meaning it at all.

An addendum to this is the fabulous column Thomas Friedman wrote in the Times on Friday. It's a TimesSelect piece, so I'll excerpt here what I think is the most valuable part, which is the entire thing:

George Bush, Dick Cheney and Don Rumsfeld think you’re stupid. Yes, they do. They think they can take a mangled quip about President Bush and Iraq by John Kerry — a man who is not even running for office but who, unlike Mr. Bush and Mr. Cheney, never ran away from combat service — and get you to vote against all Democrats in this election.

Every time you hear Mr. Bush or Mr. Cheney lash out against Mr. Kerry, I hope you will say to yourself, “They must think I’m stupid.” Because they surely do.

They think that they can get you to overlook all of the Bush team’s real and deadly insults to the U.S. military over the past six years by hyping and exaggerating Mr. Kerry’s mangled gibe at the president.

What could possibly be more injurious and insulting to the U.S. military than to send it into combat in Iraq without enough men — to launch an invasion of a foreign country not by the Powell Doctrine of overwhelming force, but by the Rumsfeld Doctrine of just enough troops to lose? What could be a bigger insult than that?

What could possibly be more injurious and insulting to our men and women in uniform than sending them off to war without the proper equipment, so that some soldiers in the field were left to buy their own body armor and to retrofit their own jeeps with scrap metal so that roadside bombs in Iraq would only maim them for life and not kill them? And what could be more injurious and insulting than Don Rumsfeld’s response to criticism that he sent our troops off in haste and unprepared: Hey, you go to war with the army you’ve got — get over it.

What could possibly be more injurious and insulting to our men and women in uniform than to send them off to war in Iraq without any coherent postwar plan for political reconstruction there, so that the U.S. military has had to assume not only security responsibilities for all of Iraq but the political rebuilding as well? The Bush team has created a veritable library of military histories — from “Cobra II” to “Fiasco” to “State of Denial” — all of which contain the same damning conclusion offered by the very soldiers and officers who fought this war: This administration never had a plan for the morning after, and we’ve been making it up — and paying the price — ever since.

And what could possibly be more injurious and insulting to our men and women in Iraq than to send them off to war and then go out and finance the very people they’re fighting against with our gluttonous consumption of oil? Sure, George Bush told us we’re addicted to oil, but he has not done one single significant thing — demanded higher mileage standards from Detroit, imposed a gasoline tax or even used the bully pulpit of the White House to drive conservation — to end that addiction. So we continue to finance the U.S. military with our tax dollars, while we finance Iran, Syria, Wahhabi mosques and Al Qaeda madrassas with our energy purchases.

Everyone says that Karl Rove is a genius. Yeah, right. So are cigarette companies. They get you to buy cigarettes even though we know they cause cancer. That is the kind of genius Karl Rove is. He is not a man who has designed a strategy to reunite our country around an agenda of renewal for the 21st century — to bring out the best in us. His “genius” is taking some irrelevant aside by John Kerry and twisting it to bring out the worst in us, so you will ignore the mess that the Bush team has visited on this country.

And Karl Rove has succeeded at that in the past because he was sure that he could sell just enough Bush cigarettes, even though people knew they caused cancer. Please, please, for our country’s health, prove him wrong this time.

Let Karl know that you’re not stupid. Let him know that you know that the most patriotic thing to do in this election is to vote against an administration that has — through sheer incompetence — brought us to a point in Iraq that was not inevitable but is now unwinnable.

Let Karl know that you think this is a critical election, because you know as a citizen that if the Bush team can behave with the level of deadly incompetence it has exhibited in Iraq — and then get away with it by holding on to the House and the Senate — it means our country has become a banana republic. It means our democracy is in tatters because it is so gerrymandered, so polluted by money, and so divided by professional political hacks that we can no longer hold the ruling party to account.

It means we’re as stupid as Karl thinks we are.

I, for one, don’t think we’re that stupid. Next Tuesday we’ll see.

[Napoleon breathes a long sigh of exasperation into the telephone]

2006-11-01T17:57:00.000-08:00

The Attractive Nuisance says she likes what I have to say about why I love her family: the way they talk to one another is so real. It's true. Her stories are often better than an episode of Jerry Springer.

What she says she likes/fears about me is my arch-browed death stare because it says "WHAT THE FUCK??" and "I WILL TOTALLY CUT YOU, BITCH!" AND "WEST SIDE" all at once. In the South, it's often called the "stink eye." Mine is multi-dimensional. And oh, how I am shooting it at this moment. At someone I don't even know and have never met.

I am really irritated. TAN's grandmother often threatens to snatch her baldheaded for one reason or another (see what I mean?). That describes well how I am feeling at this moment.

Let's think happy thoughts for a moment, shall we?
I'm going to Israel!
For Christmas!
Security Checkpoints!
Kids with guns!
Existential feuding!
Religious fervor!
LOTS AND LOTS OF CUTE JEWISH BOYS!!!!!!

Ok, now I feel better.

Take that baby home!

2006-11-01T12:43:00.000-08:00

I suspect that when I have children, they will resent me for the better part of their cognizant childhood and adolescence but will no doubt later come to love me in a classic realization that once they've grown up and entered the world and recognized that everyone around them was raised by wolves, they themselves were far luckier to have had a mother who was not afraid to be iron-fisted. I say this because I am a stickler about the way I think other people should raise their children.

I got home last night around 7:45 figuring that even though I live in a residential neighborhood, the tricking and treating would surely be over. After all, it was dark and my aunt had called me earlier in the day to tell me my six and seven-year-old cousins would be Halloweening at 5:30. I was disappointed about this because I had been excited to be back in a place where the rite of Trick-or-Treating was again a normal pursuit that didn't involve the hallways of apartment buildings.

Broommate had met the brunt of our porch guests and then took off for Franklin Street at about 8:00. I thought things would be quiet at home, but several very small (i.e. unable to yet properly say "Trick or Treat") children, accompanied by their parents, made stops at my door. I was happy to comply and handed out candy in lieu of judgement, but what those people don't know is that I have an online portal in which to bitch about their lack of parental acumen.

Just as I was planning to leave the house myself, decked out in my Dorothy costume (homemade, bitches!), the doorbell rang again. It was after 9:00 and a mother, father and two small children stood there asking for candy, their large van idling in front of the house. The two kids politely opened their bags as I put some stuff in and then the "father," whom I hadn't looked at too closely earlier and now realized was actually a teenager in face paint (WTF?), asked for some too.

Ok, fine, teenagers wanting candy, I can deal with. I'm pretty sure I trick-or-treated into sixth or seventh grade. I can even understand busing your kids into a safer neighborhood to avoid those urban legends about razorbladed apples. But what's just a total crime is having those children up past 9:00 on a school night. This is something I am a complete fanatic about. Just ask any friend of mine who's ridden the subway after about 10:00 at night with me and borne witness to the apoplectic rant that I pursue when I see women with toddlers on the train. It. Drives. Me. Nuts. And in my humble opinion, it also borders on child abuse. Kids need massive amounts of sleep to function; it is entirely unfair to force your small child to live YOUR irresponsible lifestyle. These people also no doubt find it perfectly acceptable to allow their children to eat sugar-laden cereals and sip Coke with their lunch and dinner while smearing Cheezwiz onto white bread. Why not just put a gun into their tiny hands and see what happens?

Sugar is the devil. And if you figure how much of an effect it can have on a grown adult, just imagine what it's doing in the same dosage to a small child. There's a reason why when you buy cough syrup, kids under 12 are supposed to have smaller doses than their parents. You can see where this is going: my children, if and when I have them, will never be allowed to have any fun. Although, in hindsight, neither of my parents are remotely lupine and while they did restrict a fair amount of my intake of one kind or another when I was a child, I can reflect positively on my childhood in spite of their short leashed ways.

It's Only Funny If You Know What You're Doing

2006-10-30T20:31:00.000-08:00

In addition to adjusting to the pace of life down South, I've mentioned here before the difficulty I've faced in adjusting to having to drive everywhere. I practically wanted to lick the subway seats I was so excited to ride on them last weekend. (You think I'm kidding.) But part of my angst over driving everywhere is that this also requires general maintainence of my vehicle. I've griped about this here too.

The new tires I purchased a few weeks back resulted in what I'd call a movie-script scene that features a spoiled little girl wandering cluelessly into a car shop, getting somewhat swindled by the helper-person there, but not before she wises up and calls her daddy to ask for advice. That was me. And when I told my father the price the mechanic had quoted me for two new tires, he nearly sounded like he was going to jump through the phone and wring my neck.

"Don't yell at me, Daddy!" I insisted. "I don't know what I'm doing here!!!"

Which, in hindsight, is probably not the wisest of comments to make when standing in a shop of an industry where the salespeople are notorious for preying on the ignorance of their customers. Ignorance, in this case is not bliss but rather a one-way ticket to penury. I put him on the phone with the mechanic who explained the charges, all of which had seemed logical to me.

A similar scene ensued a couple of weeks later as I left the house one morning and remembered that my father had reminded me to check the dipstick in my oil...tank? pit? can? aquarium? I dunno.

So, I found it. And I might has well have been gazing at tea leaves. So then I called my dad. He told me to wipe off the dipstick, put it back in and pull it back out to look at it. The oil was low, which I'd expected since the car tends to leak oil just a bit. So he directed me to the spare bottle of oil he'd stashed in the trunk. I recalled having seen him change the oil in our family cars a time or five and that it involved a baking pan and a funnel. I told him I didn't have a funnel, would I be alright?

"Yeah," he said. "They've made the oil bottles much easier to use now that they have pouring spouts."

I peered into the hole in the car with doubts that even the smallish opening on the bottle would be sufficient to accomplish this.

"So," I said, "leave the dipstick out and pour the oil into the hole? Here goes!"

"No, sweetheart. You need to go to the engine the put the oil in."

"Ohhhhhh!! No WONDER I was puzzled at how the oil was gonna get in there without a funnel!"

So then we talked for at LEAST five minutes trying to discern which hole I needed on the engine. There was only one, really, and the underside of the cap was covered in petroleum, but I wanted to be certain I was right and it had been a while since my father had looked under the hood of this car so he couldn't recall exactly what it looked like. He was saying, "It's in the middle." And I was saying, "Well, there's a big nozzle near the back?" Two ships in the proverbial night. I took a deep breath and poured the oil in. All was well. After this session, he apologetically told me he couldn't reach his arms through the phone every time I needed him and perhaps I should look into taking a "Powderpuff mechanics" class at the local community college. After all, I haven't been responsible for a vehicle all by myself...well...ever. I feel this part of my growth as an individual is stunted and still firmly adolescent. And blonde.

I drive a 1993 BMW. Her name is Daphne, which I inherited from my brother. And each time you turn on the ignition in a Beemer, there's a series of lights that come on in the dash that tell you when you need to have the car serviced. That time for me is now. I'm going on Thursday to Greensboro to have the car looked at and when I spoke to my father about it this morning, he succinctly voiced his general exasperation/concern about my lack of car acumen by simply recommending his mechanic Allen to me by saying "Allen won't bullshit you." My father never curses. I think, though, what he was trying to say was that I have an apparently strong ability to NOT recognize the smell of bullshit when it comes to automotive matters due to complete ignorance. And, given that the car is an import and as such needs a bit more (expensive) attention than some others to continue running well, he is understandably concerned that I'll wind up several hundred dollars poorer later this week. Much as I might have in the new tire situation. Perhaps "exasperation" is the most suitable word to describe how my father no doubt feels at my numerous queries about cars.

Fortunately for me and my dad, my uncle Joey works across the street at a used car lot. He is tough. And all my life, he's told me if I ever have anyone who gives me trouble (men, in particular) that I should tell him and he'll "wack 'em" for me. I've never put that to the test out of fear of what exactly that might mean, but perhaps on Thursday I'll take him along just in case.

On Halloween and not cutting my hands

2006-10-30T18:38:00.000-08:00

My drive to the studio is along an old highway that has been residentialized. It cuts through the Duke Forest, and it winds in a highly charming and treacherous way. I'm guessing that since most older highways were built before the advent of the Interstate and the multi-horsepower engine, there was less concern about speeding along them and therefore the winding construction was done as much out of aesthetics than anything else. You can get up to some good speeds on this road, though, and learn a lesson or two about physics, curves and acceleration in the process.

The most pleasant thing about the road though is surely the scenery. I noticed this morning that the colors on the trees have practically popped out overnight and although the fall foliage is something I assume happens every year, I haven't much considered its beauty in some time. Any proximity to Central Park in the fall was happenstance for me, and I rarely made it upstate early enough in the season to catch the changing leaves in September, when they begin to turn in the Northeast.

I also did something last night that I have no idea how long it's been since last I did it. Which is this: I carved a pumpkin. When we were kids, my brother and I used to relish the approach of Halloween. Not only, in the words of Jerry Seinfeld, to GET CANDY! but also because it meant a special Saturday trip to a pumpkin patch to choose the most perfect specimen we could find. I feel certain there was a period of time we insisted on buying TWO pumpkins for the sake of equanimity so that we could both have one to ourselves. Naturally, however, it was my father who did the carving. You know, long blades and such. We also erred on the side of very large pumpkins so we couldn't always scoop out all the pulp from the bottom. So, by the time all was said and done, our kitchen floor and ourselves were covered in newsprint, orange goop and seeds, and our dad had come THIS close to severing one artery or another with a slip of the knife as we watched and critiqued. My father has a habit, that both my brother and I inherited, of slipping his tongue between his lips and sort of biting down on it when he is deep in concentration over a physical activity. I have a permanent mental photograph of him carving those pumpkins with his tongue sticking out, one slippery hand trying to keep the gourd in place. Had it not been for spending time with his offspring, I think it was an activity he quite loathed.

After last night's endeavors, I can see why. Although, I set out to carve a far more intricate jack o'lantern than the triangle-eyed-and-nosed creations of my childhood. One of Ingrid's friends loaned me a carving kit that was full of cheap plastic tools and a book of stencils. You tape the stencil onto the pumpkin (a feat unto itself; now I see Mercator's predicament) and then sort of puncture tiny holes along the lines of the stencil. Then, take the stencil off and start carving. For the small detail work, you use a skinny little saw that might not look out of place in a doll house. So, between all the goo scooping and the fear of arterial severance and the tiny sawing that didn't suit my unsteady hands, I was exhausted by the time I'd knocked everything out, and my second pumpkin went uncarved. I must say, though, that my pumpkin looked pretty fantastic so perhaps it was worth the ordeal.

A final word about my Halloween costume. It's Dorothy Gale. It looks awesome and I made it with my grandmother's help a couple of years ago after getting fed up trying to figure out something creative or recognizable to do. No one ever asks who I am; they just know. I even have ruby slippers. But the thing is, I wore it to a Halloween party this past weekend and elicited this somewhat unwelcome comment: "You know, Dorothy, you should wear that outfit to teach your yoga classes on Tuesday and I bet men would pay to come take the class with you."

Ew. Gross. I work at a yoga studio, not The Golden Pole, Creepy McCreeperson.

2006-10-24T12:57:00.000-07:00

So I spent this past weekend in the Big Apple. Again. I think it was all too soon.

There was a point somewhere in my sophmore or junior year when I was in NC for a holiday break and expressed a sentiment to my mother that I was anxious to go "home." That is, back to New York. By that point, I'd settled in there and I felt uncomfortable being in NC for a number of reasons, not least of which included a superficial wall that I felt existed between myself and most of my high school friends I'd reunite with over beers, as well as an unpredictable tension between myself and my mother. Perhaps I made that comment to her in hopes of injury. But on a certain level, it was true. I would get back, get into a cab, turn on my cell phone and call a friend to squeal at how happy I was to be back and was her holiday as ridiculous as mine? It was like fixing a nicotine fit. Or so I imagine.

But over time, I began to have anxiety attacks about returning and it took several (SEVERAL!) journeys home and back to decide that this was not ok. I had no anxiety about returning this time, at least not of the kind I was accustomed, which included tears, heaving sighs and sometimes medication; but I experienced the anxiety of a time crawl while I was there. It took me a couple of days to discern what it was about, until I realized that I was ready to go home. Back to North Carolina. I described the phenomenon to a couple of friends portraying New York as if it were an old boyfriend with whom I'd tried to be friends too soon. All of the wonderful things I remember about the city are there, but the anxiety of living there is still too close by to be able to enjoy myself completely when I visit just yet.

Don't misunderstand: it was fantastic to see so many of my friends, all of whom I miss terribly. And I ate so much wonderful food, which scratches a certain itch I was unaware of having until just a few months ago. But the thing is that I am so completely smitten with the simplicity of my current way of life, with its lack of pretense, with the clarity of mind it affords me, that it is hard to take a step back into something I left behind with a good deal of intention. On the other hand, I suppose it reminds me that the choice I have made was the right one; that it was arguably one of the smarter things I've done in a while. I don't tend to make stupid or uneducated decisions, but this one was especially right.

One friend I met up with for blintzes and pierogis (mmmmmm) complained to me about a recent trip he'd taken to Minneapolis. Born and raised in New York, he was completely mystified by the openness that the Minnesotans had towards him, asking him how his day was, telling him stories at random and just generally being what I would consider friendly. He thought they were crazy and, in typical New Yorker fashion, insisted that their intentions were malicious or false, and said he wished they'd just leave him alone. Like I said, he comes by this sentiment honestly, but I feel the complete opposite: I enjoy the pleasantries exchanged for no good reason and I have re-embraced the art of small talk here. As Ingrid said to me the other day: "You can have a conversation with just about anyone!" I suppose it is true.

I'm a little concerned that the things I've written here about moving have sounded somewhat dark with respect to my relationship with the City. If I worked a little harder at writing this, I could probably expunge that, but I tend to err on the side of "first thought, best thought." It is true that I was fairly unhappy by the time I left New York, but I blame most of that on myself and my refusal to recognize much sooner that there were places to be outside of its universe. In hindsight, it's easier to blame it on the place itself. It is, after all, a tough place to live. I suppose I was a little addicted and I also suppose that a recovering addict first develops a strong aversion to their poison if only to move on from it before admitting to the respect the poison so rightfully deserves. I'm still in a bit of the former stage, where I'm getting accustomed to not being so overstimulated. Going back into that is a challenge that I have weathered well, but it was a relief to feel my plane touch down on Sunday night.

For Bunny:

2006-10-19T22:43:00.000-07:00

For Bunny, who sent me this quote and made me laugh a lot harder than I've laughed in a long ass time:

Ralph (To a wolf): Will you be my mommy? You smell like dead bunnies...

SSB, it's for you too. Since you're my Simpson's guru :)

Rotten to the core

2006-10-18T18:31:00.000-07:00

I went back to the Big Apple last week for the first time since my departure. It was still there. It was still loud and crowded and expensive, and I even got rained on for good measure. I hadn't been entirely certain what to expect: would I be homesick for it and want to come running back? Would I enter a state of deep catatonia and shock at having been injected back into it all? Would all the crap that had built up to make my life there well, crappy, come rushing back and paralyze me?

Pretty much none of those things happened and the truth is I was a little too busy to notice anyway. But, when I got home, this is what I replied to everyone who asked me about the trip: "I am really glad I do not live in New York City any longer." And it's true. As much as I do gripe about driving (Oh, how I relished the time I spent travelling on the subway, iPod in ear, New Yorker magazine clenched tightly in hand!!) and as much as I truly do miss both the cuisine and my fine friends, I do not really miss being a New Yorker. Getting back into the groove was like riding a bike. And although I allowed myself to be astonished at the first couple of rude-yet-inadvertent elbow shoves I got, I quickly remembered to shove back and have attitude about it too.

The trip itself was somewhat unexpected as I got called back to help a client of mine (from my tony freelancing days! haha!) with an on-site project for a new client of HERS. True to New York fashion, the two days I was there were ridiculously busy and action-packed. I visited three boroughs in a single day, which included face-time with the client, face-time as a nanny, face-time with my dad and face/TV-time with my friends (Yes, we are Grey's Anatomy junkies. No, I don't want to hear what you have to say about it.) My luggage got lost; I had to do emergency shopping (note to all you female readers: 9:30 a.m.=SUPERB time to go shopping in that town); I grabbed breakfast and lunch on the fly; I ate some pizza; I tried a new restaurant; and I curtly told a cab driver that getting to LaGuardia at 5:45 a.m. via the Tri-Boro from 2nd Ave and 39th Street was NOT the most expedient means of transport. He refused to take me through the tunnel, but it was not without a bit of pouting on my part.

In short, I was exhausted when I got back home on Friday, and that is something I have not missed in the least. My plane hit the ground at 8:45 in the morning and I was teaching by 9:30, much to my own chagrin since I could barely form a proper sentence. Last week's exhaustion coupled with this weird new phenomenon I'm having of NOT sleeping (It's awesome) has caught me ill-prepared for my next return to the city, which happens tomorrow. I'll be there partly on "bidness" this time, but mostly for pleasure and for the record, this trip was planned well in advance of the advent of the last one. It too is already booked up with visits to friends, and I even have a little triage to do for my client!

I live in a black hole

2006-10-08T15:31:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I ordered a weekend edition (i.e. Saturday and Sunday delivery) of the New York Times. It was supposed to start coming on September 16. I couldn't wait. Except that now I am having to because even after at least six phone calls to the Times, it has yet to arrive on my doorstep. Yesterday morning, of course, was no different. I called again, and this time was smart about it, asking immediately for a supervisor. Strangely enough, the one I spoke with LAST week wasn't to be found. So I got a new guy. And I'm noticing a pattern: they don't really know how to deal with irritated customers. They both just tried to placate me by agreeing that yes, my lack of receipt is annoying. Well, thank you genius.

This is not, however, the only service Broommate and I have had trouble tracking down. When he bought the house in August, the city of Durham told him they would deliver his city-issued garbage can within two weeks. But it never came. And he kept calling the city to find out about it, which is its own type of black hole.

And I ordered a new mattress five weeks ago, just before moving in. I was told it would take three weeks to arrive, but when I called to schedule a delivery, after three weeks' time, I was told it would take yet another two to get to me. Futons are fun to sleep on, but only on a temporary basis. I speak from experience when I warn you against a five-week stint.

I also spent all last week wondering where the heck my paycheck was from a client in New York. To the point of asking her to put a stop-order on it and send me another one.

Well, the trash can arrived earlier this week. The check came on Thursday night. And after some back and forthing, the mattress delivery was set up for Friday. So, naturally, I assumed that the black hole Broommate and I reside in was slowly dying and by that logic, the newspaper should start arriving yesterday. Especially since I politely chewed out a supervisor with the Times delivery service last Saturday who swore up and down the paper would be on my doorstep starting this weekend. But alas, it was not there. It's somewhere in the back of a phantom delivery truck, which is entirely unsatisfactory. And in spite of the firmly-irate-yet-politely-controlled (i.e. "potential seething dragon") phonecall I made yesterday, it didn't arrive this morning either. Rumor has it, they need to get the regional circulation manager involved. I asked if I myself could perhaps get the number for that person, since Ir reasoned that in theory, there is very little people in New York can do about the paper actually reaching me in Durham. "He's only on my speed dial, so I don't know the number," was the reply. When I queried the supervisor for his direct line, he gave me his extension, but said there was no way to call into it...yet. Umm...is the Times stuck in the Wild Wild West? Are they delivering my paper by pony express? Will I learn about the Mark "The priest and the sauce made me do it" Foley scandal five weeks hence the way news traveled during the Civil War era? That's quaint and all, but really, I paid for the subscription with a credit card on the Internets. I would think that technology could be met with equally apt service. But maybe that is just me.

Of course, if this were ANY other vendor, I would have cancelled my subscription after week two of this idiocy. But, it is not just "any" vendor. It is the New York Times. And although I can go to the coffee shop next to the studio each weekend and read it, well, there is something to be said for having one's own copy and I also happen to love doing the crossword puzzle on Sundays and it's kind of bad form to do that in a public copy. So I am putting up with this nonsense, if only because coming by my own copy here in town at a store is not nearly so easy as it is in the City. Apparently, neither is having it delivered.

My Tarheel Soul and How I Nearly Killed It

2006-10-02T09:30:00.000-07:00

Growing up in North Cack, there is one allegiance far more important than whether you vote Democrat or Republican, or whether you're Presbyterian or Episcopalian, or whether you smoke Winstons or Camels. It is whether you're a Tarheel or a Blue Devil. Pretty much from birth, you have to make a decision as to which way you lean and never shall you break that oath ever so help you Baby Jesus (who, as Ricky Bobby taught us, is NOT actually a baby any longer. I appreciated the Manimal reference. And if you have not seen that movie yet and have no idea what I'm talking about, get thee to thy theatre tout de suite!)

So I am a Tarheel born and a Tarheel bred, as the song goes. I took a slight detour into Demon Deacon territory for a while thanks to some familial ties to the school, but that is far less a transgression than crossing to the Dark Side to become a Dookie. I even have a TON of friends who went to Duke and you'd think that would change my mind but somehow it only made me more staunch in my support of the 'Heels.

Needless to say, I've been feeling a little dismayed at myself for having taken up residence in Durham, home of Duke University, instead of Chapel Hill. I'm also loathe to admit that most of the people I've been socializing with attend the University as graduate students; they are surprisingly nice. Actually, they're fantastic. But they will never win my heart entirely since they root for the WRONG TEAM. I secretly chose Broommate's abode because he attends UNC.

Saturday night, though, I nearly had a heart attack. Ingrid and I crashed a Duke Alumni event on campus and although I did enjoy posing as a high school friend of mine who attended Duke and also imbibing alcohol for free courtesy of the alumni association, I definitely felt a bit silly in a room full of people who had this one major thing in common, which was that they shelled out an obscene amount of money for the privilege of attending the University of New Jersey in Durham. I was wiser than that; I actually WENT NORTH. And thus, was not duped. But that is neither here nor there. Let's get back to the heart attack part.

Ingrid. Pinned. A. "Love Duke". Button. On. Me. and as she did so, I yelled "MY TARHEEL SOUL IS DYING" three times at an increasing volume, thus outing myself as a poseur. Fortunately, the DJ was spinning Ton Loc at a ridiculously loud volume so only a couple of people heard me. But seriously, a tiny part of my soul shriveled up last night while wearing said pin. Please don't tell Rameses.

Crowd Control

2006-09-30T12:33:00.000-07:00

It would seem that you can take the girl out of the city...and, well you know the rest.

I attended a concert one night this week and discovered/confirmed two things about myself.

Thing the first: I can still wrangle a subway car full of attitude with the best of them.
Thing the second: I do not really enjoy being out past my bedtime on a school night; what is more, I am finding I am increasingly unapologetic about the total pumpkin that doing so turns me into.

I did manage to get something fairly monumental out of the way by attending said concert (It was the English Beat, in case you're wondering; I had to be told who they were too. But hey, it was a free ticket so who was I to turn it down?) which was to hear music at the regionally famous Cat's Cradle in Carrboro. http://www.catscradle.com/ This place is where all the good acts pass through on their Southeast swing, including aging British ska bands. I tend to wonder how a band that was popular twenty years ago and has since lost several members to attrition/drugs/death/chooseyourownrockmalady can still arguably call itself the same name it toured under (case in point: The New York Dolls) and this particular evening was really more a conglomeration of the English Beat and The Specials (I did not have to be told who THEY were.) I mean, one guy on stage was my age and seeing as how the English Beat's biggest hit came out in like 1984...

Cat's Cradle is THE place to see music in the area, so I was pretty pleased with myself that I have been there already in a month's time, although I really had no excuse for never having gone in high school, save my fairly limited music tastes at the time. But that is not the point. The point is that the opener did not start until about 10:00 and because that was pretty late, I figured they'd play a half hour set tops. I was wrong; and I noticed my New Yorker's impatience/displeasure creeping out when I glanced at my watch and turned to my friend to yell that "This is the goddammed opener! They need to get the fuck off the stage." It could also have been because every last ska song I've ever heard sounds EXACTLY the same to me: like bad, bad raggae.

I know, the harshness of it frightened me a little bit too. Until I forgave myself for being set on edge by the crowd of people around me. It's a reflex; like being in a crowded subway car and knowing that inevitably means fending off one of the following: panhandlers, bad musicians, drunks, rowdy high schoolers, someone else's bad taste in music, a baby stroller or any other generally annoying thing that doesn't really belong in public like, say, breastfeeding. To be fair, the crowd at the concert was pretty tame. And when the main attraction finally DID come on stage (about 11:30) and my friend asked if I was up for getting knocked around a little bit, dragging me into the fray towards the front, I was more than willing to comply. (Note to KMRoommate: I was fully prepared to punch people in the kidneys a la Bloc Party, but was pleasantly surprised that it never came to that. I left with my earrings intact as well.)

I did, however, manage to shoot some nasty looks at otherwise innocent dudes who stepped on my toes a couple of times AND THEN APOLOGIZED!!!! I was totally stunned at that, because most concerts I've attended in the last five or six years are also attended by others who do not even KNOW the word "sorry." Again, my inner New Yorker was getting the better of me.

A goodly amount of booty shaking was done by yours truly, but the band just wouldn't quit. And I was exhuasted. They had spent 15 hours on the road getting to NC from New York, but that didn't stop them from playing until nearly 2:00 a.m. Two encores and a ton of needless jamming (which I generally don't enjoy no matter what the hour) accompanied the backache I was getting, so I went off to the back of the bar to have a seat while the two people I was with waited it out. Finally, I went back to them and insisted we leave; they were fine with that, and one confessed to me he was glad I said something. Because seriously, playing until 2:00 a.m. on a school night is just inconsiderate. I mean, come on, this isn't New York City.

Holding forth on grocery shopping. Again.

2006-09-23T18:55:00.000-07:00

I went to the grocery store this morning. And just as I typed that sentence, I became aware that most of my posts these days seem to be about grocery shopping. Which settles it: my life is boring past the point of really being worth blogging about.

Excellent! This clearly means I'm about to meet the man of my dreams and will then blog incessantly and idiotically about how happy we are ALL the time and generally be insufferable to read. Contentment is, after all, the downfall of most good bloggers.

Daydream Barbie reverie aside: the grocery. I think I like to write about the grocery because it strikes me as not only the great American equalizer, but also as an incredibly American locale. For instance, when I lived in Madrid, I went to a vegetable stand to buy fruit, a bakery to buy bread and a third shop for meat. The pharmacy was for shampoo and the like. And when I did venture to a grocery store, it was always miserably lacking in comparison to its US counterpart. (Although they did carry some nice jams.) I remember learning the names of all those different shops in Spanish class in high school figuring that they were some quaint antiquity of mid-60s Europe that languished in our textbooks, un-updated. Turns out, pasteleria IS a useful term. And, of course, the French, charcuterie is a far more sonorous word than "butcher shop," non?

The concept and convenience of the supermarket is merely a pre-cursor to the box stores like K-Mart et alia. "We're all so busy! Who has the time to drive around to different places?" Someone said. And so, he built them all together, making it quick and easy. It stands to reason that we are not the creators of wines that take whole decades to age. Just observe the microwave's ubiquity in the kitchen and Rachael Ray's success with her "Thirty Minute Meals." And the successor of the big box store is the big box store with the car dealership, household cleaning products, furniture, AND the produce aisle. Even more recently, the organic produce options too.

On a lot of levels, I really do appreciate the convenience these things afford me, but I also don't really relish the sheer consumption these places represent. Perhaps I should say that the grocery store is a very Middle American locale. The tendency to build larger and larger strip malls, making a vast beige wasteland out of American suburbia, is regretable to say the least. And while most people who visit New York would argue that the place is too crowded for comfort and too busy to tolerate (and I would give those arguments a "what what") it is also cozy enough to permit butcher shops to stay in business. There was one around the corner from my old apartment. And a bakery as well. Private commerce somehow thrives in New York, perhaps because it is so large, which creates the demand; and also perhaps because it is so cramped, which prevents box stores from affording the space they need. So that ironically, in a city where having 45 checkout lanes might ACTUALLY be warranted, you go instead to the bodega on the corner for a tomato.

Dear Broommate*:

2006-09-19T18:25:00.000-07:00

So I recently purchased a towel bar for the bathroom because there was none. I do not understand this phenomenon of housing developers who hang a narrow towel bar or none at all. Do they own towels that simply evaporate? Who can say. But I thank you kindly for hanging the towel bar for me. The last one I attempted left some pretty hefty holes in the wall not easily covered with homemade spackle (aka: toothpaste.) So it was great of you to do that for me.

Now, while we're on the subject of the bathroom, I'd just like to make a simple request. Please stop showering with a sheepdog, or whatever other animal it is that you take into the bathroom with you that proceeds to shake itself like a Polaroid picture post-shower. Seriously. I just cleaned the place, hung a new tension rod and shower curtain, as well as put down a more sufficient bathmat and I would love it if we could keep things as tidy (read: dry) as possible. I do realize it is a bathroom, but it is not, however, the Titanic.

Sincerely,

Groommate**

*Thanks again to Scott for this moniker.
**I made that one up. As in "girl roommate." Get it?
***Shannon, my toilet seat is now very clean, so if you're looking to fight terrorism, just come on over!

Paradise Aisle

2006-09-17T23:19:00.000-07:00

We held a staff potluck dinner tonight so that all the instructors at the studio could get a chance to meet, hang out, talk shop, etc. And we all brought something, so I raced the grocery store this evening beforehand to buy some ingredients for a bean dip. I lapped the same two aisles about three times trying to find the refried beans. See, all the canned beans were on one aisle, but there were no refrieds. And then the OTHER aisle had "international" food, which actually just consisted of a variety of soy sauces and all the Goya products and chilis. There was perhaps a rogue box of some kind of curry in a hurry. I finally spotted the Old El Paso refriend beans on the bottom shelf. Who knew Tex-Mex was international.

Oh, you provincial Red States, how you charm me.

I moved on down the vast aisles in search of my other ingredients and as I tried to make my way to the back of the store (at least a half mile away!) I realized I was swerving out of aisles trying to find one that was empty. The dog food aisle will do. I zoomed down it, stopping myself from running with the cart and jumping onto the back, only because I was in flip-flops and my split-second internal risk calculator determined that could be disastrous. So as I slowed to a stroll about the Alpo, I marveled at the fact that the aisle itself was nearly three carts wide. And I harkened back to the A&P that used to be next door to my apartment. I loved the proximity but shopped there mostly from laziness. The floors were warped, the produce as well, and the layout was dismal. At times, it smelled like wet dog and although I don't eat meat, I certainly would never have purchased it from the coolers that that looked as though they had never been cleaned. In summary, it was a shithole. There were always boxes or other carts in the aisles that nearly made them impassable, which brought the entire experience to an exasperating halt because it's practically illegal to talk to other New Yorkers, so standing there staring someone down in ire can take a long time since we've all become impervious to the Stink Eye.

The Food Fair that had been across the street from my apartment before that one was even worse. Some aisles, it was a challenge to merely get a single cart down the row. And if you shopped there on a Sunday evening, there was a good chance that the check out lines would stretch to the back of the store and those three or four aisles were altogether useless. You'd have to abandon your cart at the opposite end, pace down that aisle for what you needed and dash back before someone else bumped you out of the way. Space is at a premium in New York to be sure, but nowhere in the city is that more felt than at the supermarket. The cost of space is reflected in the cost of cereal. A box of cereal from the Food Emporium across the street from my dorm senior year was close to $7. Which is just plain highway robbery. It was cheaper for my roommate Caryn's mom to buy large boxes at Costco and mail them to us.

Cereal here is far more reasonable and if you can't afford it, you can just go to the SuperTarget (oh, how I adore thee!) for a very enjoyable time. (Although it's virtually impossible to leave Target anything but $200 poorer. It's just like Bed Bath and Beyond that way.)

The other nice addition to grocery stores since I've been gone, aside from asigning them their own zip codes, is that they have begun to incorporate a lot of organic/health food products. I really love this. Although, they are CHEAPER in New York. I'm guessing it's a demand thing. This Red State is only dipping its toe into the Brita'd waters of healthier living. It's kind of a gateway drug, you know, that can lead to fixing our radio dials permanently to NPR and putting our names on the waiting list for a Prius at the local Toyota dealer.

What I've been doing with the time on my hands

2006-09-15T11:08:00.000-07:00

Last week, I was catching up on my Brian Lehrer podcasts. I'm warming to the NPR affiliate here in Durham, WUNC, especially this show called "The Story with Dick Gordon," but on the whole, I'm a bit dismayed at how NOT-WNYC it is. Soterios Johnson, oh how I miss thee, let me count the ways. To say nothing of the ways in which I miss your esteemed colleague Brian Lehrer. Seriously, he is the best radio interviewer I've ever heard. Eat your heart out Terri Gross!!!

ANYWAY. Last week, my beloved Brian interviewed Nick Kristof, a columnist for the NYTimes, and Casey Parks, the winner of an essay contest Kristof ran last spring to take someone to Africa with him. Casey is a 23-year-old journalism student at University of Missouri and she's been blogging and video-reporting about the trip. It is totally fascinating to read her pieces not only because she's a pretty damned good writer, but also because this is her first trip outside the United States. And she jumped right on into the lion's den, as they traveled first to Equatorial Guinea (get out your map...it's in Africa) and then to Cameroon. I've been reading it religiously this week; and let me just say that even Times blog commenters are not above being nitpickers. Someone has started a discussion in the comments section about the proper grammatical use of "mad at" versus "mad with." C'mon, losers...don't you have better things to do with your time? If you've seriously stopped to comment on that, then you're missing the entire point of what she's writing about in the first place. And, after all, it's a blog. Electronic media, much to my own chagrin admittedly, has verily destroyed grammar rules of late. But I suppose this happens. After all, we have to translate Shakespeare these days, do we not?

Go read/watch Casey's stuff.

Less taxes, more irony

2006-09-12T13:41:00.000-07:00

This is a very well written editorial that ran in the NYTimes yesterday. It expresses not the usual sentiment about the terrors of what happened on 9/11, but rather the tragedy that has happened since that has allowed us as Americans to sink back into complacency. It recalls the call made to the public to sacrifice and points out the irony that recently, when asked about those sacrifices that have been made, President Bush could only cite that we all pay taxes. Of course, the subtext of that, the added insult to the tariff of injury, is that most of his dear friends pay considerably less in taxes than they did five years ago. Good for them.

We have now surpassed the number of people who perished in the Towers, at the Pentagon and on those airplanes, with the number of servicemen and women who have died in Afghanistan and Iraq. It is a good moment to gain some perspective on what those matching numbers mean. Now that we have doubled our sacrifice, first involuntarily and then at will, have we effectively changed anything at all? Have we truly lessened the threat of terrorism on our shores? I find it hard to believe that suffering the humiliation of removing my shoes every time I get on an airplane is really a deterrent to people who believe that destruction is the path to their removal from an earthly hell for deliverance into the Kingdom of God. Foiling someone with a zeal like that is all but impossible; forcing the rest of us to fly as asetics is merely an idiotic reminder that we are failing miserably at what we have set out to do. In fact, it is a reminder that perhaps we were doomed to fail given the way we approached the task at hand. It is true that haste makes waste.

It is also impossible to approach memorials of yesterday with a purified equanimity or true solemnity. After all, we are approaching midterm elections and the political stage has become a managed public relations format at every turn. Although President Bush always seems to fail at being the polished package his handlers may wish him to be--and on a certain level, I admire that sense of realness--it troubles me that those glimpses of realness of person still seem so unauthentic. I feel offended by the overly dramatic drivel that gets spewed out about this day by many public leaders, and in particular those who were not readily acccessible when push truly came to shove. All involved had the fortitude to stay above ground and they never once took advantage of the primal urge in all of us to seek revenge.

Sometimes, I am overcome with rage at the thought of the strategic abuse by the Bush administration of the vulnerable psyche of the American public as they charged into battle. What makes it worse is that the pretenses under which they went to battle, the justification they gave us, was false as well. Finally, completing the trifecta of bafflement for me, is that we impeached our last president for receiving oral sex. It would seem to me that the treachery of false conflict and having blood on one's hands is a far worse transgression. But maybe that is just me.

Remembrance of Things Past

2006-09-09T23:45:00.000-07:00

For the past four years, the impending fall season has been guaranteed to be stressful for me. My father maintains that September is the best time to be in New York because the summer's humidity is gone, but the daylight lingers fairly late, and the evenings are cool and pleasant. It's all true. The end of August and the beginning of September is one of the most distinct times of the year in the city. Something about the light changes. And the air. And there should be a Crayola crayon color that is called September sky, because the sky turns this particular shade of blue that I never see any other time of year. It is all so distinct to me, that I can practically taste it, all the way down here in North Carolina. It doesn't happen here; it's a New English thing, I think. And the promise of the static cling in the air was once exciting to me as I would ease into my classes each fall after Labor Day. But that was all changed five years ago when I arose on a bright, calm and lovely morning and early fall has not been the same for me since.

Until this year. I nearly forgot about the fifth anniversary of September 11. It might have even snuck up on me, had it not been for an NPR reporter reminding me about it. I was puzzled at how easily the anxiety of the season had dissipated for me this year, but then I realized that the seasonal hints that triggered that anxiety do not happen here in North Carolina. The sky won't be NYC-in-September blue until early October and by then, the mourning will be past for the year. In a way, even though the August-September changeover has been verily excrutiating for me in years past, I almost miss that sensation, like one might miss a ghost limb. I think it is because in the last four years, I was surrounded by 8 million people who woke up just like me on that morning and could pick out that blue crayon as easily as I. On the anniversary each year, I've had the luxury of solidarity and the wonder of watching normally buttoned-up New Yorkers appear to reach out and hug one another on a single day, because, in spite of ourselves, we all realize what a miracle it is that we are all here, together, on that island, walking, living, breathing, fighting and loving. That we all survived to do that.

I feel a little lost this year, because the significance of that day means something entirely different to people here than it does to people in New York. It isn't less or more, it's just different. Perhaps, though, it IS less intense because the sentiment well outside the city is one of removed concern and support, whereas the one within the city is one of recollection and reflection. The NYTimes ran an article earlier this week about how the rest of the country seems to fear another terrorist attack hardly at all as opposed to most New Yorkers who confessed to having lingering fears that something could destroy the peace we have managed to reassemble in the past few years.

I have long wondered just how the rest of the country feels about something that happened in a single place. Certainly, we were all attacked as Americans, but I feel fiercely possessive of the event as a New Yorker. Sometimes to the point of fury at all of the tourists who go down to Ground Zero to (what feels to me) gawk. But then, this year, when the anniversary of Katrina came, I began to appreciate how the rest of the country sees 9/11. I didn't know anyone living in New Orleans at the time of the hurricane. And although it has resided on the periphery of my social consciousness for the past year, for the most part, I'm removed from it. I can empathize with the devastation, but I could never really understand what it means to someone to lose every last thing that they own. What it means to be rescued from toxic cesspools, or to see dead bodies floating in the street. To lose your pets and your home and your memories in one fell swoop and have nowhere to turn. Through watching Katrina on news broadcasts, I learned about encountering tragedy from afar. If there were a Ground Zero in New Orleans, I too would go downtown to gawk. If only to understand better how it felt for those who were there, knowing that I really couldn't.

It is hard for me to believe it has been five years since crews worked around the clock to extract wedding rings and other identifying trinkets from a gigantic wasteland of destruction. I can still hear the rumble of the earth movers as they shuddered across 14th street on the first night on their way downtown. The city was otherwise silent and stoic that night. Perhaps it is that the vividness of those memories will not change for me; that I'll always hear those trucks rumbling. But as I move towards a date that held so much tension in a city I have now moved away from, the sensation of worry and sadness appear to be fading fast. I welcome that, because that allows me to re-embrace my love of the autumn season. To begin to truly heal from what happened to my life at that time. There were a lot of other emotional things that accompanied the events of 9/11 for me personally, and sometimes, it is more painful for me to re-visit those things that are inextricably linked to what happened. Not being in the city this year helps to keep some of the stark reminders of 9/11 and, thus, those other aspects of my life-now-gone, at bay. I cannot say I'd ever want to forget any of it, but it is nice to be able to sort of put a lid on those memories at this point, to make them a little more difficult to unearth as I move forward with my life, letting them recede a tiny bit deeper into my consciousness to a place where it is easier to let them just exist.

Going Postal

2006-09-05T12:53:00.000-07:00

Before I get started:
I'd just like to say GOOD LUCK to NYC Roommate. Today is her first day as a teacher in New York City and I am so so so proud to know her. She is gonna be awesome.

The other day, we missed a delivery to the studio from the USPS. They left the little postal slip and so I went this morning to the post office nearby to pick it up. I went at an off time, like 10:30, assuming that collecting mail in Durham would be akin to collecting mail in New York City. Like the time I waited 45 minutes to get a money order or something, only to get to the front of the line and be told I had the wrong form filled out. When I pointed out that the correct form was unavailable at the back wall of the room, the clerk was as impassive as a corpse. So, I asked to speak to the manager of the branch. He came out and I hollered at him a little bit and also took the opportunity to bend his ear about just how long I'd waited and how miserable everyone else in line was as well and couldn't they do something about that like, say, hire some more desk workers? I mean, c'mon, it's not like a post office is KMart with 35 cashier stands open. How hard can it be to fill your windows during peak hours? According to the station master, it was very hard. He tried to tell me they didn't have enough business to be able to afford paying for more clerks, but the line out the door weakened his argument about scarce business considerably.

There was another time that I went first thing in the morning. Nine a.m. And there were already ten people in front of me in line. And later a little old lady came in and shouted at just about everyone in the place person-by-person that she "just needed some stamps to send a letter to Greece" and "why was this so hard?" and "why is people so rude!!!!" Of course, she was exempt from that accusation, in spite of the fact that she marched right up to each window and attempted to jump in front of the persons doing business there. That was met with little amusement by the respective patrons.

This morning, however, I walked in, handed my slip to the clerk, got my package, and walked out. It took all of three minutes. I could have left the car running. It was glorious.

Of course, there is always some yin in every yang and for all the joy the easy postal visit has brought me today, I'm QUITE over being a car owner. I noticed in the last couple of days that the air in my right front tire was strangely low. And yesterday afternoon, after leaving Target $175 poorer, the tire was practically flat. Good thing the Target is so close to home. I got there and complained to my roommate, who told me what to do. He seemed incredulous that I'd never put air into a tire before. I reminded him that I'd only been exposed to the joys of automobile ownership for under 2 years before going to New York and being free of that burden for a full 8. Then I called my dad for a second opinion and to tell him that he should move back to North Carolina so that in the future, he can just handle this kind of thing for me. You know, like he did when I was in high school. He didn't seem swayed that this was reason enough to re-locate, so for good measure I told him that I missed him. Which is true. But it didn't seem to help either. So then I called my brother to tell him that the car I've inherited from him was really more of a BMTroubleYou instead of a product of the esteemed Bavarian Motor Works. He reminded me the car IS 13 years old. He also accused me of being lazy for merely having stared at the flattening tire and not doing any reconnaisance as to its impending flatness.

My triplicate gripe session over, and feeling more helplessly female than ever, it started to rain. And rain. And rain. And also, get darker and I knew I had to go out and find a filling station to put air in the tire, and had to do it right then, because this morning, I had to get to a 7:30 yoga class at the studio. (WE'RE OPEN!!!!!)

So, off I drove with a potentially flat tire, windshield wipers flying and no sense of where the nearest gas station was. I ultimately wound up in a bad-ish part of town, crouching in the dark next to a dingy air/vaccum combo machine, squinting in the rain and holding my umbrella uselessly over my head, trying to gauge whether I'd put in enough air or too much, all the while hoping for the best, which namely meant not getting mugged. It was the stuff of sitcoms, believe me. Chatting online later with a friend (Hi, Dr. John!) he suggested that I should have blogged it live with a camera. Indeed, if I'd only had the eight hands needed to do that.

Here is what I miss in NYC: The subway. Because for the very reasonable price of $72 a month, I could get just about anywhere I needed to go. And any time the train broke down, it was the responsibility of the MTA to sort it out. I didn't have to spend $45 per tank of gas, and I didn't have to worry that I have a terrible time driving at night, or if I'd locked my keys in the car, or what to do about a flat tire, or the weird short in my radio that keeps setting off the anti-theft device. The occasional subway car laced with the scent of urine was worth it. All for $72 a month. There ought to be one of those Mastercard commercials made about the joys of being a subway rider, because an unlimited metro card is truly truly priceless.

CRIKEY!!!

2006-09-04T09:38:00.000-07:00

This was the story on NPR this morning when I woke up. This is a terrible way to start one's day.

A new home

2006-09-03T23:35:00.000-07:00

Somehow, in the middle of everything that's been going on at the studio (we open on Tuesday!! EEK!) I managed to find a place to live. For a measly $350/month, I get access to an entire house. Backyard, driveway, our own garbage can, dishwasher, washer/dryer, all of it. And, a seemingly pleasant roommate who is a boy. So he's hereby dubbed Boy Roommate. If I've never said it before, it bears repeating: boy do I hate moving. I've always said that if I were a mutant, my super power would be teleporting and I would, after today's moving (as well as all the other I've ever done), like to add a corrollary power to that, which would be that blinking I Dream of Genie thing where stuff just pops on and off screen. Furniture would have just popped from the storage unit into the house, and boxes slashed open and unpacked in an instant. Because at the rate I'm going as a mortal, it's painfully slow. And what's more, since the studio is opening to soon, I suspect I'll get stalled at the place I'm in for now with respect to unpacking. But I'm exhausted and just cannot bring myself to go start hanging up my clothing in the closet. Which is just about all that is left to be done, aside from scrubbing down the bathroom.

But what has been fun so far is just the sheer amount of space I have to spread things out. My bedroom is a bit smaller than the one I had in Astoria, but we have an ENTIRE CLOSET for linens, and there are so many cabinets in the kitchen I'm pretty sure each plate could have its own shelf if I so desired. And I'll only just mention the euphoria I feel at knowing that I could do laundry EVERY DAY (FOR FREE!!!) if I wanted to. AND, we have a spare bedroom, so any overflow from my closet can go in there, instead of having to squish my clothes together. Oh, this! THIS is what I wanted in moving out of NYC. To not experience the stress of having to use the one closet in the apartment for everything, including umbrellas, linens, spare light bulbs, laundry detergent, the big silver pot that won't fit in the single kitchen cabinet, your suitcases, a sleeping bag, the air matress and, of course, your clothing. To sit in a living room that has two whole couches in it. To have a dishwasher. To not have to make guests sleep on a sofa, or worse, the floor. To have a back deck with a nice big grill on it. To be able to sit on that deck with that grill and drink a beer. This is it.

Check it!

2006-08-30T11:00:00.000-07:00

My people, I was quoted in USA Today last week in their online travel section. I'd forgotten all about it, but the writer just sent me the link this a.m. It's about different travel deals, so scroll down to the bit about Nepal.

Bitch, please:

2006-08-28T23:37:00.000-07:00

Fergie:

1) Stop making songs in which you losely (and poorly) rip off Missy Elliot. You will never be that good.
2) Stop making songs in which you refer to lady parts as your "London Bridge."
3) You know what, just stop making songs.

Thanks and love,
EVERYONE!!!!

UPDATE:
What was up with that weird side-pocketed T-shirt thing you wore on the VMA's last night??? I think when you raised your arms to dance with Abigail Breslin, everyone saw your London Bridge!!!!!!!! You are a total hooker!

UPDATE, Part Deux:
I actually had a full on conversation with complete strangers yesterday in the grocery store aisle about how miserable the Black Eyed Peas are now, thanks in large part to Fergie. So, see, "Fergie Ferg Me Love You Long Time," I meant it when I signed my note above from "Everyone."

TMI Customer Service

2006-08-28T23:05:00.000-07:00

Living down here is hilarious. I went to a Kroger grocery store this evening. It's gigantic, in this big shopping center just off 15-501, open 24 hours. I got there around 9:30 and shared the store with all of about three other customers. Just us. Roaming around to the rather loud hum of the FOUR AISLES of freezer/frozen goods. And, of course, every light in the place on, with the exception of those overhanging the 24 checkout aisles. (Side note: has anyone EVER seen a store, grocery, KMart, or otherwise large and boxy in which EVERY last light in the checkout aisles is open for business??? No. So why even build that many in the first place? I'll never solve this mystery!)

I made quick work of my shopping and went to the single checkout that was open, where I proceeded to have the following conversation:

Checkoutman: How do you KNOW those eggs is cage free?
Me: Um, well, because they aren't allowed to put that "organic" stamp on there unless the federal government approves it. And while I don't believe everything the gove...
Checkoutman (evidently uninterested in my political viewpoint): M'wife gets organics. For our kids. She says...
Me: Yes, well, they say that eggs...
Checkoutman (still evidently uninterested in what I have to proffer): Eggs and milk, they full of hormones. My sister's daughter. She got her thing when she was 11.
Me: Yeah eggs, milk and meat are just packed with....(her "thing?")
Checkoutman: And they said it was because of all the hormones in the meat! Well, you have a pleasant evening, ma'am.

Ok, so aside from the fact that when I left the South I referred to people as ma'am and now I'm back and they're using that voodoo on ME, let's deal with the fact that a) this man refers to a woman's menstrual cycle as "her thing," and b) that he oddly feels comfortable sharing that bit about his niece with perfect strangers. I feel certain his niece would be horrified if she knew. It means that this man clearly either has wild donkey sex with his wife on a daily, or he never touches her unless to fulfill God's command to multiply. And, obviously, teach his children to share absurd euphemisms with people they do not know about rather personal things. I laughed out loud to myself in the parking lot at the last 45 seconds of my life, because the truth is that he considered his niece some sort of biological wonder when I'd say that 11 is about an average age for most girls to get their "things." I was 12 (yes, I just told the blogosphere that, pretty much heading off any opportunity for one of my uncles to embarass me) and I hear tales of girls getting it at 8, which really IS freaky when you consider the idea that an 8-year-old girl could bear a child.

On the whole, I can do nothing but appreciate my exchange this evening. Because I've already mellowed out enough to, like I said, laugh about it in the parking lot. Of course, it didn't stop me from blogging about it, but I didn't tear the man's head off for being somewhat insensitive on a host of levels. Last Thursday, my computer decided to pitch a little hissy fit and it wouldn't boot up properly. It would get almost all the way through and then just hang forever. Naturally, I freaked right out and found the nearest Apple store online. I checked to see when I could get a "genius" appointment only to discover that there were none left for the evening. So I called and, ridiculously, pretty much asked the guy to assess me over the phone. As it turns out, sounding panicky and frantic actually has an effect on service people outside New York. He was tremendously patient with me and as luck would have it, also happened to be the manager, so had the power to invite me to the store as they were closing to pimp his staff out after hours. And they were awesome. And although I had not intended to stay in Durham that night, I wasn't looking forward to a drive down 40/85 in the darkness on an empty tummy and the fading stress of nearly losing my laptop. So I crashed with my aunt. And as I drove to her place, I thought about how easy and simple fixing my computer had been. Relatively painless, really, and mostly because the store wasn't wall to wall with people (unlike some OTHER Apple stores I know) and also because the manager was uber-helpful and friendly. (He gained himself one very impressed admirer out of that behavior.) I told my uncle when I got in that if this had happened to me in New York, my inner hateful NY bitch would have been unleashed to get what I wanted. But that had been completely unnecessary in this case. And it was so nice to be able to solve a problem without having to go into overdrive from the start. Dealing with any kind of customer service issue in the past has been like suiting up for battle. And the first few times I dealt with people here, I had a hard time getting out of battle mode. But someone once told me that you get far more bees with honey than with vinegar and I think it's absolutely true.

Takin' it to the streets

2006-08-24T10:52:00.000-07:00

I get business cards. But what should my title be??? Please drop it into the comments box below.

Here is what I do: make phone calls to vendors about retail stuff and bulk toilet paper; buy advertising space; order signs, business cards (see above), t-shirts and other logo'd things; learn how to use our software; teach yoga; make yoga mat bags and sew curtains; get lost with regularity on the bajillion highways that circle around the Triangle.

Go to it, my people.

Keep on Blogging in the Free World

2006-08-23T23:25:00.000-07:00

I'm fairly certain NPR does a story every other week about some bozo who got fired or didn't get a job because of a website he or she created or posted on or failed to exercise discretion about or what have you. In fact, I heard one just this morning about whether MySpace is fair game for HR professionals to peruse when considering a new hire, especially if the site reveals information about the person that it is otherwise illegal for the potential employer to ask (such as age, sexual preference, if they're married, etc.) The consultant on the line said yes, that information was put into the public domain at will and was therefore available for the consumption of anyone who chanced upon it. It is true, but unless we start manufacturing an army of cyborgs to do all our paperwork, employers may soon find that they have no preferrable hires. And here is why: we are all freaks, but now, everyone else knows about it. Seriously, everyone has some skeletons they'd just assume stay tucked in the closet, but some cannot seem to resist the temptation to get online and gab away about it, hoping to find some other like-minded freak, and ultimately, that person's confessed online penchant for having sex with only virgins becomes a turn-off for the employer. At the end of the day, Joe Schmoe is having sex only with virgins whether he blogs about it or not, and it probably would rarely affect his work habits, but somehow it's bleeding into his professional life. I don't really think that's fair, but it is happening. (Like the married CEO doesn't have a totally gay boyfriend and everyone knows it! He's just been wise enough not to actually commit the crime of writing it down.)

In my new job, I spent part of the last couple weeks interviewing and "auditioning" yoga instructors, only to have a couple of people admit without compunction that they'd taken the liberty of Googling me and the studio owner. You can find her name on the studio's website, but for the sake of argument (and you'll see why in a moment), I'm gonna leave it off this post. I'll just call her Anna for simplicity's sake. I vanity Google about once a quarter (what, you do it to!), but for some reason, it never ocurred to me to Google the people I was meeting, much less the girl I'm working for now.

That was not the case, however, for some of our would-be competitors in the area. We had a woman come in yesterday to audition for us and she "warned" us that another studio owner nearby had not only Googled Anna, but had also taken the liberty of making speculations out loud about her character based on something she'd discovered on Anna's blog. (Incidentally, I also won't be linking to it here.)

As it turns out, Anna made a trip to Amsterdam with her mother a while ago and during their visit, they partook in the offerings of certain proprietors, if you catch my drift. Pictures were taken, much merry was made, they were later posted on her blog, and all apparently because both Anna and her mother would never ordinarily be the type of women to do that kind of thing. Anna was astounded that someone had found her blog, because she doesn't use her full name on it. What is more, she was astounded that someone would draw a conclusion about her from that site when it's pretty evident on it that the photo was taken and posted out of hilarity, not because she's some silly co-ed at Florida State University who likes to get drunk and have her picture taken of her with her underwear on her head or something. But, the "competitor" who'd seen the site opted to take the low road and begin spreading rumors about Anna that she was a pothead trust fund baby. Nothing could be further from the truth, but I guess some people take their business tactics from the Karl-Rove-2000-SC-primary-McCain-black-baby-having-flyer-push-polling school of thought as opposed to say, the Steve-Jobs-open-source camp.

Anna was most concerned about how anyone had discovered she had a blog since, as I mentioned, she doesn't use her full name. That turned out to be wrong. I got online and Googled her name and the third hit was the blog, because recently she'd posted a verbatim email in which someone else used her full name. The woman who warned us of all this did so, she claimed, because she wanted us to be aware of how small the community actually was and as a business owner starting out, she didn't want Anna to be badmouthed or trashed needlessly before the doors were even open. Friendly advice, to be sure. But this woman had more or less confessed to being a gossip, so we weren't entirely certain we couldn't trust her to not be working both sides.

I have never ever posted my full name on this site and it's always been very intentional. It could be that if you receive an email from me, my last name shows up, but that is more or less controlled, because I rarely email people from this address. And I won't use Anna's real name because I don't want someone Googling her, only to wind up here, on my site. I'm an odd duck blogger in some ways, because in spite of publishing a lot of personal information here, I refuse to have a MySpace profile, and I broke up with Friendster a long time ago. It's not really scorn that makes me do that, it's just that those sites weird me out. I'd like to control what people who hear my name know about me. Which is why I've never put my full name here.

It's very interesting to be back in a setting that is not unlike the microcosm of high school where everyone swaps boyfriends and backstabs and knows who the head cheerleader has given BJs to. This is particularly tough to acclimate to when coming from New York City, where the city's greatest drawback, that no one gives a fuck about anyone else, is also sometimes a great asset, allowing just about anyone to exist as a virtually anonymous entity. Networks of people there are drastically large and certainly gossip gets around, but unless it winds up on Page 6 or the Transom, it's rarely large enough to be damaging beyond recovery.

The "discovery" of Anna's blog isn't that damning, really. But it freaked her out. And it made her realize how small the world can be. It also raises another question: now that she's a semi-public figure, should she keep a personal site about herself open to the public? I'd say yes. Because people are far too apologetic about who and what they are these days. But unfortunately, Durham hasn't really caught onto that whole "no one gives a fuck" mentality that NYers so beautifully embrace. It's a dirty shame.

The honeymoon, and how it begins to end

2006-08-16T22:40:00.000-07:00

I sent an email this morning to a friend in New York. He is someone I was getting to know just shortly before leaving, to whom I promised to make an effort to stay in contact. There were a handful of things I was truly disappointed to not get to pursue, I'd told him, and getting to know him better was one of them. But the other thing I told him was that I was really quite bad at staying in touch with people. For better or worse, I tend to operate by an "out of sight, out of mind" principle. It's like a default setting. Once, when I was about fifteen, I went to Las Vegas for a week with the basketball team from my high school for a tournament. On the fourth or fifth day, the coach asked me how my parents were, if I'd called to check in with them and let them know I was alright. "I don't know," I replied. "I haven't talked to them since I left. I kind of just forgot to call." Secretly, I just hate hassling with figuring out how to make long distance calls and I have never liked being on the telephone all that much anyway. (At this point, all my friends in New York are freaking out. Do not worry, I still *heart* all you guys.)

So yeah, I "forget" about my parents, among other things. It's almost never ever intentional. But, I do find that there are times when keeping in contact is organic for me. And I promised to my friend that I'd try to let my contact with him be that way. Which is how he landed on my "to-do" list. I told him that too in my email, as well as the fact that I'd named the pair of cardinals in my front yard after him and his wife. Lest you think me strange, I'll explain that it's because he is an avid birder and well, it sounds ridiculous, but lovely birds make me think of him.

But more important than all this was that I confessed to starting to feel the first twinges of being a bit restless back down South. That I'd long suspected that moving North and then coming back after all these years would have more or less spoiled me for any hope of being content. I've seen what's out there; I know what I'm missing, and now I'm a snob. I knew it wouldn't take long to set in, and I said that mostly it had to do with finding decent food in restaurants (i.e. variety) and missing dearly a nice long commute that would allow me to have time to read. My new New Yorker came today and it will have to lie fallow until I find the time to finish the last one. Damn having to drive everywhere!!!!

My friend wrote back with a laundry list of things that make New York a superior place to live, to which I replied that at this point, it's ever so much like leaving a boyfriend only to discover a few weeks later as you sit at the dinner table with all your coupled friends that you cannot seem to recall a single damned thing that was ever wrong with him. In other words, that you'd had no reason to leave. However, I knew these issues would come up and I also resolved to meet them head on, because something has also happened in the last couple of days that reminds me what I wanted to come back to. I'm being charmed to death by the minutiae of the lives of strangers.

I spent nearly twenty minutes on the telephone today discussing a perfect stranger's wedding plans, after he'd returned my inquiry about placing an ad for the yoga studio in his paper. We covered our business to be sure, but it was not first without a fair amount of pleasantry. Another sales rep teased me about my NYC phone number, but then confessed that his wife was from Poughkeepsie, so I teased back about the danger of marrying yankees. A third ad rep told me about her own background as a yoga instructor. Even the kid at the grocery checkout today was painfully nice. I'm having a hard time adjusting to it because my initial reaction is to think something is wrong with these people. But I kind of relish the discomfort, because I find that I am not mad about it, and I also find that I have that trait deep seated in myself, it's just lain dormant for so many years. It's coming back like riding a bike. And it's just nice to be in a place where people have no reason to be nice to you other than the sheer pleasure they take from it. I've been missing that since the day I moved to New York. It was something I never got used to, and lately, I'd been trying to single-handedly deliver that character to the city, but it wasn't taking. In the words of one Senator Clinton: "It takes a village."

Oh deer!

2006-08-13T00:17:00.000-07:00

I spent the last couple of nights down in Durham auditioning instructors for this yoga studio that I've managed to get myself involved in. It was fun. But also kind of weird because I got lost a bunch of times, including while I was attempting to get together for lunch yesterday with New Roommate (of NYC fame!) who's also residing in the area for the summer. She and I both agreed that no town should ever be built that a) doesn't live and die by the grid system and b) really necessitates driving around. I've been doing it for a week, and already I've decided it's for the birds. And I have a fun car to drive. (Thanks, bro :) And, I passed my driver's test the second time around. (Side note: my picture is SO much better than my last one. Sadly Monika, they took it from me. Otherwise, I totally would have sent it to you for posterity's sake!!!)

I like cars. And I generally really enjoy driving, but I think that's because it was something I did with relative infrequency when I resided in a place that had such fabulous public transportation. Having to schlep down to Durham/Raleigh/Chapel Hill isn't really all that far, but I realized I just don't have much of a head for direction, especially in that area. In addition to getting lost on my way to lunch yesterday, I got lost two or three other times. The Triangle area has a wealth of highways that all intertwine and some have bypasses and "business" versions as well that just make things far more complex than is necessary. At one point, I got so turned around that I had to call someone who was at the destination I was headed to. Let me tell you that attempting to talk on the phone while lost and driving a stick shift in five o'clock traffic on a Friday is some feat. And not really a stunt I wish to repeat in the near future. Bluetooth, anyone?

But here is what I realized this weekend that I REALLY do not like: drunk driving dangers. I drove into Raleigh last night to see my cousin who was visiting from the West Coast (Hi, Em!!) Predictably, I got lost on the way, but the serendipity of the bypass in Raleigh actually prevented me from getting hopelessly lost and instead, I just approached things in a roundabout way. That was all well and good until I got in the car to drive back to Durham around midnight and realized that it's been a very long time since I've done any late-night weekend driving on major roads in a town large enough to breed a stupid/drunk/crazy asshole driver population. Sure, there's plenty of stupid/drunk/crazy assholes in New York at any given time of day (say, a.m. rush hour for example!) but most of them are safely tucked into the confines of a subway car, where the havoc they wreak is limited to any minor physical scuffles they might get into, and a transit cop is never far away. But on the highway at night, it's every driver for himself. And it is terrifying!!!

In addition to being concerned that I could not control the people on the highway around me (was it just me, or were there WAY more people zooming past me at unspeakable speed than had been just a few hours before in daylight??) I also remembered that I do not see well at night. I lose all depth perception and I can't tell how far behind or in front of me cars and other important things are. And finally, as if these two factors combined together didn't make me practically hysterical, I drove past the shadow of two deer lingering on the side of the highway considering a run for it like they were Mexicans in Texas.

I instantly began recalling all the statistics about how troublesome the deer population is in North Carolina. They eat loads of crops, and they cause thousands of traffic accidents every year too. Consequently, the state extends the hunting season by weeks each year in an effort to curtail the population. But it never seems to help; they just breed like effing rabbits. Well, rabbits are one thing. I know because a friend of mine hit one once while I was in the car. But large muscular animals that can bound across roads with no warning can cause some serious damage and I'd forget damned quick how to operate my manual transmission car if something like that came towards me. (I also didn't feel too confident about hydroplaning while reading about it in the driver's manual the other day before re-taking my test.)

Fortunately, I made it to my aunt's house, where I was staying, safely and without incident. But that was not before the sound of my pounding heart drowned out whatever was playing on my radio. There's really not a solution to this problem though, because I'm a skittish passenger and hitching rides with other people is not an activity I enjoy much more than say using a port-o-john. I wouldn't necessarily say I'm a control freak, but I certainly like to be in control of most of the two-ton vehicles I'm around. And up to this point in my driving-life, I've been ok with that, because I didn't have to be around too many of them. But now that I've got to do this on a regular basis, I'm seriously considering heading up a mass transit campaign in the RTP area.

Driver's Ed

2006-08-10T11:30:00.000-07:00

As if being back at home in the house I grew up in weren't enough to make me feel like I've returned to high school, I failed my driver's test.

Apparently, even though I carried a North Carolina driver's license for over six years, relinquishing it only last year for a NY one with a photo that makes me look like a drug-addled convict, I have to take the "written" (it's actually administered via computer) test to be able to get a new one in North Carolina. I discovered this back in June when my dad and I were down here for vacation and went to have the tags changed on my brother's car to make it officially mine. The DMV was next door to the license tag place where we were, so we strolled in and asked if I could get my new license. As it turns out, it's gotten quite difficult to get a NC driver's license these days and it's damned near akin to the experience I had in New York City last summer wherein they practically mapped my DNA before handing my ID to me. In fact, I'd argue it's even tougher in NC, because you have to provide proof of liability insurance, whether or not you even own a vehicle. In June, the niiice laydee handed me a booklet of driving rules and told me to study up.

Earlier this week, book in hand, but not perused, I went to the DMV here in Greensboro. I chose a strategic time of about 2:30 figuring it was post lunch hour rush and prior to the time people knock off early to squeeze it in. I was right. And I had so much damned paperwork that I just kind of bamboozled the officer checking me in. He sent me to a desk and the lady there set me up on a nearby computer terminal to have at the written exam. You get 25 multiple choice questions and you have to get a minimum of 20 correct. Guess how many I got right? Freaking 19! The booklet sat IN MY LAP as I answered questions, and I could have easily cheated by looking stuff up, but did I? Oh no. I remained an upright citizen. Albeit one who shouldn't be driving.

The ones I couldn't answer were all the ones about stinking drunk driving rules. Like, what happens when you get caught and how long do they take your license for, and what happens to your license if you're caught buying beer for minors, do you have to go to driver's reform school? That kind of stuff, that is really just an arbitrary legislative decision that one cannot intuit. The rest, like the question about how fast farm vehicles go on the road (seriously), I was able to answer confidently just from experience or common sense. It would seem to me that one need only trouble oneself with the most important rule about drunk driving which is to not do it. Or, the corrollary to that: don't get caught doing it. I personally adhere to the former.

The computer keeps track of how many wrong answers you've gotten right there for you, so you know before it totals your score how you've done. I got a 76%, so I shuffled back to the lady's desk, and she drew up my test results, looked at me and said, "Yoo need an ATE-y to payss and you got a sivntysix, so you'cn come back t'morrah," and handed me back my paperwork.

I shuffled across the room dotted with other citizens awaiting all things vehicular and left the building. A friend of mine that I grew up with called me a couple minutes later and I didn't realize how miffed I was until he asked me what I was up to: "Oh, I dunno. I just FAILED THE FUCKING DRIVING test!!! And tell me how I don't feel like I'm sixteen and have to go back to school and make up some BS story about how they wouldn't accept my insurance card or some shit. GAH!!!" He laughed at me, but it made me feel better, because it's really fairly idiotic that they test people from out of state. I guess they figure they'll stump em' with all the questions about farm equipment and livestock. Here is the other thing about the driver's test I don't get, which is why they ask you what this sign means:
Seriously, they leave it intact with all the words on it. Is there something I am missing? The only thing I could work out was that since there are now a lot of immigrants living in NC they might have a language barrier that prevents them from being able to comprehend that in the first place. It seems odd that there should be linguistic discrimination with respect to handing out a license to operate a motor vehicle, but then again, if you cannot read a STOP sign, you are a liability to those around you. Clearly, this is not an issue for cab drivers in New York City. But, as Jerry Seinfeld says about getting a cab driver's license, "I think all you need is a face."

It ocurred to me later that a missed question or three cannot be all that important since they didn't yank my NY license out of my hand. Nor did they impede me from driving out of the office of my own accord. Which kind of makes me feel like the written test is moot. Ok, so now I'm off to peruse the driver's manual and then attempt to take that test again. If I'm lucky, they'll ask me some more questions about wheat combines.

Purple, like a bruise

2006-08-06T22:17:00.000-07:00

Because I didn't already spend enough time in the car in the last two days, I drove down to Lake Norman to see my grandmother today. I tend to only need directions to places once and after that, I use my wits. Which were not all that about me today, because I couldn't remember how far down I-40 the junction for I-77 was and kept thinking I'd missed it. But I hadn't. And then I got into the backroads and missed a turn and started going past all this stuff I'd never seen before, and finally turned around and got to the right place. But thanks heavens, literally, for this unintended detour, because I passed a church with a sign out front that said "We support Democrats!" I was floored. But perhaps Ralph Reed's recent outing as the devil's consigliere in re: Indian casinos has made them realize the error of their ways, and they've started playing for the other team.

I've also noticed a fair number of Kerry/Edwards bumper stickers that people still proudly bear, in spite of that election's outcome. They're wedged right in there with all the other ones that say things like "I *heart* NPR," "Hugs not bombs," "No blood for oil," and, my personal favorite, "My kid beat up your honor student."

Then again, I studied a license plate for several minutes last night in a parking lot that said "DUBYAN04" on it. Yes, a license plate. NOT a bumper sticker. This is a person who felt so strongly about re-electing our President that year that he paid the $50 or whatever it is to have a vanity plate made. This is a person who continues to feel so strongly about his support for a man who has made minced meat of the American Constitution with all those signing orders, that he continues to pay $50 a year for a vanity license plate. I was baffled. And while I've gotten over my strong urge to rip those "W 'o4" stickers off every time I see them, I had to remind myself that it would be wrong to take a baseball bat to someone's car. Although, at the very least, it might have been fun to wait for him to come back so I could ask him how he felt about paying triple for gas these days, or if he knew what the Geneva Conventions were, or if he understood the ramifications of the new Medicare bill, or perhaps what it feels like to consider the idea that someday in the near future we may be unable to speak openly on our own telephones. Oh...wait...

True story: my mother has a friend who was told (i.e. not asked) by her boss during the 2004 election season that since her car had a Kerry/Edwards sticker on it, she would need to refrain from parking it in the office lot and instead use the vacant one over 100 yards away from the building. For all the exasperation and utter intolerance that blue staters (myself included) display towards those we consider less savvy with respect to the realities of our political system, I suppose there is an equal and opposite return down here. With that in mind, we all just wind up kind of purple. Like a bruise.

On Driving South, On Saving the World

2006-08-05T22:02:00.000-07:00

We made the long haul from NYC yesterday in about 12 hours (usually 9-10), no thanks to a) the five-ton truck with all our stuff in it and b) the two-hour delay from DC to Richmond. Man, does I-95 blow. Usually, we drive a different way into Greensboro, but this time we were headed to Durham, because this past weekend, I was put in touch with a girl who was moving to NC as well and that is where she is living. We pow-wowed and decided to save one another $500 by sharing a moving truck. Added bonus: less gas consumption, so we're helping the environment!!! Another added bonus of our serendipitous introduction is that she is opening a yoga studio in Durham on September 2 and I will be teaching there!!! (If you live in the area and want to know more, email me!)

Notes from the Underground:

Good God, it is hot down here. And humid. I have remarkable parking karma, but decided to pass it up for the far end of the Target parking lot this afternoon in an effort to try, albeit lamely, to make up for all the walking I did every day in the city. I quickly regretted it. Blacktop just makes things hotter. On the To Do list: join a gym for replacement exercise.
Cars get really freaking hot too. Like, almost hotter than the subway platform. Except the subway platform does not have a burny steering wheel.
Why did I order lox this morning for breakfast? This was a mistake. I would never dream of ordering grits in the Northeast and I think I need to reciprocate this rule with respect to all-things-Yankee-food.
I've already used the word "Yankee" to describe someone in a negative way. Like this guy last night who wouldn't let me over into the lane in spite of my blinker being on for like half a mile. I jokingly cursed at him for being a "Stinkin' Yankee," and once I got behind him, I saw his license plate said Massachusetts on it. I have good instincts. (An aside: "stinkin'" is like the best modifier ever. So Scott, maybe if you changed it to "Stinkin' Georgia" I'd move there.)
Food is obscenely cheap here. The aforementioned lox plate from breakfast cost under $7. Which, if you eat lox with any regularity, you'll know is very very cheap. Perhaps this should have been my warning sign not to order it.
I have superior fashion taste. Not that I was ever in too much doubt about this.
I am evidently allergic to the South. I got weird hives on my legs the night before leaving while having a final beer with Roommate and they're back tonight.
My accent is back too!

So, just a little bit more about what I'm going to be doing in NC. I finished my yoga training last summer, but didn't do a whole heck of a lot with it, mostly because I was too busy. This was also one of the things I mentioned in my post here about how paralyzed I was by overstimulation. I just plain had too much going on and also, if anyone's ever actually attempted to be a yoga teacher in New York, you'll know how freaking intimidating it is. I went to one yoga "audition" where there were about 40 people there, all on their mats, and we each got 2-3 minutes to do our thing. It was ridiculous. I also attended a class once where the (male) instructor was making an "adjustment" on a student that involved burying his face between her breasts and exclaiming how much he loved his job. I don't take issue with the female bosom; it's a beautiful thing. But if I have to walk around grabbing men's packages (don't get me wrong: also beautiful things) to be a successful yoga teacher in New York, well, let's just say that I was raised that it's not polite to handle the cash and prizes unless you're invited to do so. But now that I am here, I plan on doing a lot of teaching and already have some jobs for it lined up. In addition to the place in Durham, I'll be helping my aunt out at the studio she runs down there as well.

I started doing yoga skeptically, at the suggestion of my mother, about five or six years ago. Once I got out of school, it became a must-have in my life, and I thought a lot about how much good it had done me and how much I'd love to give that to other people. So I trained to be an instructor. But I also have an interest in education; primarily how antiquated a lot of approaches to effective education are. And so, my overall "naive, save-the-world, hippie-chick-but-with-cute-shoes, granola goal" is to provide yoga for adolescents who have learning disorders, behavioral issues and are considered "at-risk" to help them work through some of their issues to be able to focus on their schooling or other worthwhile pursuits. To that end, I'll be starting a master's program in Counseling and Education at UNC in the spring (pending my acceptance.) Then, diploma in hand, I'll become the Jane Addams of the South. Ambitious, I know.

It is good to be back here. I am already a little sad about missing my friends, but the trade-off is that I do not miss the low-level anxiety that was my constant companion in New York. I feel generally more at ease and in control of my own destiny down here and I have already noticed that alteration internally. I'm certain an amount of boredom will set in soon enough, but I'm going towards all this for the time being.

So see, here we are, already at the end of my second post on this blog in a week and it's all about how much time we all have on our hands, myself included. It's nice to be back; let's hope it stays that way.

Mason and Dixon Line, here we come

2006-08-03T15:23:00.000-07:00

I think my mom is extremely excited about my return to the South. In fact I know she is. But one of the first "imports" we're going to have to level with one another on is that I'm returning a vegetarian. I was raised to love barbeque; my grandmother used to make this amazing meal called coffee beef, which involved an iron skillet and a day-old pot of coffee; I staunchly believe collards are best when cooked down with a ham hock; I do not love seitan. And it is admittedly hard to go back South and avoid Chic-Fil-A. In fact, I often can't: my brand of vegetarianism understands transgression. I'm like a Unitarian Vegetarian.

My mother, however, doesn't really seem to get it, because for the last two years, my statements about how I don't eat meat have fallen on deaf ears, and I've been served plate after plate of chicken/turkey/pork/whatever, at holidays. I'm too polite to raise a stink about it, because I kind of hate people who do that and I've never had to in New York, because it's so easy to be inconspicuous about any odd eating issues one may have. Even bulimia! I got really sick a few weeks ago, right after I'd been at home for a weekend, and my mom called me to tell me that when I moved back home, we were going to have to "have a talk about this vegetarian thing," because she was pretty sure that it was the cause for my illness. That is, I wasn't getting the right nutrition since I intentionally avoid one of the FDA recommended food groups. I assured her that I am very health conscious about what I eat and that it wasn't all pasta and white bread-anything but-but I don't think she was convinced of that entirely.

I've supressed a lot of my more distinctly Southern traits while living in New York, and I've picked up a few more while living up North. So now that I'm a nice cultural mulato, it should be fun to see what flies down there and what doesn't.