Dearest Santa
I used to sit upon your knee
And dream of presents under the tree.
And now to prove that you exist
I’m writing you this little list.
But first an insufficient thank you
That—I know—is overdue.
Thanks for all the Mother Goose,
One Fish, Two Fish and Dr. Seuss.
Thank you for the Napping House,
Walk Two Moons and Ralph S. Mouse.
Thanks for Christie and for Poirot
And for those I’ll read tomorrow,
Like Murder is Easy and Taken at the Tide,
And The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side,
Dasher and Dancer and other reindeer,
For bringing me playwrights like William Shakespeare,
I thank you for Othello and Emilia,
For Romeo, Hamlet and Ophelia.
More things like this would bring me cheer
Just as they have every other year.
No one else can do the deed—
Santa, you’re the only one who can succeed.
But if it’s a dilemma
Between David Copperfield or Emma,
I’d thank you for Jane Austen
And her worlds that I get lost in.
I like to read of Stephanie Plum
And whatever adventures that may come.
My favorite parts are with Grandma Mazur
And the consequent ordeals Steph must endure.
Just one final thing
To the end of this linguistic string.
I admit I am naïve,
But you deliver and so I believe.
So thank you, Santa, thank you,
And now I bid adieu.
Monday, December 22, 2003
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
Attention:
The student teaching placements are in and for those of you who have sent inquiring e-mails (thank you for your interest), Miss Acton will be student teaching at Kennedy High School in Cedar Rapids.
More news to come shortly.
More news to come shortly.
Monday, December 15, 2003
Musing on a Hurricane (revised)
Hurricane Tara.
That’s what we called her. That’s what she called herself. Even as a pre-kindergartener, my younger sister sensed what she had to offer was larger than her little four-letter name could do justice. Hell, what she has is larger than life. For when she was good, she was—well, still a wild child. But when she was bad…
Webster’s defines hurricane as a noun, a violent storm, characterized by extreme fury and sudden changes of the wind, and generally accompanied by rain, thunder, and lightning. Also used figuratively, they inform us.
Since we were young, Tara has held our parents liable for her status as the middle child. And to top that off, as she tells them often, she’s the only one of the three of us who has to scrounge for a nickname. When asked about Tee-Wee or Tara-Teacakes, I can still see an eight-year-old Tara rolling her eyes. “Puh-leeze!” She may not have nicknames, but neither my brother nor I have inspired phrases or sayings like Hurricane Tara has. Not only does she have her own personal cheer: “Tar-rah-rah-boom-de-ay!” but the nursery rhyme “Mary, Mary, quite contrary” was revamped into “Tara, Tara, quite contrara.”
Many times these phrases would be accompanied by feelings of pride. “Boy, that Tara,” my parents would say, “She’s got a mind of her own. She’ll never let anyone push her around!” Sometimes I thought I saw something behind their eyes during an especially disruptive meal … something that looked like, “In trying to teach independent thought, we may have sold the idea of conformity short… our other two conformers—er, children—didn’t turn out so bad. They may end up in a cult someday unable to make their own decisions, but at least the words “Yes, I agree,” will have escaped their lips more than never). These feelings of exasperation more than occasionally turned into full-blown rage, depending on their moods. Or rather, on Tara’s mood.
Tara had an intense, deeply personal relationship with the Naughty Chair. She was probably more intimate with that chair than any other possession she owned, her beloved stuffed animals included. In fact, the naughty chair also doubled as Tara’s mealtime chair. It was just easier that way.
And her voice… “She could be a Broadway star with the power behind her lungs,” my mother often says. When Tara’s powerhouse voice was threatening to cause deafness in the rest of us, she was introduced to a new form of punishment. The bottom of the staircase was officially rezoned as The Time-Out Zone. Some meals we didn’t see Tara at all.
Life was quieter this way, but not as interesting, and all that pent-up energy would be released when the sun went down. Pulling out my battery-operated keyboard, we would select a song and in a whirlwind, Hurricane Tara would lift herself up on her toes ballerina-style and whirl herself around the house. When Tara was seven and my mom wrote a rap for each of us kids to perform about ourselves, Tara ended hers sweetly, “Some people tell me I can be a pest, but Mommy and Daddy really love me the best.” It was the perfect ending—she was a sweet, adorable child smiling shyly into the vide camera—until she ad-libbed a maniacal, almost out-of-control cackle.
I remember furious words being exchanged when Tara became possessed by the hurricane and jazz-stepped through the shot during our brother’s turn, but now we look back and laugh at that pair of legs dancing across the room, reminding us of the old days. “Remember when Hurricane Tara refused to change out of her tutu, even to go fishing?” we reminisce. “Remember when Tara would go outside and start The Twilight Bark just to get all the dogs in the neighborhood riled up in time for bed?”
Some days I wish for old times, and I look so closely at my sister, trying to find a remnant of Hurricane Tara leftover from our childhood that I don’t see anything familiar. I have to remind myself that a painting begins with one color and a few single strokes, and evolves gradually into a masterpiece.
The tutu is gone, replaced by her ever-present headphones. Her baby features have set, preserving our uncle Kelly’s straight nose and small chin. Red streaks are prominent in her now curly-Q hair, nails clipped close—a testament to the guitar she lugs around. There she is, a down-to-earth diva, explaining her sarcasm as “the Acton way,” quoting lines from M*A*S*H and asking me soul-searching questions, such as, “Erica, would you be my friend if I s-p-e-l-l-e-d-ed everything” or “Erica, if I walked like a penguin, would you send me to a charm school?” And it is these moments, when she causes me to double over and laugh so hard I cry and then, seconds later, causes me to chase her down with murderous, uncivilized rage that only sisters can inspire in each other, I see Hurricane Tara right in front of me, wearing her tutu and barking unrestrainedly at the neighborhood, accompanied by larger-than-life thunder and changes in the wind.
That’s what we called her. That’s what she called herself. Even as a pre-kindergartener, my younger sister sensed what she had to offer was larger than her little four-letter name could do justice. Hell, what she has is larger than life. For when she was good, she was—well, still a wild child. But when she was bad…
Webster’s defines hurricane as a noun, a violent storm, characterized by extreme fury and sudden changes of the wind, and generally accompanied by rain, thunder, and lightning. Also used figuratively, they inform us.
Since we were young, Tara has held our parents liable for her status as the middle child. And to top that off, as she tells them often, she’s the only one of the three of us who has to scrounge for a nickname. When asked about Tee-Wee or Tara-Teacakes, I can still see an eight-year-old Tara rolling her eyes. “Puh-leeze!” She may not have nicknames, but neither my brother nor I have inspired phrases or sayings like Hurricane Tara has. Not only does she have her own personal cheer: “Tar-rah-rah-boom-de-ay!” but the nursery rhyme “Mary, Mary, quite contrary” was revamped into “Tara, Tara, quite contrara.”
Many times these phrases would be accompanied by feelings of pride. “Boy, that Tara,” my parents would say, “She’s got a mind of her own. She’ll never let anyone push her around!” Sometimes I thought I saw something behind their eyes during an especially disruptive meal … something that looked like, “In trying to teach independent thought, we may have sold the idea of conformity short… our other two conformers—er, children—didn’t turn out so bad. They may end up in a cult someday unable to make their own decisions, but at least the words “Yes, I agree,” will have escaped their lips more than never). These feelings of exasperation more than occasionally turned into full-blown rage, depending on their moods. Or rather, on Tara’s mood.
Tara had an intense, deeply personal relationship with the Naughty Chair. She was probably more intimate with that chair than any other possession she owned, her beloved stuffed animals included. In fact, the naughty chair also doubled as Tara’s mealtime chair. It was just easier that way.
And her voice… “She could be a Broadway star with the power behind her lungs,” my mother often says. When Tara’s powerhouse voice was threatening to cause deafness in the rest of us, she was introduced to a new form of punishment. The bottom of the staircase was officially rezoned as The Time-Out Zone. Some meals we didn’t see Tara at all.
Life was quieter this way, but not as interesting, and all that pent-up energy would be released when the sun went down. Pulling out my battery-operated keyboard, we would select a song and in a whirlwind, Hurricane Tara would lift herself up on her toes ballerina-style and whirl herself around the house. When Tara was seven and my mom wrote a rap for each of us kids to perform about ourselves, Tara ended hers sweetly, “Some people tell me I can be a pest, but Mommy and Daddy really love me the best.” It was the perfect ending—she was a sweet, adorable child smiling shyly into the vide camera—until she ad-libbed a maniacal, almost out-of-control cackle.
I remember furious words being exchanged when Tara became possessed by the hurricane and jazz-stepped through the shot during our brother’s turn, but now we look back and laugh at that pair of legs dancing across the room, reminding us of the old days. “Remember when Hurricane Tara refused to change out of her tutu, even to go fishing?” we reminisce. “Remember when Tara would go outside and start The Twilight Bark just to get all the dogs in the neighborhood riled up in time for bed?”
Some days I wish for old times, and I look so closely at my sister, trying to find a remnant of Hurricane Tara leftover from our childhood that I don’t see anything familiar. I have to remind myself that a painting begins with one color and a few single strokes, and evolves gradually into a masterpiece.
The tutu is gone, replaced by her ever-present headphones. Her baby features have set, preserving our uncle Kelly’s straight nose and small chin. Red streaks are prominent in her now curly-Q hair, nails clipped close—a testament to the guitar she lugs around. There she is, a down-to-earth diva, explaining her sarcasm as “the Acton way,” quoting lines from M*A*S*H and asking me soul-searching questions, such as, “Erica, would you be my friend if I s-p-e-l-l-e-d-ed everything” or “Erica, if I walked like a penguin, would you send me to a charm school?” And it is these moments, when she causes me to double over and laugh so hard I cry and then, seconds later, causes me to chase her down with murderous, uncivilized rage that only sisters can inspire in each other, I see Hurricane Tara right in front of me, wearing her tutu and barking unrestrainedly at the neighborhood, accompanied by larger-than-life thunder and changes in the wind.
Thursday, November 27, 2003
Thanksgiving Break: Day 7
11:14pm Happy Thanksgiving. Tomorrow we are going out of town for a few days to go shopping and then it’s back to school for me, so thus concludes my chronicle of my last college Thanksgiving break. Still don’t know what I’ll be turning in on Monday for my essay. Maybe on the trip tomorrow a tire will go flat, and then we’ll b forced to walk to the nearest town, and on the way I’ll be taken hostage by a gang of thieves on horseback, and forced to go along with their dirty thievery and other illegal acts, and have to eat stew at dusk near the railroad tracks outside small towns with them before rising at dawn to outrun the local sheriff, and be unable to escape until Monday, at which point I’ll quickly write of my adventures and turn it in bright and early at 9:30.
11:31pm Or maybe I’ll revise Musings of a Hurricane and turn that in.
11:31pm Or maybe I’ll revise Musings of a Hurricane and turn that in.
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
Thanksgiving Break: Day 6
10:14am Cleaning for the extended fam to arrive tomorrow for Thanksgiving. Gee, it’s fun. No General Hospital or All My Children for two full weeks. Wow, I’ve nearly got this addiction beat!
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Thanksgiving Break: Day 5
4:33pm Hello, my name is Erica and I’m a shopaholic. Nicole and I went shopping last night. Why, I ask, why? Christmas is exactly one month away and I’m still spending my money on me
9:37pm So apparently they’re not muscle relaxers, they’re muscle relaxants. Hmm. Tricky. Very tricky.
9:37pm So apparently they’re not muscle relaxers, they’re muscle relaxants. Hmm. Tricky. Very tricky.
Monday, November 24, 2003
Thanksgiving Break: Day 4
10:28am Well, was supposed to be up more than an hour ago, but doing better than yesterday, so who cares? It’s a gradual process. I have a doctor’s appointment at 3:45 today because if I don’t get some muscle relaxers, my muscles are going to harden into steel and I will be the first robot with human emotions. Pain, oh the pain. Only problem is I’m supposed to leave here at 3:30 to meet Nicole around 4:15. Hmm. This presents a dilemma as I have somewhat of a reputation for being late and cancelling. Maybe can call and reschedule the doctor’s appointment. Ugh! If only I didn’t have phone phobia and didn’t mind calling people. An Oreo pudding cup would be really helpful right now but we don’t have any. Guess I’ll have to have chocolate chip ice cream for breakfast.
Still am unsure what to write about for my last essay.
10:27pm Went to doctor where I was prescribed muscle relaxers. Feeling very relaxed now. Mhmm, very relaxed.
Still am unsure what to write about for my last essay.
10:27pm Went to doctor where I was prescribed muscle relaxers. Feeling very relaxed now. Mhmm, very relaxed.
Sunday, November 23, 2003
Thanksgiving Break: Day 3
1:22 pm Hmm. No emails from the friendsies. Feeling very cut off.
Have an essay to write for nonfiction. No requirements. What to write about?
3:23pm Still no ideas. Perhaps piracy is my only option.
5:41pm Meeting Nicole at Carlos O’Kelly’s for dinner tomorrow night. Haven’t seen her since the beginning of September. Last time we ate there, she told me of Andrea’s pregnancy. Now Andrea has a baby. How is it possible that some of my classmates have children and are married or engaged and I’m pretending to be a pirate in my free time? I wonder if the university offers courses on growing up and how to do it properly? I don’t seem to know how.
2 cans of pop. Still need to cut back!! On the other hand, no General Hospital or All My Children for 11 days and counting. One addiction at a time.
7:11pm Am now looking at my comment from 3:23 today. Did I mean write about piracy or actually join piracy to avoid the assignment? Is there still piracy? I mean, of course there’s piracy—but do these pirates sail ships and string black flags with cross skulls up their masts and wear patches and feed their parrots crackers? And if not, how do you detect a pirate? Is a pirate really a pirate if there is no outward sign? Hmm. I’m sensing some deeper questions. My nonfiction writing teacher would tell me to ask myself what am I not saying? What’s my deeper story? I’m sensing something about identity. But this is vacation. There should be a law against deep thinking and/or soul-searching on holiday breaks. Or maybe I meant perhaps I should join piracy and then write about my experiences? In which case, the assignment will be late and I’ll receive no grade, so I guess it really makes no difference anyway.
Have an essay to write for nonfiction. No requirements. What to write about?
3:23pm Still no ideas. Perhaps piracy is my only option.
5:41pm Meeting Nicole at Carlos O’Kelly’s for dinner tomorrow night. Haven’t seen her since the beginning of September. Last time we ate there, she told me of Andrea’s pregnancy. Now Andrea has a baby. How is it possible that some of my classmates have children and are married or engaged and I’m pretending to be a pirate in my free time? I wonder if the university offers courses on growing up and how to do it properly? I don’t seem to know how.
2 cans of pop. Still need to cut back!! On the other hand, no General Hospital or All My Children for 11 days and counting. One addiction at a time.
7:11pm Am now looking at my comment from 3:23 today. Did I mean write about piracy or actually join piracy to avoid the assignment? Is there still piracy? I mean, of course there’s piracy—but do these pirates sail ships and string black flags with cross skulls up their masts and wear patches and feed their parrots crackers? And if not, how do you detect a pirate? Is a pirate really a pirate if there is no outward sign? Hmm. I’m sensing some deeper questions. My nonfiction writing teacher would tell me to ask myself what am I not saying? What’s my deeper story? I’m sensing something about identity. But this is vacation. There should be a law against deep thinking and/or soul-searching on holiday breaks. Or maybe I meant perhaps I should join piracy and then write about my experiences? In which case, the assignment will be late and I’ll receive no grade, so I guess it really makes no difference anyway.
Saturday, November 22, 2003
Thanksgiving Break: Day 2
8:39pm Went shopping with Mom and Tara today. Naturally. We are home, we go shopping. It is as natural as coming home and doing 45 loads of laundry that have piled up since Labor Day, the last time one was at home to do their laundry.
After coming home, I began reading Pirates by Celia Rees, one of my favorite authors for young adult literature. I originally picked it out to read hoping it would fit in with a lesson plan I am working on for one of my Methods classes. But now I have become totally enamored of the book and in fact wish I was the young girl so oppressed by 18th century British society that she has no choice but to shed her petticoats and become a pirate. Girl power! I could learn to sword fight and sail and overtake other ships and work hard in the sun into my hands are calloused and bruised and I am … on the other hand, all these piracy requirements sound awfully exhausting. I think I would be better as the lead in the movie version. Pirate by day working hard and convincingly, movie star by night retiring to a large palace where people offer me chocolate just for being me.
And now, after an exhausting day, I’m off to bed. Being—er, reading about pirates is hard work.
After coming home, I began reading Pirates by Celia Rees, one of my favorite authors for young adult literature. I originally picked it out to read hoping it would fit in with a lesson plan I am working on for one of my Methods classes. But now I have become totally enamored of the book and in fact wish I was the young girl so oppressed by 18th century British society that she has no choice but to shed her petticoats and become a pirate. Girl power! I could learn to sword fight and sail and overtake other ships and work hard in the sun into my hands are calloused and bruised and I am … on the other hand, all these piracy requirements sound awfully exhausting. I think I would be better as the lead in the movie version. Pirate by day working hard and convincingly, movie star by night retiring to a large palace where people offer me chocolate just for being me.
And now, after an exhausting day, I’m off to bed. Being—er, reading about pirates is hard work.
Friday, November 21, 2003
Thanksgiving Break: Day 1
11:03pm Last Thanksgiving break of college. Unbelievable. This year we get a whole week off instead of just Wednesday through Sunday. I knew if I stayed in school long enough it would happen eventually. Tara and I arrived home from school just in time to run to the store to pick up some groceries and then go to the movie theatre—not to see a movie, but to bring home some movie theatre popcorn for Mom. What size, I inquired resignedly before we left.
She held her hands up, about a foot apart from each other and replied, “The big one.” Not being one to think ahead, I didn’t pursue any further, so when we arrived at the theatre and Tara asked what size we were supposed to be getting, I relayed Mom’s answer. Then we both looked wearily at each other and sighed. Our plight was hard to endure.
Luckily, rescue came in the form of the Gladbrook Centre concession stand staff. “She usually gets a medium,” one of the employees informed us. “Last time she was here, I think she got a large,” another put in helpfully.
In the end we ordered a medium, but not before Dad came through the doors, also sent on the Popcorn Buying Mission. It seems Tara and I had not given doubt as to whether or not we would actually be stopping to buy the popcorn. “She was worried she wouldn’t get it,” Dad explained.
The rest of Friday night was spent singing along with Tara’s guitar playing pretending I am Emmy Lou Harris or Alison Krauss. The world is my oyster.
She held her hands up, about a foot apart from each other and replied, “The big one.” Not being one to think ahead, I didn’t pursue any further, so when we arrived at the theatre and Tara asked what size we were supposed to be getting, I relayed Mom’s answer. Then we both looked wearily at each other and sighed. Our plight was hard to endure.
Luckily, rescue came in the form of the Gladbrook Centre concession stand staff. “She usually gets a medium,” one of the employees informed us. “Last time she was here, I think she got a large,” another put in helpfully.
In the end we ordered a medium, but not before Dad came through the doors, also sent on the Popcorn Buying Mission. It seems Tara and I had not given doubt as to whether or not we would actually be stopping to buy the popcorn. “She was worried she wouldn’t get it,” Dad explained.
The rest of Friday night was spent singing along with Tara’s guitar playing pretending I am Emmy Lou Harris or Alison Krauss. The world is my oyster.
Sunday, November 16, 2003
"Reading is your intellectual vitamin."
"Reading is your intellectual vitamin."
--Madame Esme
There is something about a bookstore that can calm all worries, relieve all fears, and quiet that disquieting voice at the back of a person’s brain; something about a bookstore that allows them to relax. The bookstore is my church. I go there when I need quiet time, when I need to be around people without actually speaking, when I need to think or when I need to get my mind off of other things. The bookstore is my haven. It holds all the answers. And the answer is always yes, buy that other book.
I would like to recommend The Boys of My Youth by JoAnne Beard. She is an Iowan writer (from Cedar Rapids) using a creative nonfiction form. Her stories are both humorous and haunting; one of the best books I’ve read all year. Some of you will be turned off by either the “nonfiction” thing or else that I’ve said they were “haunting.” DON’T!! It’s worth the read!
I’ve also recently reread Educating Esme: Diary of a Teacher’s First Year by Esme Raji Codell. I was lucky enough to hear her speak two months ago and she is a one of a kind extraordinary person. This book is not just for future educators!! She imparts loads of wisdom but does it in a way that is hilarious and poignant, not condescending or self-important.
I’ve also reread The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. This book is fast joining books like The Outsiders in becoming the canon of young adult literature. It’s a series of vignettes, about 110 pages that can easily be read in under an hour. Highly, highly recommend it!!
I’m currently making my way through several books. I’m on the second book in A Series of Unfortunate Events. Hilarity ensues on every pages. I’m also reading The Thin Pink Line about a whack job pretending to be pregnant (this is my relief book because, as an English major, reading Joseph Conrad all day can tend to dull the senses. This revives me) and Two Parts Textbook, One Part Love by Louanne Johnson (of Dangerous Minds fame). Very insightful as a future educator.
One last suggestion. Wigfield by Amy Sedaris, Stephen Colbert and Paul Dinello, about “a can-do town that may just not.” I swear, you won’t regret it!!
--Madame Esme
There is something about a bookstore that can calm all worries, relieve all fears, and quiet that disquieting voice at the back of a person’s brain; something about a bookstore that allows them to relax. The bookstore is my church. I go there when I need quiet time, when I need to be around people without actually speaking, when I need to think or when I need to get my mind off of other things. The bookstore is my haven. It holds all the answers. And the answer is always yes, buy that other book.
I would like to recommend The Boys of My Youth by JoAnne Beard. She is an Iowan writer (from Cedar Rapids) using a creative nonfiction form. Her stories are both humorous and haunting; one of the best books I’ve read all year. Some of you will be turned off by either the “nonfiction” thing or else that I’ve said they were “haunting.” DON’T!! It’s worth the read!
I’ve also recently reread Educating Esme: Diary of a Teacher’s First Year by Esme Raji Codell. I was lucky enough to hear her speak two months ago and she is a one of a kind extraordinary person. This book is not just for future educators!! She imparts loads of wisdom but does it in a way that is hilarious and poignant, not condescending or self-important.
I’ve also reread The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. This book is fast joining books like The Outsiders in becoming the canon of young adult literature. It’s a series of vignettes, about 110 pages that can easily be read in under an hour. Highly, highly recommend it!!
I’m currently making my way through several books. I’m on the second book in A Series of Unfortunate Events. Hilarity ensues on every pages. I’m also reading The Thin Pink Line about a whack job pretending to be pregnant (this is my relief book because, as an English major, reading Joseph Conrad all day can tend to dull the senses. This revives me) and Two Parts Textbook, One Part Love by Louanne Johnson (of Dangerous Minds fame). Very insightful as a future educator.
One last suggestion. Wigfield by Amy Sedaris, Stephen Colbert and Paul Dinello, about “a can-do town that may just not.” I swear, you won’t regret it!!
Monday, November 10, 2003
The Sanctuary??
Remember The Sanctuary?
Well, I have a bone to pick with Scary-Scary (aka the building manager). Today, there is no water since they are replacing the old water heater (despite the fact that we have to leave our shower doors open while we shower or else would be asphyxiated from the steam that the hot-hot-hot water produces). Secondly, the radiator is making something in the wall click and clatter (I now have a theory someone is living in there trying to send me a message through Morse code). They finally fixed our peep hole, but our toilet seat still has a crack in it and my closet door came off the track and nearly decapitated me yesterday. Plus, there is a puddle in the middle of the entryway just inside the building from last week’s rain and I’m afraid it’s going to mildew. And finally, despite the fact that I have my ceiling fan running and my window open to pull a 30 degree breeze from outside, it is still bordering on nearly 80 degrees inside.
I love college life.
Well, I have a bone to pick with Scary-Scary (aka the building manager). Today, there is no water since they are replacing the old water heater (despite the fact that we have to leave our shower doors open while we shower or else would be asphyxiated from the steam that the hot-hot-hot water produces). Secondly, the radiator is making something in the wall click and clatter (I now have a theory someone is living in there trying to send me a message through Morse code). They finally fixed our peep hole, but our toilet seat still has a crack in it and my closet door came off the track and nearly decapitated me yesterday. Plus, there is a puddle in the middle of the entryway just inside the building from last week’s rain and I’m afraid it’s going to mildew. And finally, despite the fact that I have my ceiling fan running and my window open to pull a 30 degree breeze from outside, it is still bordering on nearly 80 degrees inside.
I love college life.
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
The Journey: Part III
Continued from Monday, November 3
I thought I heard my mom mutter something to herself. Something like, “I should have known.”
I wanted to ask how she did know something was wrong, but I was too tired. I was always too tired. Erica, want to go to the pool? No, I’m too tired. Wanna go to the park? Maybe later. All you ever do is sit around and read. I’m just tired.
I shut my eyes. I replayed the conversation at the doctor’s office shortly after my diagnosis. “Her body didn’t know how to break down carbohydrates,” he explained to my mom. “So it’s been burning fat instead. That’s why she’s lost so much weight.”
My mom, always emotional, was practically in tears while I looked on, wishing I had a sweatshirt to put on over my tank top. Why is it always so frigid in doctor’s offices? Were they trying to make you even more uncomfortable? “I thought she looked thinner. I was just telling her she had the skinniest chicken legs. We were in Shakey’s Pizza, remember?” she tossed my way. “But sixty-nine pounds? … I had no idea.”
Well, I had thought, that explains why I’m so cold. No fat to warm me up. Why am I not more upset? I blinked out a few tears just to prove the news affected me. It was too much work, though, so I gave up.
Fourteen miles, thirteen miles, twelve miles. Why do parents always blame themselves? A flash of irritation flared in my stomach and shook me awake. That flash of emotion—that felt like me. I sat up straighter and put my feet back on the floor. I’m still me, I told myself. A tiny voice at the back of my head was haunting me. I don’t feel like me. But I ignored it. I’m still me. I’m still Erica.
My movement snapped my mother to attention.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
Four miles, three, two.
“You. The doctor was really impressed with how early you caught it. You prob’ly saved my life,” I informed her unnecessarily.
We pulled off the interstate and began following the signs: McFarland Clinic .6 miles. “Well, I’m your mother. That’s my job.” She was worried and tired and stressed and all alone. Like me.
“I have no idea where we’re supposed to be,” she said pointing to the hospital’s parking lot. Then she slid her arm across and smoothed my hair back from my forehead. “But we’ll just park and meet your dad and figure it out together, okay?
I nodded.
Okay.
I thought I heard my mom mutter something to herself. Something like, “I should have known.”
I wanted to ask how she did know something was wrong, but I was too tired. I was always too tired. Erica, want to go to the pool? No, I’m too tired. Wanna go to the park? Maybe later. All you ever do is sit around and read. I’m just tired.
I shut my eyes. I replayed the conversation at the doctor’s office shortly after my diagnosis. “Her body didn’t know how to break down carbohydrates,” he explained to my mom. “So it’s been burning fat instead. That’s why she’s lost so much weight.”
My mom, always emotional, was practically in tears while I looked on, wishing I had a sweatshirt to put on over my tank top. Why is it always so frigid in doctor’s offices? Were they trying to make you even more uncomfortable? “I thought she looked thinner. I was just telling her she had the skinniest chicken legs. We were in Shakey’s Pizza, remember?” she tossed my way. “But sixty-nine pounds? … I had no idea.”
Well, I had thought, that explains why I’m so cold. No fat to warm me up. Why am I not more upset? I blinked out a few tears just to prove the news affected me. It was too much work, though, so I gave up.
Fourteen miles, thirteen miles, twelve miles. Why do parents always blame themselves? A flash of irritation flared in my stomach and shook me awake. That flash of emotion—that felt like me. I sat up straighter and put my feet back on the floor. I’m still me, I told myself. A tiny voice at the back of my head was haunting me. I don’t feel like me. But I ignored it. I’m still me. I’m still Erica.
My movement snapped my mother to attention.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
Four miles, three, two.
“You. The doctor was really impressed with how early you caught it. You prob’ly saved my life,” I informed her unnecessarily.
We pulled off the interstate and began following the signs: McFarland Clinic .6 miles. “Well, I’m your mother. That’s my job.” She was worried and tired and stressed and all alone. Like me.
“I have no idea where we’re supposed to be,” she said pointing to the hospital’s parking lot. Then she slid her arm across and smoothed my hair back from my forehead. “But we’ll just park and meet your dad and figure it out together, okay?
I nodded.
Okay.
Monday, November 03, 2003
The Journey: Part II
Continued from Sunday, November 2
The turning signal clicked several times as we slowed to make a left-hand turn. We passed Andersons’ house. I remembered how the night my mother had Brennan, as Dad, Tara and I were driving home from the hospital our car stalled and we had to go to their house to use the phone. I smiled as an image resurfaced of Tara, just a week short of her fourth birthday, and I, barely six years old, had been crying. Why? Were we scared? Tired? Emotionally overwhelmed? I couldn’t remember.
The Monday after I had informed my mom of my symptoms, she picked me up from Nicole’s where we were playing Monopoly yet again. “I made you an appointment. It’ll only take a few minutes.” I relayed the message to Nicole, promising to be back in less than thirty minutes.
“Don’t pick up the game,” I instructed. I later found out the little shoe and silver dog sat on Park Place and Free Parking for days, and Nicole had cried when her mother suggested it was time for the game to be picked up.
An hour after being picked up, I listened to my mom on the phone while I sat immobile on the couch with my arms around the dog. “Sandi? It’s April. Can Nicole come over and watch Tara and Brennan until my parents arrive to take the kids to their cabin for the weekend?” Her voice lowered and I pressed my face into the loose, soft skin around the dog’s collar. I whispered the news into Jessie’s ear to drown out the telephone conversation. Jessie licked my hand, then squirmed to get away.
My mom’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Do you want to listen to the radio?”
I nodded my assent. It was too quiet. Tears were beginning to prick at the back of my eyes. To hold them off, I thought of Nicole’s arrival ten minutes after the phone call. Her arrival was accompanied by an indescribable expression on her face, one I didn’t understand, for twelve-year-olds rarely understand abstract ideas like unconditional love and “when you hurt, I hurt”, but one I’ll never forget; it’s been burned into my heart.
The tears were now threatening to run over, so I shook my head and focused out the window instead. Alice’s rabbit was chasing a giant corn cob in the clouds. A rainstorm of bugs splattered the front windshield. Rows of beans melted into stalks of corn. Speed limit 55 mph; Ames 41 miles. A giant billboard shouted child abuse happens more than we know. A black and orange sign promoted the Iowa Workforce Center, the daytime home of my father.
“Dad’s gonna meet us directly at the hospital. He should be there by the time we get there.” She was reading my thoughts.
Forty-one miles, forty miles, thirty-nine, thirty-eight. Impatience to get there battled with anxiety of what I would find when I did arrive. Anxiety won.
I pulled my knees up to my chest and looked down. I had started wearing mascara that summer and now little black spindly spider legs were painted on my knees, left over from the doctor’s office. The doctor had said, “Her blood sugar is 489. She’s diabetic.” And with those two little sentences he confirmed every mother’s worst fear: something wrong with their child. I had been paralyzed—hadn’t known what to do, so I had pulled my legs up and rested my eyes on them. Then it seemed appropriate to cry, but that was really too much effort and I had stopped after about ten seconds. Ironically, now I couldn’t seem to stop myself from crying and would continue to do so for the next ten or twelve weeks.
In the days, weeks, and months to come my dad would become my personal moral booster. He would encouragingly whisper, shout, or cry, “Kick it in the butt!” (“it”—being the problem du jour—ranging from my health to schoolwork to a cranky attitude). But right then, I had no mantra. I had nothing but the knowledge my life would change—and I couldn’t wrap my mind around it.
I licked my thumb and wiped the spiders away, one leg at a time. Kick it in the butt. One day at a time.
God, I thought, if you change this now I promise to stop wearing mascara. I’m not a grown-up. I thought I was, but I was wrong. I’ll never fight with my siblings again. I’ll be more responsible with Jessie. I’ll—
No more, I told myself firmly.
I laid my head back down on the seat and examined the footprints on the dashboard, probably left over from Tara. She was gonna be in big trouble when Dad saw those.
Twenty-nine miles, twenty-eight, twenty-seven.
So I had diabetes, huh? Well, big deal. So that meant I had to take shots twice a day. For the rest of my life? … My brain searched frantically for a response to that disturbing news. Well, if my grandma did it, then so could I. And so what if I couldn’t eat sugar ever again!
Wait. Ever?
Oh dear.
To be continued...
The turning signal clicked several times as we slowed to make a left-hand turn. We passed Andersons’ house. I remembered how the night my mother had Brennan, as Dad, Tara and I were driving home from the hospital our car stalled and we had to go to their house to use the phone. I smiled as an image resurfaced of Tara, just a week short of her fourth birthday, and I, barely six years old, had been crying. Why? Were we scared? Tired? Emotionally overwhelmed? I couldn’t remember.
The Monday after I had informed my mom of my symptoms, she picked me up from Nicole’s where we were playing Monopoly yet again. “I made you an appointment. It’ll only take a few minutes.” I relayed the message to Nicole, promising to be back in less than thirty minutes.
“Don’t pick up the game,” I instructed. I later found out the little shoe and silver dog sat on Park Place and Free Parking for days, and Nicole had cried when her mother suggested it was time for the game to be picked up.
An hour after being picked up, I listened to my mom on the phone while I sat immobile on the couch with my arms around the dog. “Sandi? It’s April. Can Nicole come over and watch Tara and Brennan until my parents arrive to take the kids to their cabin for the weekend?” Her voice lowered and I pressed my face into the loose, soft skin around the dog’s collar. I whispered the news into Jessie’s ear to drown out the telephone conversation. Jessie licked my hand, then squirmed to get away.
My mom’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Do you want to listen to the radio?”
I nodded my assent. It was too quiet. Tears were beginning to prick at the back of my eyes. To hold them off, I thought of Nicole’s arrival ten minutes after the phone call. Her arrival was accompanied by an indescribable expression on her face, one I didn’t understand, for twelve-year-olds rarely understand abstract ideas like unconditional love and “when you hurt, I hurt”, but one I’ll never forget; it’s been burned into my heart.
The tears were now threatening to run over, so I shook my head and focused out the window instead. Alice’s rabbit was chasing a giant corn cob in the clouds. A rainstorm of bugs splattered the front windshield. Rows of beans melted into stalks of corn. Speed limit 55 mph; Ames 41 miles. A giant billboard shouted child abuse happens more than we know. A black and orange sign promoted the Iowa Workforce Center, the daytime home of my father.
“Dad’s gonna meet us directly at the hospital. He should be there by the time we get there.” She was reading my thoughts.
Forty-one miles, forty miles, thirty-nine, thirty-eight. Impatience to get there battled with anxiety of what I would find when I did arrive. Anxiety won.
I pulled my knees up to my chest and looked down. I had started wearing mascara that summer and now little black spindly spider legs were painted on my knees, left over from the doctor’s office. The doctor had said, “Her blood sugar is 489. She’s diabetic.” And with those two little sentences he confirmed every mother’s worst fear: something wrong with their child. I had been paralyzed—hadn’t known what to do, so I had pulled my legs up and rested my eyes on them. Then it seemed appropriate to cry, but that was really too much effort and I had stopped after about ten seconds. Ironically, now I couldn’t seem to stop myself from crying and would continue to do so for the next ten or twelve weeks.
In the days, weeks, and months to come my dad would become my personal moral booster. He would encouragingly whisper, shout, or cry, “Kick it in the butt!” (“it”—being the problem du jour—ranging from my health to schoolwork to a cranky attitude). But right then, I had no mantra. I had nothing but the knowledge my life would change—and I couldn’t wrap my mind around it.
I licked my thumb and wiped the spiders away, one leg at a time. Kick it in the butt. One day at a time.
God, I thought, if you change this now I promise to stop wearing mascara. I’m not a grown-up. I thought I was, but I was wrong. I’ll never fight with my siblings again. I’ll be more responsible with Jessie. I’ll—
No more, I told myself firmly.
I laid my head back down on the seat and examined the footprints on the dashboard, probably left over from Tara. She was gonna be in big trouble when Dad saw those.
Twenty-nine miles, twenty-eight, twenty-seven.
So I had diabetes, huh? Well, big deal. So that meant I had to take shots twice a day. For the rest of my life? … My brain searched frantically for a response to that disturbing news. Well, if my grandma did it, then so could I. And so what if I couldn’t eat sugar ever again!
Wait. Ever?
Oh dear.
To be continued...
Sunday, November 02, 2003
The Journey: Part I
“Are you thirsty? Of course you’re thirsty. I’ll get you something to drink. No pop—too much sugar. I’ll be right back.” My mother slid her hand down my bare arm as she untangled herself from the seatbelt and staggered through the thick swampy atmosphere to disappear into the convenience store.
The humid, mid-July Iowan air caught at the back of my throat and I quickly adjusted the air conditioner, willing myself not to cry. I peeked down at the floor between the seats. A Baby-Sitters’ Club book stared back at me. This was a crucial age—some twelve-year-olds still read the BSC, but not mature ones. Not this one. But they had been my comfort books since the first grade and it was hard to break that habit in times of trouble.
Like now.
I picked up the book at looked at the cover. Number 4: the Truth About Stacey.
The Truth About Erica.
I saw my mom weaving her way between cars and buried the book under our pile of purses. Then I fixed my face into an anticipatory expression.
She passed me a Gatorade. “Hope this works,” she said worriedly.
For years to come I would laugh and my mother would wail over the Gatorade. “We’re on our way to the hospital,” she would lament. “She’s been diagnosed as a diabetic for a whole ten minutes, and what do I give her? Straight sugar!”
But then we didn’t know better. I hungrily gulped it down. The thirst was all-encompassing; I was a beggar woman wandering the desert on the verge of hallucinating. It swallowed my tongue and traveled down my throat to where even my stomach was begging for a drop of liquid. I would have drunk sludge just to save my dry, brittle tongue from cracking into dust particles.
The thirst would wake me at night, once, twice, even three times before dawn. There was no question of ignoring it. I would stumble down to the kitchen and put my cracked lips directly on the water pitcher, tossing a glance to the ceiling above me as an apology to Mom, and drink fervently. One more glass and then I swear I’ll go back to bed. Just one more. Okay, one and a half.
“Is your seatbelt on?” she asked me after watching me gulp the red liquid until it was three-fourths gone. I watched as we zipped past my small hometown onto the highway.
“Do you know where we’re going?” I asked my mom.
She laughed uncertainly. “We’ll find out.” That was too much responsibility for me, so I immediately revised her answer. In my head, she was completely in control.
Once she’d set her cruise control at an even 60 mph, she glanced at me. “Now how long exactly were you experiencing symptoms before you told me about them?”
I thought hard, grateful to be focusing on a clearly defined question. “The first time I remember getting up is after we got home from vacation. Remember, it was 1:25 in the morning and you were still up reading when I came down?”
“That was the very beginning of June.” Today was July 25. We pondered that for a moment.
“Well, I didn’t have to get up every night in the beginning. Just five or six times a week. Then I started getting up every night. That’s when I told you.”
“It’s so embarrassing,” I had complained. “Nicole and I were playing Monopoly and I had to get up three times to go to the bathroom. Three times in an hour.”
Her response was calming. She showed motherly concern, but did not let on how frantic she actually was. “We’ll make a doctor’s appointment and see what’s up.”
For the previous six or seven weeks I got up every night, unsure whether it was my thirst or bladder wakening me. One of the nurses told me I was lucky I had never wet the bed. “Most patients do.” I had responded, well, that’s not surprising—I was drinking so much water.
“Actually,” the nurse clarified, “it’s kind of the reverse. Your body didn’t know how to get rid of all the sugar it had piling up inside, so it sends it en route of the bladder.” I had wrinkled my nose at that embarrassing image. Twelve is not an ideal age to be discussing bathroom behavior. The nurse didn’t seem to notice because she continued, “And then, because you’re getting rid of all your liquids in an attempt to also get rid of the sugar, your body becomes severely dehydrated, and that’s why you’re thirsty,” she finished triumphantly as if to say ‘Isn’t biology ah-may-zing?’
I’ve always hated biology.
To be continued...
The humid, mid-July Iowan air caught at the back of my throat and I quickly adjusted the air conditioner, willing myself not to cry. I peeked down at the floor between the seats. A Baby-Sitters’ Club book stared back at me. This was a crucial age—some twelve-year-olds still read the BSC, but not mature ones. Not this one. But they had been my comfort books since the first grade and it was hard to break that habit in times of trouble.
Like now.
I picked up the book at looked at the cover. Number 4: the Truth About Stacey.
The Truth About Erica.
I saw my mom weaving her way between cars and buried the book under our pile of purses. Then I fixed my face into an anticipatory expression.
She passed me a Gatorade. “Hope this works,” she said worriedly.
For years to come I would laugh and my mother would wail over the Gatorade. “We’re on our way to the hospital,” she would lament. “She’s been diagnosed as a diabetic for a whole ten minutes, and what do I give her? Straight sugar!”
But then we didn’t know better. I hungrily gulped it down. The thirst was all-encompassing; I was a beggar woman wandering the desert on the verge of hallucinating. It swallowed my tongue and traveled down my throat to where even my stomach was begging for a drop of liquid. I would have drunk sludge just to save my dry, brittle tongue from cracking into dust particles.
The thirst would wake me at night, once, twice, even three times before dawn. There was no question of ignoring it. I would stumble down to the kitchen and put my cracked lips directly on the water pitcher, tossing a glance to the ceiling above me as an apology to Mom, and drink fervently. One more glass and then I swear I’ll go back to bed. Just one more. Okay, one and a half.
“Is your seatbelt on?” she asked me after watching me gulp the red liquid until it was three-fourths gone. I watched as we zipped past my small hometown onto the highway.
“Do you know where we’re going?” I asked my mom.
She laughed uncertainly. “We’ll find out.” That was too much responsibility for me, so I immediately revised her answer. In my head, she was completely in control.
Once she’d set her cruise control at an even 60 mph, she glanced at me. “Now how long exactly were you experiencing symptoms before you told me about them?”
I thought hard, grateful to be focusing on a clearly defined question. “The first time I remember getting up is after we got home from vacation. Remember, it was 1:25 in the morning and you were still up reading when I came down?”
“That was the very beginning of June.” Today was July 25. We pondered that for a moment.
“Well, I didn’t have to get up every night in the beginning. Just five or six times a week. Then I started getting up every night. That’s when I told you.”
“It’s so embarrassing,” I had complained. “Nicole and I were playing Monopoly and I had to get up three times to go to the bathroom. Three times in an hour.”
Her response was calming. She showed motherly concern, but did not let on how frantic she actually was. “We’ll make a doctor’s appointment and see what’s up.”
For the previous six or seven weeks I got up every night, unsure whether it was my thirst or bladder wakening me. One of the nurses told me I was lucky I had never wet the bed. “Most patients do.” I had responded, well, that’s not surprising—I was drinking so much water.
“Actually,” the nurse clarified, “it’s kind of the reverse. Your body didn’t know how to get rid of all the sugar it had piling up inside, so it sends it en route of the bladder.” I had wrinkled my nose at that embarrassing image. Twelve is not an ideal age to be discussing bathroom behavior. The nurse didn’t seem to notice because she continued, “And then, because you’re getting rid of all your liquids in an attempt to also get rid of the sugar, your body becomes severely dehydrated, and that’s why you’re thirsty,” she finished triumphantly as if to say ‘Isn’t biology ah-may-zing?’
I’ve always hated biology.
To be continued...
Monday, October 27, 2003
Dinnertime
“Dinner!” A brief pause, then a short punctuated, “Girls! Dinner!”
“Tara,” I sigh, “time to eat.”
No response. Typical.
As I make my way through our long, ranch-styled house, I can hear my mother say, “Patrick, they’re not coming.”
“I’m right here!” I announce, a little too disgustedly.
I take my place at the table between Brennan and my mom while assuring her that “Tara’s on her way. I swear.”
“The meat might be too well done,” my mother frets.
“You like it well done,” I remind her.
“Well, I know, but I’m the only one. You try it, Patrick. Is it too well done for you?”
My father sighs and replies automatically, “It’s perfect, April.”
“You didn’t even take a bite. You didn’t even look at it.”
“Do we have to go through this every meal?” Brennan pipes up. “Everything’s great, Mom.”
Tara finally wanders into the kitchen. “You don’t even like steak, Brennan.”
“Well, duh. But if I did, I’d think the steak was great.”
Tara slides into her chair while continuing a conversation she and I had been discussing several hours ago. “So anyway, when I went shopping yesterday, I got this new shirt. It’s really cute—kinda sheer and it has these—”
“Patrick,” my mother declares, “before we go on vacation next week, you need to fix this window.”
My father gives a snort of disgust. “It’s on the passenger side of the car. That means it’s your window. That means you need to fix it.”
“It doesn’t roll down. It really needs to be fixed. … I tell you, if you sat on the passenger side of the car while I drove, this window would be fixed in no time.” After getting no response she continues, “Yup…no doubt about it. Fixed in no time.”
“April, call and set up an appointment to get it fixed.”
“Oh no, I don’t want to do that. I want you to fix it.”
“I can see it now. If I go before you, April, and the window isn’t fixed, you’ll be completely helpless.” His voice takes on an outrageously falsetto tone as he cries, “The window isn’t fixed, whatever shall I do? Aaaaugh!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mom laughs.
“I’m not being ridiculous. I’m being you.”
“No, no. I mean don’t be ridiculous—I wouldn’t have to worry about it because I’d just buy a new car.”
“So it’s kinda sheer and has these button thingies with sleeves that go to just below the elbow,” Tara continues.
“I know exactly what you mean,” I respond as I ladle some corn onto my plate. “I can see it perfectly in my head. Is it black?”
“Er … no.”
“Oh. Well, then, never mind.”
“Where are you getting the money to buy these clothes?” my father interjects suspiciously.
“Um, hel-lo! I have a job and get a paycheck and everything.”
“Shouldn’t you be saving your money for more important things? Don’t you have enough clothes?”
“No, that’s Erica. I barely have any.”
“Right.” He rolls his eyes.
“Where’d you buy it?” my mother inquires brightly.
“Vanity.”
Brennan interjects, “It doesn’t bother you that you purchase your clothing from a store telling you you’re vain?”
Tara ignores him entirely, so I take it upon myself to answer. “You know, you’d think it would, but sadly enough, I actually really like the name.” I twirl my hair and snap my gum while exaggerating a Valley girl accent. “Does that, like, make me, you know, like, shallow?”
“I don’t know about shallow, but it definitely makes you an idiot,” Brennan diagnoses helpfully.
My mother takes control of the conversation. “Speaking of idiots, Brennan, as soon as your dishes are done, you’ve got to clean up that mess in the sun porch that you and the guys made yesterday.”
“That’s not my mess! It was already messy when we went in there.”
“That’s only because it was still messy from you guys the day before.”
“Ryan doesn’t have to do anything around his house!” Brennan whines. “Why should I have to?”
“Isn’t Ryan the one who was going to let his rabbit starve to death because he was too lazy to feed it?” Tara interrupts.
“Yeah,” Brennan confirms. “He’s an idiot.”
“Well, that settles that. Erica, have some corn.”
“I had some, Mom. I already ate them.”
“Have some more.”
I’m torn between whining, “But I don’t wanna!” and acting my age. Maturity wins. “Mom, please. I’m 21. I’ll decide if I want more vegetables.”
“You know, if you’d eaten your veggies when you were a kid you’d be taller than 5-foot-two.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, but then all my pants would be too short. Come on, not this again!”
She changed tactics. “You’re being awful quiet, Patrick,” my mom informs him.
“Sorry.” Tara and I exchange a glance over the now-empty bowl of mashed potatoes. I don’t remember a meal in the last two decades where my mom hasn’t notified my dad he was being abnormally quiet. If he ever snaps out of it and contributes to the frenzied discourse of an Acton meal as much as the rest of us, I’ll probably choke on my carrots and die of shock.
“Hey, you know what?” my mom asks. “I think this is the first meal in months that we’ve had with no outside interruptions. Mark that one down in the record books!” And then, just as she begins to stand up, the phone rings.
She slumps back in her chair and motions for Brennan, Mr. Popular, to get the phone. “I spoke too soon.”
“Yeah,” Brennan adds, as the rest of us move to begin the dishes. “But at least the meat wasn’t overcooked.”
“Tara,” I sigh, “time to eat.”
No response. Typical.
As I make my way through our long, ranch-styled house, I can hear my mother say, “Patrick, they’re not coming.”
“I’m right here!” I announce, a little too disgustedly.
I take my place at the table between Brennan and my mom while assuring her that “Tara’s on her way. I swear.”
“The meat might be too well done,” my mother frets.
“You like it well done,” I remind her.
“Well, I know, but I’m the only one. You try it, Patrick. Is it too well done for you?”
My father sighs and replies automatically, “It’s perfect, April.”
“You didn’t even take a bite. You didn’t even look at it.”
“Do we have to go through this every meal?” Brennan pipes up. “Everything’s great, Mom.”
Tara finally wanders into the kitchen. “You don’t even like steak, Brennan.”
“Well, duh. But if I did, I’d think the steak was great.”
Tara slides into her chair while continuing a conversation she and I had been discussing several hours ago. “So anyway, when I went shopping yesterday, I got this new shirt. It’s really cute—kinda sheer and it has these—”
“Patrick,” my mother declares, “before we go on vacation next week, you need to fix this window.”
My father gives a snort of disgust. “It’s on the passenger side of the car. That means it’s your window. That means you need to fix it.”
“It doesn’t roll down. It really needs to be fixed. … I tell you, if you sat on the passenger side of the car while I drove, this window would be fixed in no time.” After getting no response she continues, “Yup…no doubt about it. Fixed in no time.”
“April, call and set up an appointment to get it fixed.”
“Oh no, I don’t want to do that. I want you to fix it.”
“I can see it now. If I go before you, April, and the window isn’t fixed, you’ll be completely helpless.” His voice takes on an outrageously falsetto tone as he cries, “The window isn’t fixed, whatever shall I do? Aaaaugh!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mom laughs.
“I’m not being ridiculous. I’m being you.”
“No, no. I mean don’t be ridiculous—I wouldn’t have to worry about it because I’d just buy a new car.”
“So it’s kinda sheer and has these button thingies with sleeves that go to just below the elbow,” Tara continues.
“I know exactly what you mean,” I respond as I ladle some corn onto my plate. “I can see it perfectly in my head. Is it black?”
“Er … no.”
“Oh. Well, then, never mind.”
“Where are you getting the money to buy these clothes?” my father interjects suspiciously.
“Um, hel-lo! I have a job and get a paycheck and everything.”
“Shouldn’t you be saving your money for more important things? Don’t you have enough clothes?”
“No, that’s Erica. I barely have any.”
“Right.” He rolls his eyes.
“Where’d you buy it?” my mother inquires brightly.
“Vanity.”
Brennan interjects, “It doesn’t bother you that you purchase your clothing from a store telling you you’re vain?”
Tara ignores him entirely, so I take it upon myself to answer. “You know, you’d think it would, but sadly enough, I actually really like the name.” I twirl my hair and snap my gum while exaggerating a Valley girl accent. “Does that, like, make me, you know, like, shallow?”
“I don’t know about shallow, but it definitely makes you an idiot,” Brennan diagnoses helpfully.
My mother takes control of the conversation. “Speaking of idiots, Brennan, as soon as your dishes are done, you’ve got to clean up that mess in the sun porch that you and the guys made yesterday.”
“That’s not my mess! It was already messy when we went in there.”
“That’s only because it was still messy from you guys the day before.”
“Ryan doesn’t have to do anything around his house!” Brennan whines. “Why should I have to?”
“Isn’t Ryan the one who was going to let his rabbit starve to death because he was too lazy to feed it?” Tara interrupts.
“Yeah,” Brennan confirms. “He’s an idiot.”
“Well, that settles that. Erica, have some corn.”
“I had some, Mom. I already ate them.”
“Have some more.”
I’m torn between whining, “But I don’t wanna!” and acting my age. Maturity wins. “Mom, please. I’m 21. I’ll decide if I want more vegetables.”
“You know, if you’d eaten your veggies when you were a kid you’d be taller than 5-foot-two.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, but then all my pants would be too short. Come on, not this again!”
She changed tactics. “You’re being awful quiet, Patrick,” my mom informs him.
“Sorry.” Tara and I exchange a glance over the now-empty bowl of mashed potatoes. I don’t remember a meal in the last two decades where my mom hasn’t notified my dad he was being abnormally quiet. If he ever snaps out of it and contributes to the frenzied discourse of an Acton meal as much as the rest of us, I’ll probably choke on my carrots and die of shock.
“Hey, you know what?” my mom asks. “I think this is the first meal in months that we’ve had with no outside interruptions. Mark that one down in the record books!” And then, just as she begins to stand up, the phone rings.
She slumps back in her chair and motions for Brennan, Mr. Popular, to get the phone. “I spoke too soon.”
“Yeah,” Brennan adds, as the rest of us move to begin the dishes. “But at least the meat wasn’t overcooked.”
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Erica's Typing
Today at the student union, I heard two girls talking about their sorority sister. "Erica types so loud!" one shrieked.
"Erica," the other announced authoritatively (it was obvious she was the roommate--the expert--from her tone), "pounds the keyboard like it's a piano!" She slammed both hands down for emphasis.
I don't know these girls and these girls certainly don't know how I type, but I made myself promise that I wouldn't pummel the keyboard as I usually do, but instead gently tap the keys the next time I have a paper due.
"Erica," the other announced authoritatively (it was obvious she was the roommate--the expert--from her tone), "pounds the keyboard like it's a piano!" She slammed both hands down for emphasis.
I don't know these girls and these girls certainly don't know how I type, but I made myself promise that I wouldn't pummel the keyboard as I usually do, but instead gently tap the keys the next time I have a paper due.
Thursday, October 16, 2003
Overheard dialogue
: The SuRpRisE PaRTy
“I’ve got the crepe paper and Natty’s got the balloons,” Kim announced, charging through to the apartment across the hall.”
“Move out, troops. Operation: Rochelle’s birthday has commenced.”
“I can’t reach anything,” I complained. “I have to stand on the furniture to do the crepe paper.”
“Help with balloons,” Ashley directed.
“But Kim and Natty are doing that. I’ll be in charge of the tape,” I decided, picking up the Scotch tape.
“Stop the chitchatting,” Kim ordered. “She’s gonna be back any second. Tape!”
“I think we’ve got a few minutes. She told Erica she wouldn’t be back till closer to 7:00. Tape!” Ashley responded.
“Tape, please!” Natty sang from across the room. After handing her the piece of Scotch tape, we looked around. “I’ve only got one more balloon,” she announced to the room. “Where should I put it?”
“Hang it from that crepe paper that goes from one corner to the other,” I suggested.
“That’ll look stupid.”
“So? Who cares? That’s the point.”
As she taped the balloon to the crepe, the entire streamer fell down.
“Shit!” Ashley screeched from across the room. “Now you’ve done it!”
She struggled to reattach it to the ceiling while I got the tape ready. “I can’t reach it!” she huffed and puffed. “It’s too high!”
“Ash, it doesn’t have to be taped to the ceiling. Just tape it to the wall.”
“That’ll look stupid!”
“What is it with you people? What are we, a professional party service? Rochelle is not going to come in here and say, ‘That streamer’s not attached to the ceiling; it looks terrible!’ She’s not even gonna notice.” Ashley ignored me and hung it to the ceiling.
“Finished,” Kim declared.
We oohed and aahed and squealed and exclaimed over our work, then turned off the lights and sat down to wait for Ro to get home. After about two minutes, I whispered, “I’m bored.”
“Shh!” three other voices told me.
“How about if someone’s lookout?” Kim suggested.
Ashley manned the front window. “With the candle burning over there it looks like a scene out of Sleeping Beauty. ‘Touch the spindle of the spinning wheel!’” she commanded.
This caused Natty and me to get the giggles.
“She’s coming, she’s coming,” Ashley cried. “Here comes her car.”
We ran to resume our places and Kim and I pulled out our cameras. I couldn’t stop laughing. “Shh!” Ashley cautioned.
“She’s not coming yet,” I managed to say through my laughter. “First she’s gotta park her car and get her bag.”
Kim, Ashley and Natty exploded into laughter.
“What’s so funny?” I huffed.
“Shh! Shh! She’s coming, I heard the outside door.”
A second later the key was in the lock. Then—
“SURPRISE!”
“I’ve got the crepe paper and Natty’s got the balloons,” Kim announced, charging through to the apartment across the hall.”
“Move out, troops. Operation: Rochelle’s birthday has commenced.”
“I can’t reach anything,” I complained. “I have to stand on the furniture to do the crepe paper.”
“Help with balloons,” Ashley directed.
“But Kim and Natty are doing that. I’ll be in charge of the tape,” I decided, picking up the Scotch tape.
“Stop the chitchatting,” Kim ordered. “She’s gonna be back any second. Tape!”
“I think we’ve got a few minutes. She told Erica she wouldn’t be back till closer to 7:00. Tape!” Ashley responded.
“Tape, please!” Natty sang from across the room. After handing her the piece of Scotch tape, we looked around. “I’ve only got one more balloon,” she announced to the room. “Where should I put it?”
“Hang it from that crepe paper that goes from one corner to the other,” I suggested.
“That’ll look stupid.”
“So? Who cares? That’s the point.”
As she taped the balloon to the crepe, the entire streamer fell down.
“Shit!” Ashley screeched from across the room. “Now you’ve done it!”
She struggled to reattach it to the ceiling while I got the tape ready. “I can’t reach it!” she huffed and puffed. “It’s too high!”
“Ash, it doesn’t have to be taped to the ceiling. Just tape it to the wall.”
“That’ll look stupid!”
“What is it with you people? What are we, a professional party service? Rochelle is not going to come in here and say, ‘That streamer’s not attached to the ceiling; it looks terrible!’ She’s not even gonna notice.” Ashley ignored me and hung it to the ceiling.
“Finished,” Kim declared.
We oohed and aahed and squealed and exclaimed over our work, then turned off the lights and sat down to wait for Ro to get home. After about two minutes, I whispered, “I’m bored.”
“Shh!” three other voices told me.
“How about if someone’s lookout?” Kim suggested.
Ashley manned the front window. “With the candle burning over there it looks like a scene out of Sleeping Beauty. ‘Touch the spindle of the spinning wheel!’” she commanded.
This caused Natty and me to get the giggles.
“She’s coming, she’s coming,” Ashley cried. “Here comes her car.”
We ran to resume our places and Kim and I pulled out our cameras. I couldn’t stop laughing. “Shh!” Ashley cautioned.
“She’s not coming yet,” I managed to say through my laughter. “First she’s gotta park her car and get her bag.”
Kim, Ashley and Natty exploded into laughter.
“What’s so funny?” I huffed.
“Shh! Shh! She’s coming, I heard the outside door.”
A second later the key was in the lock. Then—
“SURPRISE!”
Sunday, October 12, 2003
CuRly hAiR
I have always been obsessed with people’s hair, perhaps because I’m convinced there is a connection between a person’s hair and how that person defines him or herself. Growing up, each girl in my classes had different hair. Some had blonde, dark brown, light brown. Chocolate-colored, caramel-colored, the shade of fire and the shade of straw. Some had long hair, pouring down their backs like a waterfall; some had short Tinkerbell pixie cuts. Some had short hair chopped off at the chin or at the shoulders. The only similarity was that every girl had straight hair. Everyone … except one.
When Iowa’s atmosphere turns heavy and humid and anything moveable begins to react to the sauna that is summer in the Midwest, my hair balloons into a giant tent around my head. It takes on a life of its own, and I’ll always remember an acquaintance’s comment, “Your hair is eating your head!” On rainy days and through the summers, I could always feel my self-confidence plummeting as my hair rose. Why couldn’t I just have straight hair like all the normal girls?
College is an amazing thing. In some ways it forces and in other ways it allows you to become yourself. I spent years of my childhood fighting Mother Nature armed only with a hairdryer, a straightener, and FrizzEase (thank you, John Frieda!) Nights spent out and about with friends in college proved that early morning wake-up call was just too early, and an amazing thing happened: I stopped straightening my hair.
My friends began to call me Pigpen due to the state of frizz and curls and general chaos my hair is in upon wakening every morning and although I tried to fix this, nothing worked. (Pulling it into a ponytail only makes the shorter hairs fall out and stick straight up). At first I was embarrassed by my general state, but then I gradually came to terms with it.
Slowly but surely I began to wear it curly everyday—not just on mornings I woke up late. And slowly but surely I began to (gasp!) like it. Four years later and I can’t even remember the last time I wore my hair straight. Now when it gets curly, I point it out and laugh at myself. I buy myself Pigpen T-shirts and egg on the jokes.
This is only one of my many unwelcome qualities, and not to say it’s gone—I still have bad hair days. Some days, I wake up and look in the mirror, shriek, and still want to run and hide under the covers. The difference is what I saw as a curse when I was a kid is now something I allow myself to feel good about. Now instead of hiding under the covers or repressing with a straightener, I force myself to look in the mirror. And smile. And face the undesirable qualities. They are what make me me. And somehow, by the end of the day, those characteristics become personally distinctive and are almost … yes, appreciated.
When Iowa’s atmosphere turns heavy and humid and anything moveable begins to react to the sauna that is summer in the Midwest, my hair balloons into a giant tent around my head. It takes on a life of its own, and I’ll always remember an acquaintance’s comment, “Your hair is eating your head!” On rainy days and through the summers, I could always feel my self-confidence plummeting as my hair rose. Why couldn’t I just have straight hair like all the normal girls?
College is an amazing thing. In some ways it forces and in other ways it allows you to become yourself. I spent years of my childhood fighting Mother Nature armed only with a hairdryer, a straightener, and FrizzEase (thank you, John Frieda!) Nights spent out and about with friends in college proved that early morning wake-up call was just too early, and an amazing thing happened: I stopped straightening my hair.
My friends began to call me Pigpen due to the state of frizz and curls and general chaos my hair is in upon wakening every morning and although I tried to fix this, nothing worked. (Pulling it into a ponytail only makes the shorter hairs fall out and stick straight up). At first I was embarrassed by my general state, but then I gradually came to terms with it.
Slowly but surely I began to wear it curly everyday—not just on mornings I woke up late. And slowly but surely I began to (gasp!) like it. Four years later and I can’t even remember the last time I wore my hair straight. Now when it gets curly, I point it out and laugh at myself. I buy myself Pigpen T-shirts and egg on the jokes.
This is only one of my many unwelcome qualities, and not to say it’s gone—I still have bad hair days. Some days, I wake up and look in the mirror, shriek, and still want to run and hide under the covers. The difference is what I saw as a curse when I was a kid is now something I allow myself to feel good about. Now instead of hiding under the covers or repressing with a straightener, I force myself to look in the mirror. And smile. And face the undesirable qualities. They are what make me me. And somehow, by the end of the day, those characteristics become personally distinctive and are almost … yes, appreciated.
Friday, October 10, 2003
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
In the Scrapbook of my Mind
Today I went to visit my friend Jenny. Jenny hasn’t been my roommate since freshman year, and although that was more than three years ago, sometimes it still feels like I’ll go home to find Jenny sitting at her computer typing away on aol while telling me a story about a “stupid boy” and asking if she can borrow my black boots—“you know, the going out ones.”
The reality is that, although when we get together, we giggle and gossip like we’ve never been separated, we rarely see each other now. We try to have lunch a couple times a semester and talk on the phone a handful of times, but she has her friends and I have mine, and although our groups wave and say hi to each other, we rarely all hang out together.
Anytime I see her, I immediately begin reminiscing about the year we lived together; the year we knew each other inside and out. I always think of the time we stayed up until four a.m. “studying” for our 7:30 a.m. final exam in American politics. “It’s impossible to study without making Velveeta shells and cheese, giving each other pedicures, and talking about our families,” we rationalized all night long. I think about how we never once said good night to each other all year long because we would chatter long into the night until one of us finally dropped off to sleep. I think about how I would tease her for being a computer geek and she would ridicule my addiction to soap operas. I remember how we would instant messenger each other even though our desks were close enough we could have reached out and touched each other. I remember tuning into MTV’s Undressed and not being able to turn it off despite our unanimous vote it was hideous. “It’s like a train wreck,” we would patiently explain to our friends, “you can’t not look at it.” “Yeah,” the other would chime in, “it’s so bad, it’s good.” I reminisce on our super hero names—Super Curl and Phat Girl—and our made up words—churmastotastic—because “great” and “super” just didn’t seem to cover it. I remember how I used to tease her about her fingernails. “You paint them and then immediately take the polish off. Then you paint them again and take the polish off again. I mean, really Jen! What’s the point?” I remember the first night we bonded while sitting on our dorm room floor. “You collected unicorns when you were little? Me too!” “Your mom is an English teacher, speech coach, and drama director? Mine too!” “You were the shortest person in your graduating class? Me too!”
Today we had a conversation the way we used to. I said, “I brought you a package.” I’m sorry about your dad. She said, “Shells and cheese!” My comfort food. You remembered. I said, “Among other things.” Her face twisted and did something indescribable to my throat as she pulled out the stuffed unicorn. “You shouldn’t have.” Thank you. I cleared my throat and said thickly through the fuzz, “I’ll be there on Thursday. Call me if you need anything.” Or call me if you don’t.
And as I left her, walking the long dark sidewalk to the street and watching the glittering reflections of the street lamp bounce off the asphalt, my chest clutched a little as I realized today’s visit was already locked up in the scrapbook of my mind alongside nail polish and MTV and all-nighters, right where it didn’t belong. And my heart wanted to weep a little for her at its finality.
The reality is that, although when we get together, we giggle and gossip like we’ve never been separated, we rarely see each other now. We try to have lunch a couple times a semester and talk on the phone a handful of times, but she has her friends and I have mine, and although our groups wave and say hi to each other, we rarely all hang out together.
Anytime I see her, I immediately begin reminiscing about the year we lived together; the year we knew each other inside and out. I always think of the time we stayed up until four a.m. “studying” for our 7:30 a.m. final exam in American politics. “It’s impossible to study without making Velveeta shells and cheese, giving each other pedicures, and talking about our families,” we rationalized all night long. I think about how we never once said good night to each other all year long because we would chatter long into the night until one of us finally dropped off to sleep. I think about how I would tease her for being a computer geek and she would ridicule my addiction to soap operas. I remember how we would instant messenger each other even though our desks were close enough we could have reached out and touched each other. I remember tuning into MTV’s Undressed and not being able to turn it off despite our unanimous vote it was hideous. “It’s like a train wreck,” we would patiently explain to our friends, “you can’t not look at it.” “Yeah,” the other would chime in, “it’s so bad, it’s good.” I reminisce on our super hero names—Super Curl and Phat Girl—and our made up words—churmastotastic—because “great” and “super” just didn’t seem to cover it. I remember how I used to tease her about her fingernails. “You paint them and then immediately take the polish off. Then you paint them again and take the polish off again. I mean, really Jen! What’s the point?” I remember the first night we bonded while sitting on our dorm room floor. “You collected unicorns when you were little? Me too!” “Your mom is an English teacher, speech coach, and drama director? Mine too!” “You were the shortest person in your graduating class? Me too!”
Today we had a conversation the way we used to. I said, “I brought you a package.” I’m sorry about your dad. She said, “Shells and cheese!” My comfort food. You remembered. I said, “Among other things.” Her face twisted and did something indescribable to my throat as she pulled out the stuffed unicorn. “You shouldn’t have.” Thank you. I cleared my throat and said thickly through the fuzz, “I’ll be there on Thursday. Call me if you need anything.” Or call me if you don’t.
And as I left her, walking the long dark sidewalk to the street and watching the glittering reflections of the street lamp bounce off the asphalt, my chest clutched a little as I realized today’s visit was already locked up in the scrapbook of my mind alongside nail polish and MTV and all-nighters, right where it didn’t belong. And my heart wanted to weep a little for her at its finality.
Friday, October 03, 2003
When Your Younger Brother Grows Up
When your younger brother grows up, most likely it will come as a bit of a shock. You will be doing lots of growing up on your own—graduating from high school, moving away to college, developing your own life, staring your college graduation and future in the face—and suddenly you realize that while you were doing all your growing up, alas! Time did not stand still and your younger brother is indeed growing into his own person.
You’re shocked when you wander into his room one day and he’s watching … MTV?!? He’s far too young for that, you think, and just when the words begin to form on your lips, you suddenly realize he’s fifteen. When you were fifteen you were nearly all grown up, a young adult with a job and school driving permit making your own choices. Is it possible that he is nearly all grown up?
Now that you stop and think about it, the evidence if mounting. Remember the time you went to see Lord of the Rings with him, and amidst all the swashbuckling and swordfighting and intricate plot and numerous characters with names beginning with ‘G,’ you find that you have no idea what the hell is going on. And just when you’ve come to terms with this, and have decided to instead focus on the eye candy, er—actors, the younger brother leans over and whispers, “That guy’s had the ring for years and has gone mad from its power.” You look over in shocked silence. He obviously knows what’s going on and you don’t. In other words, he knows what’s going on and you don’t. He’s the more informed, the expert, the one with the answers. And, even more shocking, instead of feeling as if you’ve gone through the Twilight Zone or come out the wrong end of a timewarp, you’re … impressed.
Gradually you become more aware of the person he’s turning into. He makes you laugh—and now it’s not just because he says stupid but hilarious remarks, but because he’s actually funny. His emails have the wry, off-the-wall tone distinctive to the other entertainer in the family; your sister. He can impersonate many actors and is especially good at never breaking character.
And now, you are not the only one looking out for others. Now when you go to see movies, he leans over and whispers to you, “You may want to leave. You’re not gonna like this scene coming up.” But when you don’t, and spiders the size of houses begin scuttling across the screen, he pats your arm and asks gently, “Do we need to leave?” as you convulse and shake your limbs to get the hairy gigantic arachnids that are now crawling on you off. Afterwards, he doesn’t even say, I told you so.
But despite all this, you still go home and discover the crumbs and spills all over the floor that he and his posse left for you. You find yourself wanting to smack him or at the very least shake some sense into him. But instead, you satisfy yourself with giving him a lecture on responsibility and cleanliness, culminating with a scream, “What’s wrong with you?” And suddenly, you’re transported back 15 years and in your mind’s eye, you see the puckered face of the newborn brother with his shiny, perfect nose and eyes squinted shut, and his tiny, pink fist wrapped around your pinky finger. You cringe at the memory of the day your six-year-old self accidentally dropped him and the hysterical weeping in the locked bathroom that followed. You remember the time you lost him for thirty seconds in Hallmark and the panic-edged horror that chomped your heart. You remember your first year of college when he called to tell you he loved you and missed you. And the answer to your own question hovers in your heart. What’s wrong with him? Absolutely nothing.
You’re shocked when you wander into his room one day and he’s watching … MTV?!? He’s far too young for that, you think, and just when the words begin to form on your lips, you suddenly realize he’s fifteen. When you were fifteen you were nearly all grown up, a young adult with a job and school driving permit making your own choices. Is it possible that he is nearly all grown up?
Now that you stop and think about it, the evidence if mounting. Remember the time you went to see Lord of the Rings with him, and amidst all the swashbuckling and swordfighting and intricate plot and numerous characters with names beginning with ‘G,’ you find that you have no idea what the hell is going on. And just when you’ve come to terms with this, and have decided to instead focus on the eye candy, er—actors, the younger brother leans over and whispers, “That guy’s had the ring for years and has gone mad from its power.” You look over in shocked silence. He obviously knows what’s going on and you don’t. In other words, he knows what’s going on and you don’t. He’s the more informed, the expert, the one with the answers. And, even more shocking, instead of feeling as if you’ve gone through the Twilight Zone or come out the wrong end of a timewarp, you’re … impressed.
Gradually you become more aware of the person he’s turning into. He makes you laugh—and now it’s not just because he says stupid but hilarious remarks, but because he’s actually funny. His emails have the wry, off-the-wall tone distinctive to the other entertainer in the family; your sister. He can impersonate many actors and is especially good at never breaking character.
And now, you are not the only one looking out for others. Now when you go to see movies, he leans over and whispers to you, “You may want to leave. You’re not gonna like this scene coming up.” But when you don’t, and spiders the size of houses begin scuttling across the screen, he pats your arm and asks gently, “Do we need to leave?” as you convulse and shake your limbs to get the hairy gigantic arachnids that are now crawling on you off. Afterwards, he doesn’t even say, I told you so.
But despite all this, you still go home and discover the crumbs and spills all over the floor that he and his posse left for you. You find yourself wanting to smack him or at the very least shake some sense into him. But instead, you satisfy yourself with giving him a lecture on responsibility and cleanliness, culminating with a scream, “What’s wrong with you?” And suddenly, you’re transported back 15 years and in your mind’s eye, you see the puckered face of the newborn brother with his shiny, perfect nose and eyes squinted shut, and his tiny, pink fist wrapped around your pinky finger. You cringe at the memory of the day your six-year-old self accidentally dropped him and the hysterical weeping in the locked bathroom that followed. You remember the time you lost him for thirty seconds in Hallmark and the panic-edged horror that chomped your heart. You remember your first year of college when he called to tell you he loved you and missed you. And the answer to your own question hovers in your heart. What’s wrong with him? Absolutely nothing.
Saturday, September 27, 2003
S’mores
Emily pulled out the economy-sized Hershey’s chocolate bar and as she began to break it into thumb-sized pieces she remarked, “You two can each have one piece. The rest are for me.” She flipped over the packaging and read, “Serving size: 5.”
Tara cut in, “It’d be perfect for you … if you were five people.”
I was distracted by Aunt Mel prodding me with a long oddly-shaped stick that Rob had roused from the yard. I grabbed it reluctantly. “I don’t really like my marshmallows roasted. Well, I guess I’ll eat it as long as it’s just lightly golden.”
The rest of the family was incredulous. No, no. If you do it that way, your chocolate won’t even be melted. It will be one solid hunk instead of a gooey mess that drips down your fingers and onto your clothes. No, no. It’s best when you allow it to get really burnt—or better yet, catch on fire so you have to blow it out.
I ignored them, refusing to yield in a situation where I could end up with dark chocolate stains down the front of me. I happily ate my treat without dripping anything down the front of me, studying the Christmas lights twined around the tree. I squinted and unsquinted my eyes, making the happy sparks glitter and fuzz, then sharply clear and come into focus. I imagined my parents a state away on a trip, and wished suddenly, urgently, that they were here to see the sparkling stars glimmering only ten feet in front of my eyes.
Emily tried to make Grandpa a S’more but had difficulty in getting the angle right. Her mom kept urging, “Just sit on the ground. Settle into that dirt; it’s really comfortable.” She had urged me the same thing also; that was how I knew my marshmallow was done. But Emily is always a good sport and settled in as she watched not one, not two, but three marshmallows fall off her stick and into the dirt. Just as surely as her marshmallow would go up in flames, it would fall off her stick and into the fire.
“Oh well,” Melody said philosophically. “It’s just adding a nice scent to the fire.” The hypnotizing flames, bellies full of food, and atmosphere of family cheer were making us intoxicated and we all laughed with good humor found usually only on Christmas night after the younger grandchildren had disappeared into a bedroom to play with their various games while the older grandchildren, myself included, listened to our parents discuss memories from their childhood.
Our voices got cheerier and more boisterous until we three girls, Emily, Tara, and I, were shrieking with laughter as Aunt Mel and Grandma auctioned graham crackers (regular and chocolate), marshmallows, leftover cake, and two 16 ounce bars of chocolate on us. As an afterthought, Mel shoved a bag of potato chips into a Ziploc baggie and asked who wanted them. The contents of my shoulder bag were already so full my arm stuck out ala Randy in A Christmas Story, so I figured how much could one more bag hurt. I held the straps open as Melody wrestled the chips in without crushing them. Amidst waves of good-byes, more giggling from the girls and Mel, and a studied walk down to the curb so as to avoid crushing the plants, we could hear Grandma advising, “Now girls, don’t eat that chocolate all in one night.”
We piled into Emily’s car, careful to avoid the seat that had gotten wet in the carwash, and laughed all the way home, stomachs hurting at the thought of all that delicious food that would be awaiting us tomorrow.
Tara cut in, “It’d be perfect for you … if you were five people.”
I was distracted by Aunt Mel prodding me with a long oddly-shaped stick that Rob had roused from the yard. I grabbed it reluctantly. “I don’t really like my marshmallows roasted. Well, I guess I’ll eat it as long as it’s just lightly golden.”
The rest of the family was incredulous. No, no. If you do it that way, your chocolate won’t even be melted. It will be one solid hunk instead of a gooey mess that drips down your fingers and onto your clothes. No, no. It’s best when you allow it to get really burnt—or better yet, catch on fire so you have to blow it out.
I ignored them, refusing to yield in a situation where I could end up with dark chocolate stains down the front of me. I happily ate my treat without dripping anything down the front of me, studying the Christmas lights twined around the tree. I squinted and unsquinted my eyes, making the happy sparks glitter and fuzz, then sharply clear and come into focus. I imagined my parents a state away on a trip, and wished suddenly, urgently, that they were here to see the sparkling stars glimmering only ten feet in front of my eyes.
Emily tried to make Grandpa a S’more but had difficulty in getting the angle right. Her mom kept urging, “Just sit on the ground. Settle into that dirt; it’s really comfortable.” She had urged me the same thing also; that was how I knew my marshmallow was done. But Emily is always a good sport and settled in as she watched not one, not two, but three marshmallows fall off her stick and into the dirt. Just as surely as her marshmallow would go up in flames, it would fall off her stick and into the fire.
“Oh well,” Melody said philosophically. “It’s just adding a nice scent to the fire.” The hypnotizing flames, bellies full of food, and atmosphere of family cheer were making us intoxicated and we all laughed with good humor found usually only on Christmas night after the younger grandchildren had disappeared into a bedroom to play with their various games while the older grandchildren, myself included, listened to our parents discuss memories from their childhood.
Our voices got cheerier and more boisterous until we three girls, Emily, Tara, and I, were shrieking with laughter as Aunt Mel and Grandma auctioned graham crackers (regular and chocolate), marshmallows, leftover cake, and two 16 ounce bars of chocolate on us. As an afterthought, Mel shoved a bag of potato chips into a Ziploc baggie and asked who wanted them. The contents of my shoulder bag were already so full my arm stuck out ala Randy in A Christmas Story, so I figured how much could one more bag hurt. I held the straps open as Melody wrestled the chips in without crushing them. Amidst waves of good-byes, more giggling from the girls and Mel, and a studied walk down to the curb so as to avoid crushing the plants, we could hear Grandma advising, “Now girls, don’t eat that chocolate all in one night.”
We piled into Emily’s car, careful to avoid the seat that had gotten wet in the carwash, and laughed all the way home, stomachs hurting at the thought of all that delicious food that would be awaiting us tomorrow.
Saturday, September 20, 2003
Nature Girl: That’s (Not) Me
I love nature. I go for long walks in the woods and hike up mountains before breakfast. I pitch my tent and wander to the stream where I bathe leisurely before relaxing in the sun while I read Hemingway. I am one with nature. Later I catch my own fish and clean and cook it myself. Howling wolves don’t scare me—I revel in the danger the wilderness offers me. I am woman. Hear me roar.
In reality, I hide inside. I want the air conditioner on if the temperature gets even slightly above 77 degrees. I stay up late and sleep in late. Early to bed and early to rise may make a man healthy, wealthy and wise, but it also takes a toll on a girl’s social life. Plus, it’s boring. I don’t sit in the sun without my 45 SPF sunscreen, and my J.Lo-inspired straw hat makes a fashion statement as much as it shelters me from harmful UV rays. I never, ever go anywhere without my cell phone. You just never know who you might need to get in contact with.
Friends will occasionally suggest we do something new and exciting and I’m quick to agree. Hey, I’m spontaneous. “Yeah, camping’s great. I used to camp all the time. Let’s do it sometime. We’ll make S’mores.” Later, I am forced to set them straight. “Camping?” I repeat, wrinkling my nose. “As in … a tent … and no bathrooms? Sure, camping’s great in theory. But in actual practice…” I trail off, indicating I know something they don’t from my extensive history with the wilderness of the Midwest. “Besides, what about showering? I have to shower. Everyday. It’s this thing I have. And we’ll need pop. You know how I like to have a diet Cherry Coke every couple of hours. Vending machines don’t grow on trees, you know.”
Then I’ll pick up my Cosmo or InStyle and see a cute work-out outfit or brand new sneakers in a color I just have to have—never mind that I never wear shoes that aren’t either a) flip-flops or b) something strappy with a heel that will put me above 5 foot 2. Now, to go along with the new shoes, I’ll need a new denim skirt—one of those ones that looks like it’s been washed a million times—and brand new make-up to give myself that au naturale look I’m aiming for.
“Earth tones are in this fall, Rixie,” one of my friends recently informed me. “What?” I cried in a panic. “Earth tones? I don’t have the coloring for earth tones. More to the point, I don’t have the wardrobe for earth tones.” I have to wonder if, when the fashion gods decided earth tones were in, they counted on all the drama that goes along with preparing for a season. I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that there’s only one thing to do: hit the mall. Might as well break in those new sneakers.
In reality, I hide inside. I want the air conditioner on if the temperature gets even slightly above 77 degrees. I stay up late and sleep in late. Early to bed and early to rise may make a man healthy, wealthy and wise, but it also takes a toll on a girl’s social life. Plus, it’s boring. I don’t sit in the sun without my 45 SPF sunscreen, and my J.Lo-inspired straw hat makes a fashion statement as much as it shelters me from harmful UV rays. I never, ever go anywhere without my cell phone. You just never know who you might need to get in contact with.
Friends will occasionally suggest we do something new and exciting and I’m quick to agree. Hey, I’m spontaneous. “Yeah, camping’s great. I used to camp all the time. Let’s do it sometime. We’ll make S’mores.” Later, I am forced to set them straight. “Camping?” I repeat, wrinkling my nose. “As in … a tent … and no bathrooms? Sure, camping’s great in theory. But in actual practice…” I trail off, indicating I know something they don’t from my extensive history with the wilderness of the Midwest. “Besides, what about showering? I have to shower. Everyday. It’s this thing I have. And we’ll need pop. You know how I like to have a diet Cherry Coke every couple of hours. Vending machines don’t grow on trees, you know.”
Then I’ll pick up my Cosmo or InStyle and see a cute work-out outfit or brand new sneakers in a color I just have to have—never mind that I never wear shoes that aren’t either a) flip-flops or b) something strappy with a heel that will put me above 5 foot 2. Now, to go along with the new shoes, I’ll need a new denim skirt—one of those ones that looks like it’s been washed a million times—and brand new make-up to give myself that au naturale look I’m aiming for.
“Earth tones are in this fall, Rixie,” one of my friends recently informed me. “What?” I cried in a panic. “Earth tones? I don’t have the coloring for earth tones. More to the point, I don’t have the wardrobe for earth tones.” I have to wonder if, when the fashion gods decided earth tones were in, they counted on all the drama that goes along with preparing for a season. I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that there’s only one thing to do: hit the mall. Might as well break in those new sneakers.
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
The Sanctuary
"This is our apartment, this is a girl's apartment. It's pretty and it's purple."
--Jennifer Aniston, Friends
The Sanctuary
From the outside it’s not much. Set on a dead end street with a backdrop of several railroad tracks that periodically rumble through as the Midwest version of an earthquake, the apartment buildings are small, square and brick. There’s little grass to be found, and what remains is russet and lifeless. But mostly there are patches of mud, so deep they take close to a week to dry out after a rainstorm. A herd of motorcycles belonging to the building manager rests comfortably outside the front door blocking the entrance to the building. The tenants pretend not to notice out of respect—or possibly fear—for the manager. A small woman whose skin has seen too much sun and hair has seen too much bleach, she manages to intimidate most people at the first meeting merely by crowding personal space and rasping in an accusatory tone, “What’s this spilled on the floor here? Messes mean eviction!” She’s harder than any of the college students living in her building will ever have to be. Instead they attempt to focus on the view beyond the motorcycles—the concrete pasture littered with souvenirs from last weekend’s parties.
But the aura in Number One offers an oasis from the distractions of the outside. Inside, the scent of Glade Lilac Spring lingers and mixes with a few burning candles which softly illuminate the home. Paris shouts from the walls where black and white posters of the skyline and Eiffel Tower, and framed paintings of L’Arc de Triumph and the opera look down on colorful red and blue furniture. A coffee table pulled close to the couch invites feet to find a place among the eclectic mix of magazines, books, flowers and half-empty cans of diet Cherry Coke. A pile of textbooks on the floor is offset by an oak bookcase that is so crammed with movies (ironically), all that’s missing is a sign reading “Please present your Blockbuster card.”
The two-dimensional Mexican dancers leer down at the pile of unopened mail, while the air, sticky and uncomfortable though it may be, is oddly pleasing in congruence with the tropical backdrop of the posters. The melody of soft giggling trickling from the kitchen is an appreciated contrast to the screaming trains outside. Sunshine streams in through the windows reflecting off picture frames and shiny utensils. The quarters are cozy, not cramped, and wait in anticipation for chilly nights to be spent in front of a hot stove like pioneer days.
The microwave dings and the dishwasher begins another cycle, reminding the house that despite the calendar status of September, the crisp cool days of autumn are a far-off dream. As the giggles die away down the hall, devoured by the rev of motorcycles and the screech of car brakes, the apartment stills and there is a ringing reminder that it is not the location or even the décor of the apartment that makes it home, but the life of the inhabitants.
--Jennifer Aniston, Friends
The Sanctuary
From the outside it’s not much. Set on a dead end street with a backdrop of several railroad tracks that periodically rumble through as the Midwest version of an earthquake, the apartment buildings are small, square and brick. There’s little grass to be found, and what remains is russet and lifeless. But mostly there are patches of mud, so deep they take close to a week to dry out after a rainstorm. A herd of motorcycles belonging to the building manager rests comfortably outside the front door blocking the entrance to the building. The tenants pretend not to notice out of respect—or possibly fear—for the manager. A small woman whose skin has seen too much sun and hair has seen too much bleach, she manages to intimidate most people at the first meeting merely by crowding personal space and rasping in an accusatory tone, “What’s this spilled on the floor here? Messes mean eviction!” She’s harder than any of the college students living in her building will ever have to be. Instead they attempt to focus on the view beyond the motorcycles—the concrete pasture littered with souvenirs from last weekend’s parties.
But the aura in Number One offers an oasis from the distractions of the outside. Inside, the scent of Glade Lilac Spring lingers and mixes with a few burning candles which softly illuminate the home. Paris shouts from the walls where black and white posters of the skyline and Eiffel Tower, and framed paintings of L’Arc de Triumph and the opera look down on colorful red and blue furniture. A coffee table pulled close to the couch invites feet to find a place among the eclectic mix of magazines, books, flowers and half-empty cans of diet Cherry Coke. A pile of textbooks on the floor is offset by an oak bookcase that is so crammed with movies (ironically), all that’s missing is a sign reading “Please present your Blockbuster card.”
The two-dimensional Mexican dancers leer down at the pile of unopened mail, while the air, sticky and uncomfortable though it may be, is oddly pleasing in congruence with the tropical backdrop of the posters. The melody of soft giggling trickling from the kitchen is an appreciated contrast to the screaming trains outside. Sunshine streams in through the windows reflecting off picture frames and shiny utensils. The quarters are cozy, not cramped, and wait in anticipation for chilly nights to be spent in front of a hot stove like pioneer days.
The microwave dings and the dishwasher begins another cycle, reminding the house that despite the calendar status of September, the crisp cool days of autumn are a far-off dream. As the giggles die away down the hall, devoured by the rev of motorcycles and the screech of car brakes, the apartment stills and there is a ringing reminder that it is not the location or even the décor of the apartment that makes it home, but the life of the inhabitants.
Sunday, September 14, 2003
My Wife Left Me for a Guy Named Jesus
Veering from my usual format today to post somebody else's words. They're just too funny not to post.
My Wife Left Me for a Guy Named Jesus
Words and Music by Paul Dinello from Strangers with Candy
Hail Mary, full of grace
Your boy kicked me in the face
He made my wife run away
for a big promise on Judgment Day
My wife called me a sinner
I guess I'll be fixing my own dinner
Now I'm left with pain and loathing
caused by a wolf in Messiah's clothing
My wife dumped me for a guy named Jesus
Now I see a cross and I fall to pieces
It hurts to say his dad's name when someone sneezes
My wife dumped me for a guy named Jesus
Do you think you're such a big shot raising people from the dead?
Or a slight of hand with a loaf of bread?
You're a second-rate magician … with everlasting life
whose latest trick is my disappearing wife
I'm as good as that guy named Jesus
I could cure a cripple … with a prosthesis
And I can walk on water … when it freezes
I'm as good as that guy named Jesus
And Jesus better watch his back...
My Wife Left Me for a Guy Named Jesus
Words and Music by Paul Dinello from Strangers with Candy
Hail Mary, full of grace
Your boy kicked me in the face
He made my wife run away
for a big promise on Judgment Day
My wife called me a sinner
I guess I'll be fixing my own dinner
Now I'm left with pain and loathing
caused by a wolf in Messiah's clothing
My wife dumped me for a guy named Jesus
Now I see a cross and I fall to pieces
It hurts to say his dad's name when someone sneezes
My wife dumped me for a guy named Jesus
Do you think you're such a big shot raising people from the dead?
Or a slight of hand with a loaf of bread?
You're a second-rate magician … with everlasting life
whose latest trick is my disappearing wife
I'm as good as that guy named Jesus
I could cure a cripple … with a prosthesis
And I can walk on water … when it freezes
I'm as good as that guy named Jesus
And Jesus better watch his back...
Saturday, September 13, 2003
The Gift of the Rooster
“My brother’s voice, like my own, is high-pitched and girlish. Telephone solicitors frequently ask to speak to our husbands or request that we put our mommies on the line. The Raleigh accent is soft and beautifully cadenced, but my brother’s is a more complex hybrid, informed by his professional relationships with marble-mouthed, deep-country work crews and his abiding love of hard-cord rap music. He talks so fast that even his friends have a hard tie understanding him. It’s like listening to a foreigner and deciphering only shit, … bitch, and the single phrase You can’t kill the Rooster. ‘The Rooster’ is what Paul calls himself when he’s feeling threatened.”
--David Sedaris, “You Can’t Kill the Rooster” from Me Talk Pretty One Day
“David Sedaris is coming for a reading at the University of Iowa? And you have tickets?!? And it’s on your 21st birthday?!? NO FAIR!!” she cried from Paris via her cell phone. “Everything happens while I’m out of the country.”
With this in mind, I picked up a copy of his latest published piece, a play called The Book of Liz. Remembering one of mine and Natalie’s favorite lines from Me Talk Pretty One Day, I shyly asked him to write, “To Natalie. Good luck beating that rape charge” when it was finally my turn to meet David Sedaris. “Sure,” he said without missing a beat. “Usually I only get that request from guys.”
“So how was it?” she asked during our next phone conversation.
“Great. Hysterical. Everything I’d imagined and more.”
“Did you get to meet him?”
“No, we couldn’t,” I unabashedly lied. I wasn’t sure why I said that. I had been planning on spilling the beans immediately. We suck at secret-keeping from each other. But the lie just popped out of my mouth. Sometimes the impulse to lie beats out my brain.
Okay, I said to myself, I’ll keep it for her birthday and give it to her then. Over the course of the next five months I nearly spilled the beans more than once. In an innocent conversation with Natalie I said, “That reminds me of when Tara and I met … this guy … on the street, and, um, well, never mind. This is a really pointless story.” I rolled my eyes at myself. Good cover, Rix. I agonized to myself, why did I lie? Why didn’t I just say yes, I met him and then give her all the delicious details, like the fact that he had a F*ck it Bucket full of candy just like in You Can’t Kill the Rooster. And he told me to take an extra one since it was my birthday. Five months is too long, I berated myself. Why, why, why?
Last night was her birthday. She laughed when she saw the book. “Turn the page,” I urged. We locked eyes. She knew. Her reaction was nothing short of what I would expect. Oh. That’s why I lied.
--David Sedaris, “You Can’t Kill the Rooster” from Me Talk Pretty One Day
“David Sedaris is coming for a reading at the University of Iowa? And you have tickets?!? And it’s on your 21st birthday?!? NO FAIR!!” she cried from Paris via her cell phone. “Everything happens while I’m out of the country.”
With this in mind, I picked up a copy of his latest published piece, a play called The Book of Liz. Remembering one of mine and Natalie’s favorite lines from Me Talk Pretty One Day, I shyly asked him to write, “To Natalie. Good luck beating that rape charge” when it was finally my turn to meet David Sedaris. “Sure,” he said without missing a beat. “Usually I only get that request from guys.”
“So how was it?” she asked during our next phone conversation.
“Great. Hysterical. Everything I’d imagined and more.”
“Did you get to meet him?”
“No, we couldn’t,” I unabashedly lied. I wasn’t sure why I said that. I had been planning on spilling the beans immediately. We suck at secret-keeping from each other. But the lie just popped out of my mouth. Sometimes the impulse to lie beats out my brain.
Okay, I said to myself, I’ll keep it for her birthday and give it to her then. Over the course of the next five months I nearly spilled the beans more than once. In an innocent conversation with Natalie I said, “That reminds me of when Tara and I met … this guy … on the street, and, um, well, never mind. This is a really pointless story.” I rolled my eyes at myself. Good cover, Rix. I agonized to myself, why did I lie? Why didn’t I just say yes, I met him and then give her all the delicious details, like the fact that he had a F*ck it Bucket full of candy just like in You Can’t Kill the Rooster. And he told me to take an extra one since it was my birthday. Five months is too long, I berated myself. Why, why, why?
Last night was her birthday. She laughed when she saw the book. “Turn the page,” I urged. We locked eyes. She knew. Her reaction was nothing short of what I would expect. Oh. That’s why I lied.
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
Vertical Drop
In the last four years, I have moved four times. Being a college student, this is not exactly unusual. I moved in to my latest apartment in August. Friends and family have complimented my roommates and me on our delicious decorating proficiency. We spent many a day (and many a $20) buying the perfect photos to hang on that empty wall and picking out the perfect candle and flower vases to put on that empty space on the ledge. Our apartment is an exquisite oasis from the demands of college courses. Because of this, it’s always a shock for me to step out my apartment and remember that, oh yes, we live by the railroad tracks.
The railroad tracks are a startling contrast to our beautiful décor and conjure many different reactions in me. I find myself always singing lines from “In the Ghetto” when I exit the building. Other days when people ask me where I live, I try to look tough and respond, “I’m from the wrong side of the tracks.” Some days I even see Natty Gann and John Cusack jumping from train to train on their way out west.
I’ve been on a train only once that I can recall. I remember little of the ride but that we were on a family vacation and I was sharing a seat with only my mom. As I rarely get her to myself, my memory long ago let go of the unimportant details such as where we were, where we were going, what we were talking about. I do remember I was mad at her. Sensitive to a fault, I was “punishing” her for some small slight by not speaking to her. As a truce, she began to tickle my back and sing some made-up song entitled “Erica.” Although I don’t remember whether or not I stopped my ridiculous punishment, I can only hope that I let her off early for good behavior. I want to be worthy of the significance the memory holds in my mind; I want to be worthy of the fact that I had her to myself that morning on the train.
I can’t hear the train whistle from inside my apartment, but some days I almost wish I could.
The railroad tracks are a startling contrast to our beautiful décor and conjure many different reactions in me. I find myself always singing lines from “In the Ghetto” when I exit the building. Other days when people ask me where I live, I try to look tough and respond, “I’m from the wrong side of the tracks.” Some days I even see Natty Gann and John Cusack jumping from train to train on their way out west.
I’ve been on a train only once that I can recall. I remember little of the ride but that we were on a family vacation and I was sharing a seat with only my mom. As I rarely get her to myself, my memory long ago let go of the unimportant details such as where we were, where we were going, what we were talking about. I do remember I was mad at her. Sensitive to a fault, I was “punishing” her for some small slight by not speaking to her. As a truce, she began to tickle my back and sing some made-up song entitled “Erica.” Although I don’t remember whether or not I stopped my ridiculous punishment, I can only hope that I let her off early for good behavior. I want to be worthy of the significance the memory holds in my mind; I want to be worthy of the fact that I had her to myself that morning on the train.
I can’t hear the train whistle from inside my apartment, but some days I almost wish I could.
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?: Part III
A man with no imagination has no wings.
-Muhammad Ali
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part III: Continued from September 1
For a while, the writing came easily, pouring from my multi-colored Bic pens in a torrent of half-completed thoughts and sentences. In lime green ink was written the story of the oldest kid, Jeremy Olsen (affectionately referred to as “Germ” by his siblings) and how he successfully saved himself and a small child from falling over a waterfall. The twins came alive in purple ink on their first day of school. The thoughts and feelings of the lonely youngest Olsen were best expressed through blue ink. In an effort to individualize the triplets, one of their voices was told in first-person point-of-view, in the form of a journal.
Nicole and Michelle were thrilled with the exhilarating adventures found on the loose leaf wide-ruled notebook paper and I was thrilled with the reception my writing received from them. Yet as much fun as we had, by the time I got to page 38, I had ditched Nicole and Michelle, and now printed in Curly Q handwriting was:
The Olsens: A Novel
By Erica Michelle Acton
Did I abandon them due to their lack of effort? Shortage of input? Because they were unreliable and worthless in the storytelling process? While that’s all true, I am unconvinced that this is the reason I no longer wanted to write with them. I finally broke this revelation to them in the shade of the same mature oak that we’d met beneath so many recesses before. The memory runs like bad breakup dialogue in my head.
Me: This isn’t working for me. I think we should write with other people.
Them: Was it something we did? Was it something we said?
Me: It’s not you guys. You’re both really great. It’s me. It’s all me.
And the truth of the matter is, it was me. I didn’t want to share the creative process. I knew what was best for the stories and the characters and I didn’t need anyone butting in, trying to tell me what to make my characters say, feel, and do. Instead of a beautiful harmony, the piece was becoming three discorded voices singing off-key. To save the song, I realized, I must make it a solo.
Perhaps the experience gave me the misguided assumption that collaborative writing was not for me. But not everything that came out of this was bad. If pride is a sin, I was definitely going to hell over the self-importance I felt for this story. Back in the age when “good” stories and “talented” authors were judged by the length of a story and the difficulty level of the vocabulary, my peers deemed this story an incredible success. But perhaps my real growth as a writer was that, even beyond the external feedback and praise, I was proud of this story for the work I had put into it. The experience taught me the power of my own imagination, but more importantly, the rewards of perseverance. Boxes containing dozens of unfinished, abandoned stories now were balanced with this finished piece. As Jules Renard said, “Talent is a question of quantity. Talent does not write one page; it writes three hundred.” To be honest, it probably wasn’t all that entertaining to the reader, but more than a decade later, that point is moot because it meant so much to the writer. It taught this writer to keep writing because despite writer’s block, bad endings, and uninteresting characters, in the end, it may result in a piece I’ll be proud to put my name on. And who knows? Maybe someday my name will appear alongside another’s. After all, real life is stranger than fiction.
-Muhammad Ali
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part III: Continued from September 1
For a while, the writing came easily, pouring from my multi-colored Bic pens in a torrent of half-completed thoughts and sentences. In lime green ink was written the story of the oldest kid, Jeremy Olsen (affectionately referred to as “Germ” by his siblings) and how he successfully saved himself and a small child from falling over a waterfall. The twins came alive in purple ink on their first day of school. The thoughts and feelings of the lonely youngest Olsen were best expressed through blue ink. In an effort to individualize the triplets, one of their voices was told in first-person point-of-view, in the form of a journal.
Nicole and Michelle were thrilled with the exhilarating adventures found on the loose leaf wide-ruled notebook paper and I was thrilled with the reception my writing received from them. Yet as much fun as we had, by the time I got to page 38, I had ditched Nicole and Michelle, and now printed in Curly Q handwriting was:
The Olsens: A Novel
By Erica Michelle Acton
Did I abandon them due to their lack of effort? Shortage of input? Because they were unreliable and worthless in the storytelling process? While that’s all true, I am unconvinced that this is the reason I no longer wanted to write with them. I finally broke this revelation to them in the shade of the same mature oak that we’d met beneath so many recesses before. The memory runs like bad breakup dialogue in my head.
Me: This isn’t working for me. I think we should write with other people.
Them: Was it something we did? Was it something we said?
Me: It’s not you guys. You’re both really great. It’s me. It’s all me.
And the truth of the matter is, it was me. I didn’t want to share the creative process. I knew what was best for the stories and the characters and I didn’t need anyone butting in, trying to tell me what to make my characters say, feel, and do. Instead of a beautiful harmony, the piece was becoming three discorded voices singing off-key. To save the song, I realized, I must make it a solo.
Perhaps the experience gave me the misguided assumption that collaborative writing was not for me. But not everything that came out of this was bad. If pride is a sin, I was definitely going to hell over the self-importance I felt for this story. Back in the age when “good” stories and “talented” authors were judged by the length of a story and the difficulty level of the vocabulary, my peers deemed this story an incredible success. But perhaps my real growth as a writer was that, even beyond the external feedback and praise, I was proud of this story for the work I had put into it. The experience taught me the power of my own imagination, but more importantly, the rewards of perseverance. Boxes containing dozens of unfinished, abandoned stories now were balanced with this finished piece. As Jules Renard said, “Talent is a question of quantity. Talent does not write one page; it writes three hundred.” To be honest, it probably wasn’t all that entertaining to the reader, but more than a decade later, that point is moot because it meant so much to the writer. It taught this writer to keep writing because despite writer’s block, bad endings, and uninteresting characters, in the end, it may result in a piece I’ll be proud to put my name on. And who knows? Maybe someday my name will appear alongside another’s. After all, real life is stranger than fiction.
Monday, September 01, 2003
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?: Part II
You don't get harmony when everybody sings the same note.
--Doug Floyd
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part II: Continued from August 31
My co-authors approached me knowing full-well that it would be impossible for me to refuse. This was for two reasons: a) I am a nice person and always find it hard to refuse my services where I’m so clearly needed, and b) I am unable to resist flattery. Okay, so perhaps I accepted their offer for the latter reason only, but at least I’m not cheap. They spent at least one-fifth of morning recess sweet talking. Luckily for them, my co-authors consisted of my two best friends, Nicole and Michelle. I had known Nicole since I was about four days old and Michelle and I pretended to be one another on a regular basis. Needless to say, they knew my pressure points and I caved quickly due to their incessant adulation.
Once I had signed on to the project, we set up meetings to plan the plot. We met regularly for at least two days. The first congregation occurred behind an old tree at the edge of the playground. We were all intimately familiar with the old wrinkled oak. It was affectionately referred to as the ‘kissing tree.’ All three of us had received our first kisses behind that tree during one recess or another the year before. The tree was thick in the trunk with lots of offered shade for us to lounge under comfortably while dreaming and planning. But more importantly, it was a welcomed oasis from the watchful eye of Mrs. Koester, on recess duty. The best way to design a fabulous novel, we decided, was through the delegation of tasks with me doing the grunt work (i.e. the writing) while Nicole and Michelle, geniuses that they are, helped with the plot and the ever important task of choosing the characters’ names.
As fifth graders, original works had, to this point, consisted of the basic introduction of hero or heroine, followed by a problem which the hero quickly overcomes. If our writing was really going to get notice from our peers, it was time to try a more avante garde style. We agreed the story would focus on a family of eight kids with a chapter devoted to each one and their adventures. In essence, it was eight short stories tied together through the characters’ common last name. We applauded ourselves on our originality and wondered why no one had thought ever before to try this short-story/novel idea.
Obviously, we agreed, character development was very important. Just for fun we threw in a set of triplets and a set of twins. In fact, that part was so much fun that when it came to the actual story, the writing was becoming a pain in the neck. At first, I diligently met with my co-authors before transcribing a single word. However, their helpful “write somethin’ good” was more than enough to halt the flow of language altogether. It wasn’t long before I was scribbling notes on looseleaf paper in secret, in hopes they would lose interest in the project, thereby making the trio a solo act.
To be continued...
--Doug Floyd
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part II: Continued from August 31
My co-authors approached me knowing full-well that it would be impossible for me to refuse. This was for two reasons: a) I am a nice person and always find it hard to refuse my services where I’m so clearly needed, and b) I am unable to resist flattery. Okay, so perhaps I accepted their offer for the latter reason only, but at least I’m not cheap. They spent at least one-fifth of morning recess sweet talking. Luckily for them, my co-authors consisted of my two best friends, Nicole and Michelle. I had known Nicole since I was about four days old and Michelle and I pretended to be one another on a regular basis. Needless to say, they knew my pressure points and I caved quickly due to their incessant adulation.
Once I had signed on to the project, we set up meetings to plan the plot. We met regularly for at least two days. The first congregation occurred behind an old tree at the edge of the playground. We were all intimately familiar with the old wrinkled oak. It was affectionately referred to as the ‘kissing tree.’ All three of us had received our first kisses behind that tree during one recess or another the year before. The tree was thick in the trunk with lots of offered shade for us to lounge under comfortably while dreaming and planning. But more importantly, it was a welcomed oasis from the watchful eye of Mrs. Koester, on recess duty. The best way to design a fabulous novel, we decided, was through the delegation of tasks with me doing the grunt work (i.e. the writing) while Nicole and Michelle, geniuses that they are, helped with the plot and the ever important task of choosing the characters’ names.
As fifth graders, original works had, to this point, consisted of the basic introduction of hero or heroine, followed by a problem which the hero quickly overcomes. If our writing was really going to get notice from our peers, it was time to try a more avante garde style. We agreed the story would focus on a family of eight kids with a chapter devoted to each one and their adventures. In essence, it was eight short stories tied together through the characters’ common last name. We applauded ourselves on our originality and wondered why no one had thought ever before to try this short-story/novel idea.
Obviously, we agreed, character development was very important. Just for fun we threw in a set of triplets and a set of twins. In fact, that part was so much fun that when it came to the actual story, the writing was becoming a pain in the neck. At first, I diligently met with my co-authors before transcribing a single word. However, their helpful “write somethin’ good” was more than enough to halt the flow of language altogether. It wasn’t long before I was scribbling notes on looseleaf paper in secret, in hopes they would lose interest in the project, thereby making the trio a solo act.
To be continued...
Sunday, August 31, 2003
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?: Part I
The highest reward for a person's toil is not what they get for it, but what they become by it.
--John Ruskin
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part One
Over last summer vacation, I read a novel called The Nanny Diaries. It is a wonderful book in its own right, but I confess to picking it up for more than just good reviews. Of course I was aware of the buzz surrounding it—it was at the top of the charts for several months and the audio version had Julia Roberts’s name attached. These were not, however, the captivating factors that motivated me to read it. I was intrigued by the fact that it had not one, but two authors attached to its title. And while this is not that unusual in its own right, it is rare for me to be interested in a work of fiction with two pictures on the back book flap. I often wonder how collaborative authors work together and how they are satisfied with the final result. The hours spent together, the strain of adjusting to someone else’s suggestions, the frustration of not being able to hold the pen or punch the computer keys, the conflict between ideas—it’s too much for me to bear. Or perhaps I only feel this way because of my own collaborative disaster. My first—and last.
My career as a writer began at the time I could first hold a pencil between my young clumsy fingers, but I was slightly older when I was first approached to be part of a team. I was a full-time fifth grader, part-time writer/ dreamer spending my nights in reveries of fame, success and inevitable headlines that were sure to read Fifth-grade protégé or First New York Times Best-Selling Author Under 12, etc. etc. My days were spent dreaming up the page-turners that were actually going to make me renowned. This was a pivotal time in my life as a writer. Everything was starting to bloom, from nature to my career. Outside, the snow was long gone, but the days were just starting to warm up. Little green buds were starting to bloom on the trees and the grass was finally losing its dead brown quality of the winter and sprouting fresh green blades that beckoned to be run and played and rolled around on. The air was fresh and left the tingling sensation of feeling alive. And inside, this was it—this was the moment. Others were seeking out my ability, my expertise. They sought my candid clear voice that cut through the dark obscurity of the humanity bringing hope and offering inspiration. They sought me. This could only mean one thing. I had made it.
To be continued...
--John Ruskin
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part One
Over last summer vacation, I read a novel called The Nanny Diaries. It is a wonderful book in its own right, but I confess to picking it up for more than just good reviews. Of course I was aware of the buzz surrounding it—it was at the top of the charts for several months and the audio version had Julia Roberts’s name attached. These were not, however, the captivating factors that motivated me to read it. I was intrigued by the fact that it had not one, but two authors attached to its title. And while this is not that unusual in its own right, it is rare for me to be interested in a work of fiction with two pictures on the back book flap. I often wonder how collaborative authors work together and how they are satisfied with the final result. The hours spent together, the strain of adjusting to someone else’s suggestions, the frustration of not being able to hold the pen or punch the computer keys, the conflict between ideas—it’s too much for me to bear. Or perhaps I only feel this way because of my own collaborative disaster. My first—and last.
My career as a writer began at the time I could first hold a pencil between my young clumsy fingers, but I was slightly older when I was first approached to be part of a team. I was a full-time fifth grader, part-time writer/ dreamer spending my nights in reveries of fame, success and inevitable headlines that were sure to read Fifth-grade protégé or First New York Times Best-Selling Author Under 12, etc. etc. My days were spent dreaming up the page-turners that were actually going to make me renowned. This was a pivotal time in my life as a writer. Everything was starting to bloom, from nature to my career. Outside, the snow was long gone, but the days were just starting to warm up. Little green buds were starting to bloom on the trees and the grass was finally losing its dead brown quality of the winter and sprouting fresh green blades that beckoned to be run and played and rolled around on. The air was fresh and left the tingling sensation of feeling alive. And inside, this was it—this was the moment. Others were seeking out my ability, my expertise. They sought my candid clear voice that cut through the dark obscurity of the humanity bringing hope and offering inspiration. They sought me. This could only mean one thing. I had made it.
To be continued...
Saturday, August 16, 2003
Friday, August 15, 2003
Here's to you, Ms. Robinson
I like people who make me like them. Saves me so much trouble forcing myself to like them.
--Charmion King, Anne of Green Gables, 1985
I’ve known Hayley Robinson forever.
Good friends through sixth and seventh grade, we became best, inseparable friends in eighth grade. We spent all day at school together making faces and copying each other’s homework, then go home to talk on the phone every night. I have vivid memories of replacing the receiver in its cradle, smiling to myself because of our long conversation on Keanu Reeves’s best feature and the funniest line from Parenthood. We were a team, one for both and both for one. Gradually we began to spend more and more time together. I don’t think our relationship has ever been unhealthy, but with years to give me objective, I see that in connecting so completely with each other, we were missing out on other healthy aspects of normal teenage life. We were so close we became isolated from other friends and other activities. And then we became isolated from each other. To put it like that, it sounds very dramatic—and it wasn’t. There was no falling out, no fights. Just growing up. We simply grew apart.
I don’t regret any of the time we spent together and I don’t regret the time we were more distant. I wouldn’t trade those years for anything because they only made us work harder to stay friends. And that made me see how extraordinary and incomparable our relationship is. Yet, at the same time, it’s completely mundane. We’re two ordinary girls who know each other inside and out and have been friends forever.
Sure, forever only amounts to nine or so years in calendar time, but Caesar is highly overrated. When I read Hallmark cards and see cheesy movies about “old friends” who can pick right up where they left off with no awkwardness and guilt about the time that has passed since they last saw each other, I know that Hayley fits that mold in my mind. In 35 years, I’ll pick up the phone to hear someone singing, “Just like me, they long to be, close to you,” and when she gets to the part where she forgets the words I’ll jump in and try to help, and only cause more confusion until we’re laughing so hard we’ve regressed and are thirteen years old again, tying up the phone lines for “important calls.”
Then we’ll probably make plans to go to dinner at Applebee’s where she’ll order a peach daiquiri and I’ll order a strawberry, and we’ll each take a sip of the other’s drink. We’ll check movie times and agree if we spend an hour or two in the restaurant, we can still make a movie. We’ll order and then, a few minutes later, look around us and realize that, one, the restaurant is closing and the staff is glaring at us impatiently to leave and two, we missed the movie. Again.
But neither one of us will be disappointed or, truthfully, even care.
We’ll probably drive around so we can continue talking about the things we talk about now. Her life and my life, memories and old times, mutual friends and work. We’ll catch up on family and talk about movies and books and entertainment gossip as if we know these people personally.
And later I’ll try to put my finger on what makes our relationship pulse.
Hayley peppers her speech with words like “sweetie” and “honey” and she feels them. While I constantly say things like, “When I grow up…,” Hayley looks at me and sees who I am, who I was, and most importantly, who I want to be. I don’t mean she understands who I want to become, but that she sees that person already inside of me. She’s not telling me what I want to hear, but she is encouraging me to find these things within myself.
Hayley is the only person I’ve ever met who looks for a life lesson in every situation. When life hands Hayley a lemon, she pushes herself to look for options beyond lemonade. Every person she meets and every situation she comes across will teach her something. She looks for her answers. And she’s learning them. She evolved right before my eyes. And I’ll continue to see it for as long as I know her.
She’s so full of her own wisdom and so humble in sharing it.
Our friendship is not any more special than any other relationship she has or I have. It’s not more valuable. It’s not that we’re closer. In fact, day-to-day details of our lives are often left untouched during conversation. I find out about things that happened months afterward (a car accident comes to mind) and vice versa. And the distance makes it no less easy. But we’ve worked too hard to get here and we’ve both got too much invested. Perhaps if it were anybody else, it would be an effort to maintain this friendship.
But it’s not anybody else.
And it’s no effort. No effort at all.
--Charmion King, Anne of Green Gables, 1985
I’ve known Hayley Robinson forever.
Good friends through sixth and seventh grade, we became best, inseparable friends in eighth grade. We spent all day at school together making faces and copying each other’s homework, then go home to talk on the phone every night. I have vivid memories of replacing the receiver in its cradle, smiling to myself because of our long conversation on Keanu Reeves’s best feature and the funniest line from Parenthood. We were a team, one for both and both for one. Gradually we began to spend more and more time together. I don’t think our relationship has ever been unhealthy, but with years to give me objective, I see that in connecting so completely with each other, we were missing out on other healthy aspects of normal teenage life. We were so close we became isolated from other friends and other activities. And then we became isolated from each other. To put it like that, it sounds very dramatic—and it wasn’t. There was no falling out, no fights. Just growing up. We simply grew apart.
I don’t regret any of the time we spent together and I don’t regret the time we were more distant. I wouldn’t trade those years for anything because they only made us work harder to stay friends. And that made me see how extraordinary and incomparable our relationship is. Yet, at the same time, it’s completely mundane. We’re two ordinary girls who know each other inside and out and have been friends forever.
Sure, forever only amounts to nine or so years in calendar time, but Caesar is highly overrated. When I read Hallmark cards and see cheesy movies about “old friends” who can pick right up where they left off with no awkwardness and guilt about the time that has passed since they last saw each other, I know that Hayley fits that mold in my mind. In 35 years, I’ll pick up the phone to hear someone singing, “Just like me, they long to be, close to you,” and when she gets to the part where she forgets the words I’ll jump in and try to help, and only cause more confusion until we’re laughing so hard we’ve regressed and are thirteen years old again, tying up the phone lines for “important calls.”
Then we’ll probably make plans to go to dinner at Applebee’s where she’ll order a peach daiquiri and I’ll order a strawberry, and we’ll each take a sip of the other’s drink. We’ll check movie times and agree if we spend an hour or two in the restaurant, we can still make a movie. We’ll order and then, a few minutes later, look around us and realize that, one, the restaurant is closing and the staff is glaring at us impatiently to leave and two, we missed the movie. Again.
But neither one of us will be disappointed or, truthfully, even care.
We’ll probably drive around so we can continue talking about the things we talk about now. Her life and my life, memories and old times, mutual friends and work. We’ll catch up on family and talk about movies and books and entertainment gossip as if we know these people personally.
And later I’ll try to put my finger on what makes our relationship pulse.
Hayley peppers her speech with words like “sweetie” and “honey” and she feels them. While I constantly say things like, “When I grow up…,” Hayley looks at me and sees who I am, who I was, and most importantly, who I want to be. I don’t mean she understands who I want to become, but that she sees that person already inside of me. She’s not telling me what I want to hear, but she is encouraging me to find these things within myself.
Hayley is the only person I’ve ever met who looks for a life lesson in every situation. When life hands Hayley a lemon, she pushes herself to look for options beyond lemonade. Every person she meets and every situation she comes across will teach her something. She looks for her answers. And she’s learning them. She evolved right before my eyes. And I’ll continue to see it for as long as I know her.
She’s so full of her own wisdom and so humble in sharing it.
Our friendship is not any more special than any other relationship she has or I have. It’s not more valuable. It’s not that we’re closer. In fact, day-to-day details of our lives are often left untouched during conversation. I find out about things that happened months afterward (a car accident comes to mind) and vice versa. And the distance makes it no less easy. But we’ve worked too hard to get here and we’ve both got too much invested. Perhaps if it were anybody else, it would be an effort to maintain this friendship.
But it’s not anybody else.
And it’s no effort. No effort at all.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Quittin' Time
“I generally come in [to work] at least fifteen minutes late, ah, I use the side door--that way Lumbergh can't see me, heh--after that I sorta space out for an hour. … Yeah, I just stare at my desk, but it looks like I'm working. I do that for probably another hour after lunch too, I'd say in a given week I probably only do about fifteen minutes of real, actual, work. … It’s not that I’m lazy, it’s just that I don’t care.”
--Ron Livingston, Office Space, 1999
As my last official day of work approaches the 5 o’clock hour, I feel a bit nostalgic and yes ... even misty-eyed. (Ha ha, gotcha!) Despite my merriment, however, I am also thinking of the good times I've had here. Like the time
--I spent an entire afternoon working on my nails after borrowing Traci's terrific nail buffer (have recently decided to incorporate "terrific" into my everyday speech after the astonishing discovery that quite a surprising lack of people use it).
--A certain co-worker told me his or her story about sleeping under their desk because he or she was just so tired they couldn't keep their eyes open.
--All the catching up on my correspondence on company time (rixiestarr@hotmail.com).
--Getting FANTABULOUS presents from Denise (it was a gorgeous vase this summer to accompany the glass picture frames from last summer).
--Wasting away precious, valuable working minutes with Traci and Mitzi while planning ways to torture my dad.
--Reading Mitzi's hilarious emails when she was in the other offices. Here's a good excerpt... "Things are interesting as ever here. I haven't seen a person yet with a full set of teeth. Look at all the money one saves on toothpaste and brushes. ... No death threats today, just one pissed off guy telling me he isn't going to walk 20 miles one way for his appointment. I'm really disappointed about that!" Good, huh?
--Researching (see Site Navigation to the right above Archive)
--Plotting my future best-selling novel
--And ...oh yeah! Blogging all this at work while I'm bored!
Now I’m usually a work-first, play-later kind of girl, but there’s just something about this job that reminds me: there are two types of people—those finish what they begin and those that
Hey! It’s quitting time!
--Ron Livingston, Office Space, 1999
As my last official day of work approaches the 5 o’clock hour, I feel a bit nostalgic and yes ... even misty-eyed. (Ha ha, gotcha!) Despite my merriment, however, I am also thinking of the good times I've had here. Like the time
--I spent an entire afternoon working on my nails after borrowing Traci's terrific nail buffer (have recently decided to incorporate "terrific" into my everyday speech after the astonishing discovery that quite a surprising lack of people use it).
--A certain co-worker told me his or her story about sleeping under their desk because he or she was just so tired they couldn't keep their eyes open.
--All the catching up on my correspondence on company time (rixiestarr@hotmail.com).
--Getting FANTABULOUS presents from Denise (it was a gorgeous vase this summer to accompany the glass picture frames from last summer).
--Wasting away precious, valuable working minutes with Traci and Mitzi while planning ways to torture my dad.
--Reading Mitzi's hilarious emails when she was in the other offices. Here's a good excerpt... "Things are interesting as ever here. I haven't seen a person yet with a full set of teeth. Look at all the money one saves on toothpaste and brushes. ... No death threats today, just one pissed off guy telling me he isn't going to walk 20 miles one way for his appointment. I'm really disappointed about that!" Good, huh?
--Researching (see Site Navigation to the right above Archive)
--Plotting my future best-selling novel
--And ...oh yeah! Blogging all this at work while I'm bored!
Now I’m usually a work-first, play-later kind of girl, but there’s just something about this job that reminds me: there are two types of people—those finish what they begin and those that
Hey! It’s quitting time!
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
Moving Day
"Would you all stop yelling in our apartment? You are ruining moving day for us!"
--Matthew Perry, Friends, 1994
Rachel: "Thanks for the party. Do you want me to help clean up?"
Monica: "Are you kidding? You've had your fun. Now it's my turn."
--Jennifer Aniston and Courteney Cox, Friends, 1994
At the end of July, a group of girlfriends and I went back to school. The purpose of this mid-summer meeting was officially to clean out our old apartments and move into our new apartments. The unofficial reason was to break in our new roommates and get together and giggle. We were all busy in our respective homes, but broke for lunch. We were excited about the coming year and shared stories about each other as new roommates.
“This morning,” my best friend Natty told us, smiling across the lunch table at her roommate, “Emily and I ate fruit salad and sipped pink lemonade while sitting on our balcony enjoying the view.” I caught my roommate Kelley’s eye and we both suppressed gagging motions. Who makes fruit salad and pink lemonade on moving day? Isn’t moving day about dirt and grime, and not eating until late at night when you order unhealthy take-out or pizza with so much grease it runs down your elbows? And who has time to sit leisurely on a balcony? Isn’t moving day about stress and crabbiness, and berating yourself for not being more organized? It’s not that I was jealous of Emily’s Martha Stewart abilities … well, except that I was. Kelley and I routinely had ice cream for breakfast, if we ate at all, because it was fast and easy and there was no clean-up if you ate out of the carton (which we did). For a moment I envisioned my roommate and I enjoying breakfast on our balcony. … But I’m no Julia Child. Diet Coke would be substituted for the pink lemonade, and instead of fruit salad there would be dry cereal, or if we were really lucky, enough clean bowls and spoons for Cocoa Puffs with milk. The breakfast of champions!
I was brought out of my reverie by a hacking cough from Kelley. As I pounded her on the back, I explained to Natty and Emily that that morning, we had had oven cleaner and Windex for breakfast as we were in the middle of cleaning. In reality we spent most of the time running from the kitchen to the balcony for clean air. “This trying not to die from asphyxiation stuff is tiring,” Kelley sighed after recovering. “I sure wish we had someone to make us pink lemonade and fruit salad,” I added wistfully. “Well,” Natty said, gazing fondly at her roommate, “that’s what happens when you have Emily as a roommate. We’re having some more when we get home.” They smiled indulgently at each other, and while Kelley swiped at some oven grease staining her shirt, I made a mental note to pick up some Scrubbing Bubbles on the way home. Mmm. Dessert.
--Matthew Perry, Friends, 1994
Rachel: "Thanks for the party. Do you want me to help clean up?"
Monica: "Are you kidding? You've had your fun. Now it's my turn."
--Jennifer Aniston and Courteney Cox, Friends, 1994
At the end of July, a group of girlfriends and I went back to school. The purpose of this mid-summer meeting was officially to clean out our old apartments and move into our new apartments. The unofficial reason was to break in our new roommates and get together and giggle. We were all busy in our respective homes, but broke for lunch. We were excited about the coming year and shared stories about each other as new roommates.
“This morning,” my best friend Natty told us, smiling across the lunch table at her roommate, “Emily and I ate fruit salad and sipped pink lemonade while sitting on our balcony enjoying the view.” I caught my roommate Kelley’s eye and we both suppressed gagging motions. Who makes fruit salad and pink lemonade on moving day? Isn’t moving day about dirt and grime, and not eating until late at night when you order unhealthy take-out or pizza with so much grease it runs down your elbows? And who has time to sit leisurely on a balcony? Isn’t moving day about stress and crabbiness, and berating yourself for not being more organized? It’s not that I was jealous of Emily’s Martha Stewart abilities … well, except that I was. Kelley and I routinely had ice cream for breakfast, if we ate at all, because it was fast and easy and there was no clean-up if you ate out of the carton (which we did). For a moment I envisioned my roommate and I enjoying breakfast on our balcony. … But I’m no Julia Child. Diet Coke would be substituted for the pink lemonade, and instead of fruit salad there would be dry cereal, or if we were really lucky, enough clean bowls and spoons for Cocoa Puffs with milk. The breakfast of champions!
I was brought out of my reverie by a hacking cough from Kelley. As I pounded her on the back, I explained to Natty and Emily that that morning, we had had oven cleaner and Windex for breakfast as we were in the middle of cleaning. In reality we spent most of the time running from the kitchen to the balcony for clean air. “This trying not to die from asphyxiation stuff is tiring,” Kelley sighed after recovering. “I sure wish we had someone to make us pink lemonade and fruit salad,” I added wistfully. “Well,” Natty said, gazing fondly at her roommate, “that’s what happens when you have Emily as a roommate. We’re having some more when we get home.” They smiled indulgently at each other, and while Kelley swiped at some oven grease staining her shirt, I made a mental note to pick up some Scrubbing Bubbles on the way home. Mmm. Dessert.
Monday, August 11, 2003
Musings on a Hurricane
Gillian: "Sal? Thanks."
Sally: "For what?"
Gillian: "For being my sister."
-Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock, Practical Magic, 1998
Aunt Frances: "My darling girl, when are you going to understand that "normal" isn't a virtue? It rather denotes a lack of courage."
-Stockard Channing, Practical Magic, 1998
My sister: Part I
Hurricane Tara.
That’s what we called her. That’s what she called herself. Even as a pre-kindergartener she sensed what she had to offer was larger than a little four-letter name could do justice. Hell, what she has is larger than life. For when she was good, she was—well, still a wild child. But when she was bad…
Webster’s defines hurricane as a noun, a violent storm, characterized by extreme fury and sudden changes of the wind, and generally accompanied by rain, thunder, and lightning. Also used figuratively, they inform us.
Since we were young, Tara has blamed our parents for being the middle child. And to top that off, as she tells them often, she’s the only one of the three of us who has to scrounge for a nickname. When asked about Tee-Wee or Tara-Teacakes, I can still see an eight-year-old Tara rolling her eyes. “Puh-lease!” She may not have nicknames, but neither my brother nor I have inspired phrases or sayings like Hurricane Tara has. My parents uttered these now mundane phrases in times of childhood tantrums, teenage tantrums, musical genius, and what can only be classified as Hilarity, Tara-Style. Not only does she have her own personal cheer: “Tar-rah-rah-boom-de-ay!” but the nursery rhyme “Mary, Mary, quite contrary” was revamped into “Tara, Tara, quite contrara.” They would alternate these phrases with feeling of pride (“She’ll never let anyone push her around!” their eyes said. Sometimes I thought I saw something behind their eyes during an especially disruptive meal … something that looked like, “In trying to teach independent thought, we may have sold the idea of conformity short… our other two conformers—er, children—didn’t turn out so bad. They may end up in a cult someday unable to make their own decisions, but at least the words “Yes, I agree,” will have escaped their lips more than never) and exasperation ready to turn into full-blown rage at a moment’s notice, depending on how they felt. Or rather, how she felt.
Tara had an intense, deeply personal relationship with the Naughty Chair. She was probably more intimate with that chair than any other possession she owned, her beloved stuffed animals included. In fact, the naughty chair also doubled as Tara’s mealtime chair. It was just easier that way. And her voice… “She could be a Broadway star with the power behind her lungs,” my mother often says. When her powerhouse voice was threatening to cause deafness in the rest of us, Tara was introduced to a new form of punishment. The bottom of the staircase was officially rezoned as The Time-Out Zone. Some meals we didn’t see Tara at all.
Life was quieter this way, but not as interesting, and all that pent-up energy would be released when the sun down. Pulling out my battery-operated keyboard, we would select a song and in a whirlwind, Hurricane Tara would lift herself up on her toes ballerina-style and whirl herself around the house. When Tara was seven and my mom wrote a rap for each of us kids to perform about ourselves, Tara ended hers sweetly, “Some people tell me I can be a pest, but Mommy and Daddy really love me the best.” It was the perfect ending—she was a sweet, adorable child smiling shyly—until she ad-libbed a maniacal, almost out-of-control cackle. I remember furious words being exchanged when Tara became possessed by the hurricane and jazz-stepped through the shot during our brother’s turn, but now we look back and laugh at that pair of legs dancing across the room, reminding us of the old days. “Remember when Hurricane Tara refused to change out of her tutu, even to go fishing?” we reminisce. “Remember when Tara would go outside and start The Twilight Bark just to get all the dogs in the neighborhood riled up in time for bed?”
Some days I wish for old times, and I look so closely at Tara, trying to find a remnant of Hurricane Tara leftover from our childhood that I don’t see anything familiar. I have to remind myself that a painting begins with one color and a few single strokes, and evolves gradually into a masterpiece. Hurricane Tara was stubborn, contrary, bright, a drama queen slash actress to her core. These qualities took root and sprouted into an independent, artistic, non-conformist, determined entertainer—an adult Tara. A down-to-earth diva with great hair and a streak of sarcasm, to boot. She simultaneously wears her heart on her sleeve and is intensely private. She has both the ability to make me laugh harder than anybody and infuriate me more than anyone. And it is these moments, when she causes me to double over and laugh so hard I cry and then, seconds later, causes me to chase her down with murderous, uncivilized rage that only sisters can inspire in each other, I see Hurricane Tara right in front of me, wearing her tutu and barking unrestrainedly at the neighborhood, accompanied by larger-than-life thunder and changes in the wind.
Sally: "For what?"
Gillian: "For being my sister."
-Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock, Practical Magic, 1998
Aunt Frances: "My darling girl, when are you going to understand that "normal" isn't a virtue? It rather denotes a lack of courage."
-Stockard Channing, Practical Magic, 1998
My sister: Part I
Hurricane Tara.
That’s what we called her. That’s what she called herself. Even as a pre-kindergartener she sensed what she had to offer was larger than a little four-letter name could do justice. Hell, what she has is larger than life. For when she was good, she was—well, still a wild child. But when she was bad…
Webster’s defines hurricane as a noun, a violent storm, characterized by extreme fury and sudden changes of the wind, and generally accompanied by rain, thunder, and lightning. Also used figuratively, they inform us.
Since we were young, Tara has blamed our parents for being the middle child. And to top that off, as she tells them often, she’s the only one of the three of us who has to scrounge for a nickname. When asked about Tee-Wee or Tara-Teacakes, I can still see an eight-year-old Tara rolling her eyes. “Puh-lease!” She may not have nicknames, but neither my brother nor I have inspired phrases or sayings like Hurricane Tara has. My parents uttered these now mundane phrases in times of childhood tantrums, teenage tantrums, musical genius, and what can only be classified as Hilarity, Tara-Style. Not only does she have her own personal cheer: “Tar-rah-rah-boom-de-ay!” but the nursery rhyme “Mary, Mary, quite contrary” was revamped into “Tara, Tara, quite contrara.” They would alternate these phrases with feeling of pride (“She’ll never let anyone push her around!” their eyes said. Sometimes I thought I saw something behind their eyes during an especially disruptive meal … something that looked like, “In trying to teach independent thought, we may have sold the idea of conformity short… our other two conformers—er, children—didn’t turn out so bad. They may end up in a cult someday unable to make their own decisions, but at least the words “Yes, I agree,” will have escaped their lips more than never) and exasperation ready to turn into full-blown rage at a moment’s notice, depending on how they felt. Or rather, how she felt.
Tara had an intense, deeply personal relationship with the Naughty Chair. She was probably more intimate with that chair than any other possession she owned, her beloved stuffed animals included. In fact, the naughty chair also doubled as Tara’s mealtime chair. It was just easier that way. And her voice… “She could be a Broadway star with the power behind her lungs,” my mother often says. When her powerhouse voice was threatening to cause deafness in the rest of us, Tara was introduced to a new form of punishment. The bottom of the staircase was officially rezoned as The Time-Out Zone. Some meals we didn’t see Tara at all.
Life was quieter this way, but not as interesting, and all that pent-up energy would be released when the sun down. Pulling out my battery-operated keyboard, we would select a song and in a whirlwind, Hurricane Tara would lift herself up on her toes ballerina-style and whirl herself around the house. When Tara was seven and my mom wrote a rap for each of us kids to perform about ourselves, Tara ended hers sweetly, “Some people tell me I can be a pest, but Mommy and Daddy really love me the best.” It was the perfect ending—she was a sweet, adorable child smiling shyly—until she ad-libbed a maniacal, almost out-of-control cackle. I remember furious words being exchanged when Tara became possessed by the hurricane and jazz-stepped through the shot during our brother’s turn, but now we look back and laugh at that pair of legs dancing across the room, reminding us of the old days. “Remember when Hurricane Tara refused to change out of her tutu, even to go fishing?” we reminisce. “Remember when Tara would go outside and start The Twilight Bark just to get all the dogs in the neighborhood riled up in time for bed?”
Some days I wish for old times, and I look so closely at Tara, trying to find a remnant of Hurricane Tara leftover from our childhood that I don’t see anything familiar. I have to remind myself that a painting begins with one color and a few single strokes, and evolves gradually into a masterpiece. Hurricane Tara was stubborn, contrary, bright, a drama queen slash actress to her core. These qualities took root and sprouted into an independent, artistic, non-conformist, determined entertainer—an adult Tara. A down-to-earth diva with great hair and a streak of sarcasm, to boot. She simultaneously wears her heart on her sleeve and is intensely private. She has both the ability to make me laugh harder than anybody and infuriate me more than anyone. And it is these moments, when she causes me to double over and laugh so hard I cry and then, seconds later, causes me to chase her down with murderous, uncivilized rage that only sisters can inspire in each other, I see Hurricane Tara right in front of me, wearing her tutu and barking unrestrainedly at the neighborhood, accompanied by larger-than-life thunder and changes in the wind.
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
An English major’s idea of fun reading:
“I love quotations because it is a joy to find thoughts one might have, beautifully expressed with much authority by someone recognized wiser than oneself.”
--Marlene Dietrich
An English major’s idea of fun reading:
"I have never let my schooling interfere with my education."
- Mark Twain (1835-1910)
"Wear the old coat and buy the new book."
-Austin Phelps
"In America only the successful writer is important, in France all writers are important, in England no writer is important, and in Australia, you have to explain what a writer is."
--Geoffrey Cotrell
"The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who
cannot read them."
- Mark Twain (1835-1910)
"What we become depends on what we read after the professors have finished with us. The greatest university of all is a collection of books."
--Thomas Carlyle
"Attention to health is life's greatest hindrance." - Plato (427-347 B.C.)
"Plato was a bore." - Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)
"Nietzsche was stupid and abnormal. - Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910)
"I'm not going to get into the ring with Tolstoy." - Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961)
"Hemingway was a jerk." - Harold Robbins
"In the first place, God made idiots. That was for practice. Then he made school boards."
--Mark Twain
--Marlene Dietrich
An English major’s idea of fun reading:
"I have never let my schooling interfere with my education."
- Mark Twain (1835-1910)
"Wear the old coat and buy the new book."
-Austin Phelps
"In America only the successful writer is important, in France all writers are important, in England no writer is important, and in Australia, you have to explain what a writer is."
--Geoffrey Cotrell
"The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who
cannot read them."
- Mark Twain (1835-1910)
"What we become depends on what we read after the professors have finished with us. The greatest university of all is a collection of books."
--Thomas Carlyle
"Attention to health is life's greatest hindrance." - Plato (427-347 B.C.)
"Plato was a bore." - Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)
"Nietzsche was stupid and abnormal. - Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910)
"I'm not going to get into the ring with Tolstoy." - Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961)
"Hemingway was a jerk." - Harold Robbins
"In the first place, God made idiots. That was for practice. Then he made school boards."
--Mark Twain
Monday, August 04, 2003
Narnian Wonder
"Until there was a threat to it, I never loved reading. One does not love breathing."
--Scout Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
I am a book junkie. Just as I have to breathe, I have to read. My security blanket is not warm and fuzzy; it is square with rough edges and a shiny hard cover, but I sleep with it just the same. I rarely use my library card, preferring instead to hoard my money and spend my hard-earned cash on books, so after I am finished reading, I can keep them. One does not throw away their childhood stuffed animals; I cannot part with my books. Is there anything more delicious than picking up a brand new book, running your fingertips lovingly over the spine, feeling the rough edges of the pages as you flip through them, and finally—after much internal fanfare—opening the front cover and hearing the satisfying split of the binding. The split that marks the initiation of the brand-new to the lovingly treasured. The split that allows the book to say to the world: Not only was I anticipated, paid for with hard-earned currency, and read, I was treasured.
Perhaps the only thing more delicious than a brand-new book is an old tattered, worn-out book. These are the books that show I don’t just see words on a page or even just pictures in my mind. I see a time in space and a space in time. I know where I was and what was happening in my life during the read of these books. Each tattered copy marks not just a novel finished, but a landmark on my mind or—if I’m really lucky—in my life.
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe was the first story (of many) that I remember haunting me. I could not—cannot—get away from it. I was not allowed to watch television growing up (a gift I will never be able to fully thank my mother for, despite the hours I spend in front of the TV now), so from an early age I watched television through the pictures in my head instead of on the screen. Even so, I was not prepared for Narnia, the lion, the witch, or most especially, the wardrobe. The idea that one could escape into a different world from such an ordinary, mundane thing as a closet! Although the story has dissipated somewhat in my mind, the memories of wonder, awe, and plain and simple pleasure have evolved from feelings to moments of time and space inside me. For me, Narnia is not found through a door in my closet, but inside a 7x10 inch square sitting on my bookshelf.
--Scout Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
I am a book junkie. Just as I have to breathe, I have to read. My security blanket is not warm and fuzzy; it is square with rough edges and a shiny hard cover, but I sleep with it just the same. I rarely use my library card, preferring instead to hoard my money and spend my hard-earned cash on books, so after I am finished reading, I can keep them. One does not throw away their childhood stuffed animals; I cannot part with my books. Is there anything more delicious than picking up a brand new book, running your fingertips lovingly over the spine, feeling the rough edges of the pages as you flip through them, and finally—after much internal fanfare—opening the front cover and hearing the satisfying split of the binding. The split that marks the initiation of the brand-new to the lovingly treasured. The split that allows the book to say to the world: Not only was I anticipated, paid for with hard-earned currency, and read, I was treasured.
Perhaps the only thing more delicious than a brand-new book is an old tattered, worn-out book. These are the books that show I don’t just see words on a page or even just pictures in my mind. I see a time in space and a space in time. I know where I was and what was happening in my life during the read of these books. Each tattered copy marks not just a novel finished, but a landmark on my mind or—if I’m really lucky—in my life.
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe was the first story (of many) that I remember haunting me. I could not—cannot—get away from it. I was not allowed to watch television growing up (a gift I will never be able to fully thank my mother for, despite the hours I spend in front of the TV now), so from an early age I watched television through the pictures in my head instead of on the screen. Even so, I was not prepared for Narnia, the lion, the witch, or most especially, the wardrobe. The idea that one could escape into a different world from such an ordinary, mundane thing as a closet! Although the story has dissipated somewhat in my mind, the memories of wonder, awe, and plain and simple pleasure have evolved from feelings to moments of time and space inside me. For me, Narnia is not found through a door in my closet, but inside a 7x10 inch square sitting on my bookshelf.
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
Luv
“Give me an occupation or I shall run mad.”
-Alan Rickman, Sense and Sensibility, 1995
I’m in love. And not the shallow, fleeting, puppy-love sort either. No, this is full-blown, ever-lasting love. This is Sonny love. And those of you who know me well (or really, know me at all) know what that means. This is obsessive love.
His name is Orlando Bloom. He’s an actor. He’s currently starring in Pirates of the Caribbean and come December, he’ll reprise his role as Legolas in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. He’s also British. That means double hotness.
All right, so he doesn’t exactly know I exist, but that’s never stopped me before, now has it? Why let a little thing like that get in my way?
So since I’m at work, I decided to put my time to good use. I’m at a point where I’m ready to stop random people walking by my cubicle to say, ala Alan Rickman, “Give me something to do or I shall run [even MORE] mad!” But now I have plenty to research. There are Orlando Bloom pictures to admire, Orlando Bloom quotes to memorize, Orlando Bloom interviews to read, Orlando Bloom multimedia to download, Orlando Bloom e-cards to send, and did I mention there are Orlando Bloom pictures to admire?
-Alan Rickman, Sense and Sensibility, 1995
I’m in love. And not the shallow, fleeting, puppy-love sort either. No, this is full-blown, ever-lasting love. This is Sonny love. And those of you who know me well (or really, know me at all) know what that means. This is obsessive love.
His name is Orlando Bloom. He’s an actor. He’s currently starring in Pirates of the Caribbean and come December, he’ll reprise his role as Legolas in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. He’s also British. That means double hotness.
All right, so he doesn’t exactly know I exist, but that’s never stopped me before, now has it? Why let a little thing like that get in my way?
So since I’m at work, I decided to put my time to good use. I’m at a point where I’m ready to stop random people walking by my cubicle to say, ala Alan Rickman, “Give me something to do or I shall run [even MORE] mad!” But now I have plenty to research. There are Orlando Bloom pictures to admire, Orlando Bloom quotes to memorize, Orlando Bloom interviews to read, Orlando Bloom multimedia to download, Orlando Bloom e-cards to send, and did I mention there are Orlando Bloom pictures to admire?
Wednesday, July 23, 2003
Goal #36--Check!
Lula: "'Ranger's the shit.'
Stephanie [confused]: 'Do we know anyone else who's the shit?'
Lula: 'John Travolta.'"
--Three to Get Deadly, Janet Evanovich
No, no--Janet's the shit!!
Goal #36 (or was it #35?) of my 100 Goals for this Lifetime accomplished Monday, 21 July 2003. Met Janet Evanovich at the Mall of America two days ago. Was a fabulous time. I was so excited the time flew by. Mum, Tara and I all went to Minneapolis. We left Monday morning and returned last night. We checked into a hotel and left immediately to do some shopping before the big EVENT. I got many a purchase so ten points for me. There was a store called Irish Indeed! where my inner Irish lassie sang her heart out (and emptied her pockets into their cash drawer). We waited in line for nearly two hours to get autographed copies of her books, but it was WELL worth it. I had Janet (see how we’re on a first-name basis?) autograph One for the Money, Four to Score, and Hard Eight, as well as To the Nines, of course. We also got our picture taken with her. She looked really tired and she has carpel tunnel in her wrist from signing so many books in the last couple years. Holy cow. Also met Alex, who I’m enamored with. She’s about nine feet tall and possibly even cooler than Janet (I don’t know…is that possible?) I got my picture taken with her and she was handing out postcards that said Damn Skippy! I took, um, maybe ten or twelve. I’m so star-struck!
One last thing…Janet said she was technologically handicapped. Ha-HA! Never again will I be ashamed of my ridiculous technological questions and my amazingly slow mind that just cannot wrap itself around a simple explanation of anything technological or mechanical.
I love Stephanie Plum!!
End of rave. [Exit stage left]
Stephanie [confused]: 'Do we know anyone else who's the shit?'
Lula: 'John Travolta.'"
--Three to Get Deadly, Janet Evanovich
No, no--Janet's the shit!!
Goal #36 (or was it #35?) of my 100 Goals for this Lifetime accomplished Monday, 21 July 2003. Met Janet Evanovich at the Mall of America two days ago. Was a fabulous time. I was so excited the time flew by. Mum, Tara and I all went to Minneapolis. We left Monday morning and returned last night. We checked into a hotel and left immediately to do some shopping before the big EVENT. I got many a purchase so ten points for me. There was a store called Irish Indeed! where my inner Irish lassie sang her heart out (and emptied her pockets into their cash drawer). We waited in line for nearly two hours to get autographed copies of her books, but it was WELL worth it. I had Janet (see how we’re on a first-name basis?) autograph One for the Money, Four to Score, and Hard Eight, as well as To the Nines, of course. We also got our picture taken with her. She looked really tired and she has carpel tunnel in her wrist from signing so many books in the last couple years. Holy cow. Also met Alex, who I’m enamored with. She’s about nine feet tall and possibly even cooler than Janet (I don’t know…is that possible?) I got my picture taken with her and she was handing out postcards that said Damn Skippy! I took, um, maybe ten or twelve. I’m so star-struck!
One last thing…Janet said she was technologically handicapped. Ha-HA! Never again will I be ashamed of my ridiculous technological questions and my amazingly slow mind that just cannot wrap itself around a simple explanation of anything technological or mechanical.
I love Stephanie Plum!!
End of rave. [Exit stage left]
Saturday, July 19, 2003
Countdown
Stephanie: "'I notice you only speak ghetto half the time.'
Ranger: 'I'm multilingual.'
I watched him walk away, feeling jealous, wishing I knew a second language."
-One for the Money, Janet Evanovich
Morelli: "'You've harassed my mother, stolen my car, and now you're telling people I've gotten you pregnant! In my opinion, getting someone pregnant is pretty fucking personal! Jesus, isn't it enough I'm accused of murder? What are you, the bounty hunter from hell?'
Stephanie: 'You're overwrought.'
Morelli: 'I'm beyond overwrought. I'm resigned. Everyone has a ccross to bear ... you're mine. I give up. Take the car. I don't care anymore. ... You're not making phone calls, are you?'
Stephanie: 'No, of course not.'
Morelli: 'Phone calls are expensive.'
Stephanie: 'Not to worry.'
Morelli: 'Shit. My life is shit.'
Stephanie: 'Probably this is just a phase.'"
-One for the Money, Janet Evanovich
Only 43 more hours until I get to see Janet Evanovich. Damn skippy!
Ranger: 'I'm multilingual.'
I watched him walk away, feeling jealous, wishing I knew a second language."
-One for the Money, Janet Evanovich
Morelli: "'You've harassed my mother, stolen my car, and now you're telling people I've gotten you pregnant! In my opinion, getting someone pregnant is pretty fucking personal! Jesus, isn't it enough I'm accused of murder? What are you, the bounty hunter from hell?'
Stephanie: 'You're overwrought.'
Morelli: 'I'm beyond overwrought. I'm resigned. Everyone has a ccross to bear ... you're mine. I give up. Take the car. I don't care anymore. ... You're not making phone calls, are you?'
Stephanie: 'No, of course not.'
Morelli: 'Phone calls are expensive.'
Stephanie: 'Not to worry.'
Morelli: 'Shit. My life is shit.'
Stephanie: 'Probably this is just a phase.'"
-One for the Money, Janet Evanovich
Only 43 more hours until I get to see Janet Evanovich. Damn skippy!
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