Grandma Evelyn

My grandmother died this weekend. She’s my father’s mother, but I haven’t seen her in years. She had a stroke several years ago, and I know that she was having a hard time even recognizing my dad of late. Thankfully, it sounds like she didn’t suffer long. As I look down the face of my 30th birthday, it scares me to think that, ultimately, my body too will simply shut down.

But for now, I can remember my grandmother. She lived in St. Paul, Minnesota, for the majority of my life. The summer I was eight, I flew by myself for the first time to visit her. I spent a few days with her in her small apartment, roasting in the Minnesota heat.

I remember sitting by the screened window, trying to stay cool in the absence of air conditioning. Grandma sat in her chair, quietly doing her crosswords. Almost every night a tornado warning was issued, sounding loudly from the local emergency towers. Grandma and I diligently hunkered down in the basement of her building for hours with other residents. Grandma read her Reader’s Digest as we listened to the radio. A neighbor brought down her cat, who, knowing that Grandma wasn’t much for cats, spent the entire evening trying to get her attention.

When Grandma would visit us in California, she did everything and went everywhere with us. She couldn’t drive, and never got her license because there was always one of her seven kids or 10+ grandchildren around to do it for her. I thought it was odd (who wouldn’t want to drive?) but I think she was just old-fashioned.

I remember how she always smelled sweet, and always had her hair permed. I remember her purple hair pick lying in the bathroom we would share when she stayed with us.

I remember how her chin moved when she laughed, and anyone laughing with her could tell that she was really tickled.

I remember how my other grandmother called her “Evy,” even though no one else ever seemed to call her that.

I remember how she “tsked” at any risque moments on the television or at a saucy story—remnants of her conservative background.

I remember how strange it was to hear her call my dad “Glenn,” or even “Glenny,” and to understand that this diminutive woman was my dad’s mother.

From what I know of her, Grandma worked hard her entire life for her husband, her children. She didn’t have the luxury of a college education or a lot of money. But she was sweet, and easygoing, and sent me cards on my birthday. And she was my grandma. She’ll be missed.

No, I’M the boss of YOU

My niece Bella is adorable, but a handful. She’s five now, and can hold her own in quite grown up conversations. She's started saying "for real" after making any statement she thinks we may not believe, and can even get her dad in trouble once in awhile by calling him out on things he shouldn't say. She also likes to make up stories and play with her dolls, which I totally admire because I never had the creativity to play with dolls. They just sit there, you know?

So I got to spend a few days with her and her little sister Sofia over Christmas. Bella got a new makeup set as a gift, and when she “did my makeup” she managed to coat my eyes in enough glitter that it’s still with me three days later. Sofia was running around with blue cheeks and purple lips all of Christmas day, and when RL was leaving Bella told him he couldn’t go because she still had to do his makeup. Gender shmender!


(Bella, in all her sassiness)

My favorite moment was when she was getting ready to go to bed on our last night together. I told her she could sleep with me, so she eagerly got in her pajamas and climbed in bed, along with her five dolls. It was pretty quickly evident that she did not view this as bedtime, but as a way to continue playing with the dolls and making up stories for her lucky audience (read: me). The stories go something like this: “Ariel went to see her daughter Melody and she told her, you can’t have my legs!” followed by much giggling on Bella’s part. I’m always a step behind her trying to figure out what’s going on, so usually I just end up with a confused look on my face.

When I finally told her she needed to lie down and start being quiet, Bella says, “no I don’t! Mommy and Daddy didn’t say I had to. For real.”

I start arguing with her about the fact that I was in the room when Mommy and Daddy did in fact tell her to go to bed, and then realize that this type of logic has never worked with her. I just have to be firm! So I say “Bella, it’s time to go to bed.” At this she grabs my hand, looks me in the eye, and says, very articulately, “You’re not the boss of me, I’m the boss of you!”

It’s hard not to laugh when a five year old is so completely testing you and your ability to withstand her strong-willed adorableness. But I stood my ground, and somehow she agreed to go back to her own bed and go to sleep.

Phew! Score one for Aunt Tplate’s negotiations with the five year old.

Ridiculous Christmas Presents

Christmastime is that great time of year when commercials for really inane gadgets come on TV (well inane gadgets and electric razors. Did you ever notice that?). It's like these "As Seen on TV" product developers know you're only going to buy their product when you're really desperate to find a last-minute Christmas present for your weird Uncle Ed.

So last night I saw this commercial for the Clapper "Plus"--it's the new and improved version of the clap on/clap off light control. This one doesn't just function off of clapping. No, this one has a remote control that comes with it, so that you can always carry with you the ease of turning on and off your lights at the touch of a button. The problem is, the thing is tiny. I can imagine it getting lost at pretty much the first use.

So to solve that problem, the ingenious people at Clapper productions have added Velcro to the back of the remote! So you can just stick it up on the wall when you find a convenient spot for it. Thank goodness they solved that problem. But wait, that kind of seems like a...light switch.



Last I checked light switches came pretty standard in most houses. No need to pay the extra $24.95 for each and every lamp.

I know you were all about to buy the Clapper Plus for your loved ones, but I'm here to give it to you straight. You're welcome.

The best Christmas tree ever

so ever since, oh, the middle of November, i've been dreaming about a Christmas tree. So last Sunday we went up to Winter Park with some delightful friends and chopped one down!

At first we were hesitant about the two-hour drive, but since it had snowed the previous day and Sunday turned out to be gorgeous, it was the perfect tree-cutting day. Five couples tromped out into the woods with one saw and one hatchet, and somehow we all made it back with perfect (albeit different) trees.



Ours took awhile to find, but when we did, RL dubbed it the "crown jewel" of Christmas trees, then hung his hat on it to stake his claim. Also so we could find it again. We brought him home, and I gave him the more appropriate name of "Ed" and decorated him up!



(The blur on RL's lap is Little the cat, who is very upset because RL tied a little red ribbon around her neck. Little don't jive with costumes.)

Now for some presents to go under it! I love Christmas.

Big Fat Will Pinch You

Another funny photo--RL's relations have an affinity for picking up stray cats. This one happened to come with six toes. His name's Big Fat and I luff him.

yeah, so....

it's been awhile. here are some funnies from our trip to NY.

The sign at RL's favorite childhood sub shop. I had to take a picture of this renegade rooster who has apparently ripped his own leg off, fried it up, and is serving it for your pleasure. I also enjoy the chicken leg necklace. Beware the Renegade Rooster! He will destroy his own kind and feed their body parts to unwitting sub shop customers!




Multiple of these signs were posted in our room at the swanky Howard Johnson outside Toledo, Ohio. They did have a coffee maker (minus the coffee pot. Details, right?) and a hair dryer, but you couldn't use them all at the same time. But what I really love is the use of caps AND parentheses. It's like simultaneously emphasizing and deemphasizing the main point of the signage.



More about our trip later. Good stuff!

adventures in cooking

so after i posted my last recipe, i realized that there are a lot more recipes i'd like to share...just stuff i've come up with and gotten good at making. they're not all original, but i've tweaked them to make them easier.

so i started a new blog! if you're looking for good veggie recipes, visit me.

and now for something completely different

>>HOLD UP, I forgot a very important part of the recipe--the lemon juice! See below for revised recipe.

i've been into cooking a lot more lately, and i'd like to think that i'm getting better at it. of course, i always watch the food network when nothing else is on, so maybe i'm subconsciously getting inspired. (like yesterday, giatta was working with chocolate and made the most delicious looking panini out of brie cheese, chocolate, fresh basil and sourdough bread, which pretty much represent my four food groups. i have yet to try it but i'll let you know how it goes).

anyway, here's a less fattening recipe for my hummus, which has gotten good reviews at some recent parties. it took me a long time to arrive at this recipe, which is a conglomeration of other recipes and my imagination.

Tee-plate's Curry Hummus

In a food processor/blender*, mix:

1 can drained Garbanzo beans (reserve some of the juice for later)
4 1/2 Tbsp Tahini
3 Tbsp Olive Oil
5 Tbsp Lemon Juice
2 cloves Garlic
1 Tbsp Curry
Couple dashes of Cayenne Pepper
Couple dashes of Sea Salt

Mix it all up, then add some Garbanzo juice if it's too thick. Add more salt, curry, cayenne to taste. Delish!

Sometimes i double the recipe just to make sure it lasts. This stuff is good with triscuits, carrots, on sandwiches, with blue corn chips. And it's pretty healthy, right?

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*RL got me a food processor for my birthday last year. He also got me a Kitchenaid mixer by mistake, because he accidentally forgot the name for Cuisinart. Anyway, i do appreciate them, but i think it's funny that for our very first Christmas/birthday together he got me two kitchen appliances. I mean, didn't he ever see Father of the Bride?

yeah? well you smell like nail polish

Sunday was a fairly uneventful day, seeing as it was snowing when we woke up. So we decided to go on a little shopping excursion (RL got a little J Crew gift cert for his birthday. yay! except none for me. That place is pricey.). But then we got to go to PF Changs for those delicious lettuce wraps. Yes it's a chain restaurant, but those things are like crack.

Afterwards, RL decided we needed a little manicure action at the local nail shop*. As he explained to the woman doing his nails, we spent some time shingling a friend's roof on Saturday and our hands needed a "treat." I'm pretty sure that his manicurist spoke little to no English and couldn't have cared less about our Saturday even if she did.

My lady was a different story. She was friendly, asked us questions about us, what we did, etc. Finally she asked us what we had been doing that day. I told her about the shopping and the PF Changs. She was like, "Oh, yeah, I thought you smelled like Chinese food."

Ummm, thanks? What kind of a thing is that to say? I would never say that to a friend, much less someone who was expecting a tip from me.

After that I didn't know what to say to her. She finished my nails, pretty shoddily, and I decided I don't really like manicures. I don't want to have conversations when I'm being pampered, much less conversations about how I smell. From here on out it's all pedicures.

As long as I can stick my nose in a magazine and keep my Chinese-food stench away from everyone, I'll be okay.


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*RL does like his manicures. It's these getting-in-touch-with-his-softer-side moments that make me love him.

politicians, god love em

Okay, i know i'm treading in dangerous political waters here (well, at least for a blog that's supposed to be light-hearted), but i just have to share this.

For school i've been doing a little research on my home town of San Diego, figuring out just how little their major media outlets are talking about their impending water crisis. In my research i came across a little clip of the Republican mayor of San Diego speaking out for gay marriage. Apparently his daughter is gay (Hi. Dick Cheney? Are you watching this?) as are members of his staff, so he's now asking the city attorneys to pass a resolution to allow gay marriage. In San Diego of all places!

Watch at least the last half of the video. It's amazing that he's so emotional about this--gives us a little insight on what it's like to be a politician that's promised one thing to his constituents, and another thing to his family. But kudos for actually doing the right thing for once (Hi! Dick Cheney? Are you watching this?).



In other news, Barack Obama recently linked his faith to his environmentalism. Wha? God never told us anything about taking care of the earth. Oh wait, yes he did.

can't i just have a normal hug?

there's a new epidemic in the world of hetero relationships*, and it's called, for lack of a better term, "over-excited affection." boys, it seems, have a hard time administering affection that's not either:
a) bouncing up and down
b) picking their girlfriends up and tossing them (nicely, but still tossing)
c) poking in inappropriate places/at inappropriate times
d) grabbing or squeezing all manner of body parts

Now, it's understandable that boys like to show their affection in a variety of ways, but when it's done in one of the above ways 90 percent of the time, it's also understandable that a girl's gonna get annoyed.

I myself am often a victim of a, c, and d, with an occasional butt slap thrown in. early on in our relationship, RL stopped hugging me normally and started hugging me while jumping up and down (with weird sound effects). When i asked him for a normal hug, he said "come on! this is the deluxe hug! you're so lucky!" the other day i asked him again and he complied. for about five seconds. then he says "boorringg" and starts bouncing again.

now the "deluxe" has come to mean any sort of bouncing that RL does, and my least favorite is the i'm-still-sleeping-and-RL-is wide-awake deluxe. usually he does this because he wants me to wake up, and sometimes it works. My favorite is when i wake up to him standing over the bed with a wild-eyed look on his face and his body poised to jump on me.

when discussing this with my girlfriends, including Sara over at
Dating Tales, we realized that one of the issues is that you have to laugh when someone is bouncing/poking/grabbing you, which naturally means that the boys think we're enjoying it. Which we're not. But laughter is the go-to response that we fall back on, and sometimes we just can't help it.

So what's a girl to do to stop the over-excited affection onslaught? More importantly, why do boys have to be so difficult?


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*i have no idea how this is playing out in other types of relationships, and it may very well not just be limited to the heteros i know. it does seem to be kind of a straight boy thing, though.

my bf, apparently, is 12 years old

But he's cute. Which is good. Because on Wednesday he decided to wake up at FOUR O'CLOCK in the morning to drive an hour and a half and stand in line for three hours to ski two runs at Arapahoe Basin, the first mountain to open in the United States. RL was wearing a pumpkin costume, which got him some good coverage in the Denver Post. In one of the longer quotes, he decided to rub winter in my face by saying something like "summer's over!" it's funny because when he was saying that, i was still sleeping warmly and comfortably in my bed.

Just in case you need a visual:

In other silly bf news, he got an original Nintendo for his 30th birthday last week. I was excited because i thought i could relive my childhood too, but then he bought Skate or Die (sp?) and Commando, which i never played (i was rooting for Tetris and Bubble Bobble). Then the other night he called me from work saying he was going to be late because he had just bid on Excite Bike on eBay and he had to wait for the auction to close.

Aside from the primitive graphics and music that are fun to laugh at, for some reason Nintendo is really easy now that we're adults. I'm still trying to figure out if this has something to do with an increase in our intelligence or just an increase in familiarity with technical gadgets. Or maybe it's easy because RL, somehow, remembers all the secrets that we worked so hard for when we were little.

Actually, as we speak he's trying to conquer Mario Brothers for the third time in three days. Excuse me, I've gotta go help him out.

...my dear, i don't give a damn

being the super-anal grammar and language person that i am, i always notice when people say things repeatedly, or wrongly. when RL and i started dating he said "to tell you the truth" a lot, which i thought was funny. when i pointed it out he stopped doing it. i sure hope you're still telling me the truth RL!

he also said, "least we forget" until i corrected him. apparently all of his life he'd been laboring under the assumption that the least we could do is not forget.

my current boss' name is frank. he says "frankly" a lot. as in "frankly, i think the design isn't what we need right now." it's like he's using himself as an adjective. like, what other way are you going to do things but frankly? i wonder if he notices the inherent irony. i do things tee-plately. how do you do them?

one of my professors is moroccan, though he's lived in the states for awhile and is a working journalist. for the most part he's got the language down, but there are always a few words he just can't pronounce right. my cohort and i sit in class and make notes of his weird pronunciations and then compare after class. the other day he was telling us a story about a coroner, but the way he said it sounded like Tony Danza ordering a mexican beer. Cor-OWN-er ("Hey Angela, go get me a coroner."). it was hard not to giggle in class.

but my absolute favorite saying of this professor is the substitution of the word "gouge" for the word "gauge." as in, "think about your surroundings and gouge your stories appropriately." i'm sure he doesn't even think about it, but the word takes on a totally different meaning when you pronounce it this way. does this not happen in morocco?

and it's got some hip music, too

on the heels of britney not being fat, let's all take a moment to watch Dove's new internet ad about caring for your daughter's body image. it's like they heard my cries! at least somebody's paying attention.

Choose wisely, my friend

At the risk of sounding blasphemous, I have to tell you a story. The other night RL and I went over to our friends-that-are-now-our-neighbors' house on a Friday night for a little campfire action. We had a few beers (I had my wine) and started a cornhole tournament. Well, RL and I were doing pretty well, and managed to make it to the final round against the formidable duo (the party hosts who we always lose to by just a smidge).

For some reason, someone decided that before the final round could begin we should do a little shot of tequila. There were a good number of us there, so the kitchen's entire shot glass collection all came out for the event. There were tall ones and short ones, shiny ones and dull ones.

As we gathered round the ole tequila to choose our shots, it dawned on me that this choice was like finding the Holy Grail. You know, like in Indiana Jones when he only has one chance to find Jesus' cup or his face would melt off? Sometimes I make these connections in my head and I'm not sure if anyone else if going to be on the same page as me. But I risked it.

Me: Choose wisely everyone. Think about what Jesus would drink out of.
Partygoer: You mean WWJDOO?

Hilarity ensues. Yes, WWJDOO. It's just funny thinking about Jesus standing around at a party drinking tequila out of a carefully chosen shot glass.

In other alcohol-related funnies, I flew Southwest to Chicago last weekend. The feisty flight attendant was taking our drink orders and the woman two seats down from me asked me what kind of red wine they had.
"Red," he said.
"Is it like a Cabernet?" she said.
"Um, it's red," he said.
"But is it--"
"It's red!" he snaps.
"Okay," says the passenger, resigning herself to drinking whatever the heck this guy was going to put in front of her.

This is Southwest people. Don't expect any frills.

Join me, on my high horse

It's Thursday, let's talk about what's wrong with the world.

Rant #1: the people at wendy's in laramie don't care that i'm a vegetarian

It's true, they don't. Maybe I went a little overboard with my reaction to the poor cashier, but seriously? The fact that Wendy's has all of these nice salads, but they are all prepackaged with MEAT in them, is what's wrong with America. Did you notice that we're all fat (except for Britney, see below)? Did you notice that we treat animals horribly? Did you notice that there is absolutely nowhere in Laramie to go on a Sunday night to get a quick bite to eat that's not going to make you feel disgusting?

Sometimes I'm ok with agreeing to the fact that you're just not going to find a lot of vegetarian-friendly places in a small town in Wyoming. Sometimes I feel like saying, why the hell not? Evidence is coming out that our meat-consumption habits are doing more to harm the environment than driving our SUVs. I know people get nervous when we talk about something so close to home, but it's time to start really thinking about this.

Rant #2: people think Britney is fat

She may be kind of dumb, and sad, because capitalism/the promise of love and attention lured her into being nothing but an object. But please, folks, she is not fat. I know this conversation has been happening all over the place--"give her a break, she just had two kids" is the one I've been hearing a lot. I appreciate that people are pointing this out, but even if she didn't just have kids, SHE WOULD STILL NOT BE FAT. She's a perfectly normal sized person who just hasn't been able to keep up with her totally-unfeasible-in-the-real-world four-hour-a-day workouts.

The problem is that up until this point, Britney has existed only for our consumption, and we are angry at her that she is no longer the perfect little hot schoolgirl we wanted her to stay forever. What's even sadder is that the teenage girls who are carefully observing our behavior as a nation are internalizing our treatment of a woman like Britney.

This means that at 16 most girls are way over-sexualized*, that they will do a lot more to get the attention of boys, that ultimately they will place more importance on being attractive than being smart. What happened to the women's movement? Our rampant comsumerism is eclipsing our desire for equal rights. At some point, this is going to come back to haunt us.

Maybe I'm just speaking from my naive standpoint, since my teenage years were pretty well sheltered. If any girl in my high school came to school dressed like the girls are now, we would immediately think she was "troubled". Of course, that was almost 15 years ago, and I guess times do change. And I, apparently, get older.

What do you think?

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*A side anecdote: I was in JC Penney in Amarillo, TX a few years ago when I overheard a few 50s-ish women browsing the junior's section. "Look at how short this skirt is!" I heard one of them say. "It's no wonder they all get pregnant--they just bend over and oops! there you go."

It's like we were in National Geographic or something

Yeah, yeah, it's been awhile, but I've been busy. Last weekend I was busy attending wedding #3 of the summer (only one more to go!) in beautiful Jackson, Wyoming.

The highlights of the trip:

1) Staying in a fantabulous condo at Snow King resort (discounted courtesy of the bride and groom's connections). The master bathroom suite was bigger than our whole upstairs. And filled with Wyoming cowboy goodness.

2) RL's debut as "reverend" for the new couple. (He's already booked for several next year. What's the deal?)

3) Last but not least, an amazing float trip down the Snake River, at the foot of the Tetons. I was promised wildlife, but nothing like this. Within the first hour of the trip we looked over to the forest on the side of the river to see a herd of at least 100 bison tromping through the woods. We were all in shock, until, 10 minutes later, we see the bison actually crossing the water in front of us! We all got a little nervous when it looked like we were on a collision course for the guys just heading into the water. Everyone in my boat paddled quickly to make sure we didn't accidentally run into one of their horns (and end up in the water with them), and made it within 10 feet of them. A woman on our boat got these amazing pictures as we were passing them.








I have never before seen bison in the wild, and to come this close felt pretty surreal. We followed it up by an incredible bald eagle siting, and then a peek at a moose just hanging out in the woods (doubtless trying to not be seen).

Thank you, Wyoming!

Tuesday: Tripping to School

My friend gave me some feedback on my blog and told me she liked the self-deprecating nature of it. In the spirit of that, here's a little more self-deprecation. It's amazing how easy it comes when you're kind of a klutz.

So today I was feeling sort of rushed as I left the house to get to my 9:30am class (so early). I managed to get on the right bus to get to class on time, but didn't manage to get there very gracefully. I got off the bus and was happily walking down the street, coffee in hand, when all of the sudden the sidewalk jumped in front of me and I nearly went down (to be fair, the sidewalks on that part of campus are notoriously frost-heaved*. Everyone knows it).

I don't know what I was looking at, but one of my classmates was about three feet in front of me, so when I almost went down, I nearly took her out. She's all walking down the street, totally not tripping, when all of the sudden she hears "Ack!" from behind her and turns to see me nearly crashing into her.

Some nice older ladies who were just passing stopped to make sure I was ok, and I of course tried to play it cool, but there was just no going back with the classmate. I tried to start a normal conversation as we walked to class, but I think she thought I was a little weird. To make matters worse, I totally cut my toe up on the stupid sidewalk. By the time I got to class it was bleeding and gross.

Ah yes, tripping during my second week of grad school. Reminds me of the time I tripped down the stairs on my first day of high school (true story! In a brand new school and everything). Here's to me learning how to walk better.


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*Meaning buckled, sticking up, whatever you want to call it. Thanks to RL for the whole "frost-heaved" descriptor though. He's very technical when it comes to cold weather problems.

Grad school is just like college, only different

So I’m almost done with my first week of graduate school. It’s been a big week of firsts for me, since I took the bus for the first time (well, in Boulder), got lost on campus (had to ask a freshman for directions), and met a lot of new people.

Last week was actually the first time we met everyone, as we all sat through an entire day of orientation talks by just about every group on campus (no Womynists though. What kind of a PC campus is this?). By the end of this long day we were all sort of bonded in our common tiredness and looking forward to our short-by-comparison 2.5 hour classes.

But it was fun getting to know everyone, and, well, sizing each other up. Journalism is a practical degree, but only about half of the people have actual journalism experience. There’s that one woman who was working as an associate producer for Martha Stewart Living in NYC, another one who’s been writing for a newspaper in Argentina, and still another who’s making her own documentaries.

And then there are the brand new college grads, who have for some reason decided that two more years of school is the way to go right now. There’s the 50-year-old woman with three kids who wants to do something new and interesting, and the Jersey girl who, after getting to the orientation 30 minutes late, asked five million stupid questions in that irritating Jersey girl way. Later she proceeded to eat a bag of chips while sitting right behind me, crunching her way through a kind of important talk by the Dean. (Note to self: Do not sit near to Jersey girl in future classes.)

My favorite part of the day was on the bus ride home. I got surrounded by undergrads, who were sharing their own stories of life at school. Two boys/men sitting right next to me were chuckling about all of the freshmen who were wandering lost around campus, huddling around school maps trying to find their way to class. Then the subject turned to food, and boy/man #1 says “we’ve got to get some real food to eat. I mean, all we’ve been eating is ramen, hot dogs, ramen, pop tarts, and more ramen.” Ah yes, the foods of the undergraduate gods. Thank god I’m not one of them anymore.

Friday: Bad Manners at the Movies

I like going to see movies, and I don't mind going to see them alone. What's the point of having a date? You're there to watch the movie, not talk to the person (ya hear that, movie-talkers*?).

Today I was in the new theater in town, the one with stadium seating and everything. The problem with these theaters is that now you have to enter from the front, in full view of all of the already-seated audience members. Before you could sneak in the back and find a spot without drawing too much attention to yourself. Not that I have a problem with doing things on my own, I just don't want to have to give anyone that "yeah, i'm alone, you got a problem with that?" glare (must be leftover from city living).

So I found the closest seat--careful not to make eye contact with anyone--which happened to be in front of three chatty older ladies. A moment later, an older gentleman walked in the theater and took the chair two seats down from me.

At this point I'm not worried. Until the opening credits start. Chatty Cathies 1,2, and 3 start up their conversation again. I breathe deep, and think that they'll have to stop when the movie actually starts, right? Then Mr. Older Gentleman starts up his own conversation. With SLEEP. This guy seriously came in, sat down, and started snoring. Seriously? Why would you pay $8 to take a nap?

I sit there for awhile, thinking about moving up a row, when someone a few chairs down (past Mr. Snores-a-Lot) starts shaking the dregs of their Slurpee and making that whistling sound with their straw. The last straw, as far as I was concerned. So I picked up my stuff and moved.

After that the movie was great. If only I could see movies totally alone, minus the annoying strangers with bad manners. And hey, at least it wasn't as bad as the time I was watching Snatch by myself and was almost molested by that creepy stranger who had clearly misinterpreted the title. Talk about bad manners.

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*As a sidenote, my friend Mindy actually got into it once with some chatty people sitting behind her at a movie. "I wish you wouldn't have talked so much," she said as they were walking out. "Yeah, what are you gonna do about it?" they replied. "Whatever, you're just a bunch of, of, movie-talkers!" Not Mindy's wittiest moment, but I think she imbued her jibe with just the right amount of passion.

Punchbug, in all its glory

RL and I pride ourselves on several things: making up silly words and phrases, blaming each other for our own misdeeds, and the most serious game of Punchbug the world has ever seen.

It's no longer just one punch when you see a Bug. It's two punches if the Bug's moving. You can punch someone multiple times if you see the Bug twice in a short amount of time (e.g. coming into and out of a parking lot), unless you have agreed that that Bug is off-limits. If you are alone and you see one you have to punch yourself, but you can also punch the other person when you get home for all the Bugs you saw without them. Lately RL has taken to just punching me as many times as possible before I scream "ow!"

Didn't I tell you it was serious?

The other day, as we embarked on a road trip to go camping, RL decided to pre-emptively punch me for all of the Bugs he was bound to see before me on our journey. I'm convinced that was why, as we slept in our tent later that night, RL woke up to ME punching HIM. Here's our verbatim, mostly asleep conversation.

Me, solidly asleep: (punch-punch-punch)
RL, waking up: What are you punching me for?
Me, groggily realizing that I have just dreamt about bugs, and that it doesn't count if they AREN'T REAL BUGS: Um, nothing, I was just dreaming about a bug.
RL: There was a bug in your dream and you want me to kill it?
Me: No, it was a Punchbug!
RL: Well if there was only one Bug, why did you punch me three times?
Me: There were two bugs.
RL, surprisingly lucid: That still doesn't count for three punches.
Me: I was sleeping. I don't really know what I was doing.

Sorry babe. But you started it.

You guys know this place is clothing optional, right? (Part II)

When we left our heroines, they were about to embark on an exciting campground adventure…

As we drove into the site, snowflakes began gently fluttering to the ground. We parked the car, unloaded the “mondo condo” (the only tent left at the rec center) and began blindly trying to put together this unknown and ridiculously large tent in the pitch-black, near-blizzarding mountains of Colorado. Neither of us had thought to bring a flashlight, and the batteries in the tiny keychain light that we had brought died within minutes.

So we ditched our tent-erection attempts, and decided to hunt down some firewood. If we could get a fire going, we’d be able to see much better, right? We wandered over to the campsite’s designated wood pile, consisting of a rather sizeable log in a trough, which we were meant to cut with a rather less sizeable hacksaw.

Cold, tired, and not really knowing what we were doing, we made our first few feeble attempts at hacking. Suddenly, out of the nearby sauna building came a gray-haired man with a pot belly and a cigar. Naked. He sat outside the steamy enclosure for a few minutes and watched as we struggled in our frustration. Finally, Mr. Pot Belly gets up, saunters over our direction, and tells us we’re doing it all wrong. Naked. Then he proceeds to pick up the saw and show us how the saw is meant to be used. Did I mention he was naked?

Daisy and I stood back, stifling giggles and giving each other “is this really happening?” looks. Finally, once Mr. Pot Belly felt he had sufficiently demonstrated his sawing prowess, he left us and went back into the sauna. We stood there for awhile, incredulous, frustrated, and ready to give up.

And give up we did. As it turns out, we didn’t have the skills, equipment, or patience to finish the job. Hanging our heads in shame, we packed up the car and headed home. In hindsight it was a good thing we did—the storm of the decade dumped on Colorado that night, closed roads and stranded hundreds of students on their own adventure. If we hadn’t been so ill prepared, we might have been stuck sleeping in the sauna with Mr. Pot Belly, smoking cigars and eating the last scraps of our PB&Js.

Wednesday: My No Good Very Bad Day

Today I:
1) Woke up on the wrong side of the bed (apparently);
2) Stubbed my toe;
3) Dropped a plastic jar of hummus on the ground and broke it; and
4) Pissed my cat off, to which she responded by scratching me. Repeatedly.
And that was before I left the house.

When I did leave the house I got in the car to run some errands, namely getting a wedding present ready to send. I had already re-hot-glued the homemade present (it had come apart after sitting in my hot car for an hour), and was finally ready to get it in a box and ship it off. Since I didn’t have any boxes lying around (one of the downsides to not having an office job—no access to random stuff like that), I thought I’d just go to a nearby packaging store and get them to find a box and fill it with peanuts.

The clerk at the store takes some measurements and asks how I want to send it. “Cheap!” I respond. He says the cheapest he can do is FedEx Ground, and that’s $21. The cheapest is $21?!!?? “Half of that is the box, and half is the shipping,” he assures me.

Unfortunately I’m not really prepared to pay $10 for a cardboard box. Nuh-uh, I say, and walk out of the store, resolving to find my own box and stuff some newspaper into it, like all normal shipping people. As I’m driving home, I remember that the liquor store around the corner always has boxes to give away. I stop and pick one up, and am delighted to find a Sierra Nevada box (the happy couple that I’m sending this to love this beer, and they just got married in the Sierra Nevadas. What could be cuter?).

I bring my little box home, happy I have saved myself $10, when it dawns on me that you can’t send liquor boxes through the mail. Even if they don’t have liquor in them. Erg.

Frustrated, I set aside that project, and get ready for a bike ride to run a few more errands. I run around the house, looking worriedly at the darkening sky, and resolve to ride no matter what. Then of course, the moment I step out of the garage, the rain starts. I linger for a few minutes, go back to the house, linger for a few more minutes, and the rain dwindles.

Now that the rain’s gone, the bike ride is hot—and rather humid. But I make my way to campus, and get right to the building I was looking for. Success! Except for the fact that I’ve forgotten my bike lock (rookie mistake). From what I’ve heard, leaving your bike unlocked on campus is not the best idea. So I leave it where I can see it from the windows of the card office, where I’m about to get my picture taken for my school ID, envisioning a scenario in which my bike gets stolen and my bad day turns into a really bad day.

In the card office, I learn that the computers are down all over campus, and I might have to wait awhile. Fine, I think, I’ll go check on my bike, and stop by the career services office. There I learn that they can’t really help me, and I probably should head over to the student employment office across campus. Great, I think. Another errand. I walk back outside and check on my bike (still there) and head back to the card office. They look at me sadly, say they’ll do their best, and apologize. I decide to wait it out, as long as I can see my bike. Finally, miraculously, they are able to print me a card. The sad news is that sweaty bike ride does not equal terribly attractive ID photo. I shrug, take my card, and get back on my bike.

I ride up the hill, stop at a light and wait to cross. Suddenly a big truck passes, and in a split second something has flown off the top of the truck and hit me in the leg. It was a mushroom, of all things, a big one. Thank goodness it wasn’t a chunk of cheese, or, god forbid, a steak.

By this point I have to laugh at how ridiculous the situation is. I’ve just been hit by an errant mushroom on Broadway. What? I giggle to myself the whole way home, where I swap my bike for my car to get to my next appointment. The next appointment is a haircut, which I think is at 3 o’clock. It’s not—it’s at 2:30, so by the time I get there my girl is on her next client. Looks like I’ll have to wait awhile til she’s free again.

Finally, errands done, bangs trimmed, I go home and collapse. The day’s not over yet, but apart from the hurricane-like hailstorm outside, I think the evening’s got to get better.

Tuesday: Fun with Animals

Mr. Squirrel: "Maybe if I just flatten my tocks I'll blend in."



Mr. Squirrel: "Gah! Kitteh! Steady, steady. Just be cool Mr. Squirrel, you know what to do. You've dealt with evil kitteh before and she hasn't beat you yet...Commence squirrel barking!"

You Guys Know This Place is Clothing Optional, Right? (Part I)

One of my favorite stories ever happened in a moment where my still-to-this-day-good-friend Daisy and I were becoming close and trying to be adventurous. We were in the middle of college, and we decided that a good old-fashioned camping trip would solidify our friendship. I knew of a spot in the mountains, about three hours away from school, and after class let out on Wednesday, we packed up the car with our PB&Js—pilfered from the school cafeteria—and a borrowed tent from the outdoor recreation center.

Daisy had talked to me of her life-changing Outward Bound experience as a teenager, and though I was a bit of a camping virgin, I trusted that she knew enough about the outdoors to get us both through. We had shelter, snacks, and some sleeping bags. What more did we need?

On the trip out there Daisy and I taught each other our favorite car games, talked about life, and realized that we both loved the same obscure k.d. lang song. But by the time we arrived at our campsite/hot springs, it was nearly midnight. We paid our dues, collected our towels, and listened to the campground manager tell us two things: a snowstorm was moving in—and it was supposed to be a big one—and the hot springs were clothing optional (so don’t be too surprised if you see people wandering the campground naked).

We laughed, overconfident in our college worldliness and outdoor preparedness. At that moment we should have just turned around and gone home for all the good the next hour did us.

Old timey radio voice: Stay tuned for Part II of our exciting adventure, wherein our two daring heroines face cold, snow, and a little too much nudity. Will they survive?

Two broken windows, with a side of redneck please

Sometimes you try and do a good thing and you just end up getting pooped on. Last weekend, as RL and I were wrapping up the Relay for Life we helped plan, we had a little accident with a light stand and a generator. We were hauling the thing back to the rental place—whose drivers had all worked too much that week, and couldn’t drive the extra two miles to pick up this unwieldy piece of equipment—when the hitch came undone. Hearing the thing dragging on the ground, RL hit the brakes and all of the sudden the boom was in our backseat.

Now, I don’t love this car. It’s a 17-year-old Blazer, and about every single luxury feature the car ever had has managed to stop working (and by “luxury” I mean air conditioning, defrost, and the ability to tell which gear you’re in while driving). So with a crunched back gate, now windowless, the first words out of my mouth are, “at least now we’ll have better air flow.” Seriously, the car is on its last legs, and that’s why neither of us was terribly upset over the accident.

But without any plans to replace the car in the next few weeks, RL decided to head on over to the junkyard and see if he could just grab a few parts and replace the back end himself. $125 later, he’s got a new back gate and a new window. Though I’ve never actually done any auto body work, I agree to watch/help as he installs the stuff.

So all is going fairly, strangely, well—we get on the gate without any major problems, and move onto the glass. Only a few more bolts through the window and we’re set. So here I am holding the underside of the glass as RL is tightening the window onto the car, when all of the sudden the glass shatters, about two inches from each of our faces. Amazingly both of us survive without much more than some tiny scratches and a few straggling bits of glass (and in RL’s case, those straggling bits all got trapped in his forest of arm hair. It's quite impressive). Once we realize that we’re okay, we start to laugh about the inevitability of something going wrong in every project that we do.

But we never could have predicted how this project was going to turn out.

The next day RL heads back to the junkyard. Of course he has to hang his head a little in telling these guys that yes, he needed another window because the last one didn’t quite work out. By the time he arrives at the yard they’ve pulled out just the window for him. I think they felt sorry for him, so they helped him put it on, obscene sticker and all.



I’ve amended the photo, but you get the idea. RL has since removed the sticker in embarassment, but I knew we had to have some way of remembering that, for at least a few days, he was a redneck.

My Kickball Team, or How I Spend My Monday Nights

Last Monday night my kickball team came dangerously close to ruining our one-loss-per-season streak. Against a team that hadn’t WON a single game. And who were fairly skeezy kickball players. That's right, skeezy.

I should start by saying this is how we spend our Monday nights: dressing in silly costumes, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, and running the bases with all we’ve got. And our team rocks. We refuse to create a batting order, give out an award each week for the person who has most sacrificed their body for the game (read: bleeding most profusely), and generally try not to take it too seriously.

Until we meet another team that does take it too seriously. This last team was pretty good, but they also played pretty dirty. The pitcher was hurling balls at our batters so fast that we barely had a chance to kick. One runner took out our second basewoman as he was rounding the base. And one husky woman kept trying to lead off the base (this is what we call cheating).

After I saw that, I knew I had to keep an eye on her. She was one of those ex-softball player types, and reminded me of Velda, Shelley Long’s troop leader foe from Troop Beverly Hills (don’t pretend like you don’t know who I’m talking about). Velda, as I’ll call her, bossed her team around, edged in off of the grass when the girls kicked (also cheating), and generally made me mad. I’m sure I sounded like a little whiny brat when I was trying to get someone—anyone—to pay attention to my pleas to watch as she led off. But kickball is about having fun! It’s not about cheating! I’ll whine if I have to to protect the integrity of this game!

In the fifth inning my mom, who was in the stands, began cheering for me as I walked up to the plate. “Do a Leckonby!” she yelled, referencing my boyfriend’s earlier two-run-producing kick. Thanks Mom, I always love to be held up to someone else’s standard of athleticism, especially my boyfriend's. The resulting kick was a pop fly—right into Velda’s arms. Erg.

The thing with our team is that we have a lot of fun, but only because we manage to beat almost everyone. If we didn’t keep winning, I can’t imagine we would have such a good time. We cheer every time one of our players slides into a base unnecessarily (hence the bleeding), makes a diving catch, or pegs out an opposing player with a great throw (you can do that in kickball! If only that was legal in softball). Oh yes, the glories of kickball are many, especially when your third basemen is wearing a Twinkie costume.

My date with Mr. Entomologist

Or as I called him, “the bug guy.” I used to work for a natural history museum, one of those with a large collection of dead mammals, dead birds, and of course, dead bugs. The entomologists who researched these bugs would display their drawerfuls of colorful beetles, many legged centipedes, and rare stick insects with pride and excitement as they talked about what makes the study of insects just so fascinating.

So one Friday evening, as people from around the museum came together and drank their way into the weekend, I started chatting up one of the guys who worked in the insect collections. I had noticed him before, knew he was a bit older, but thought he had some sort of Clooney-esque charm to him. He was not terribly interesting to begin with, but I hadn’t been on a date in awhile—since I had gotten out of my last long-term relationship—and I thought I could use the practice. He asked for my number and we planned to have dinner the following week.

The evening of the date, I got ready, feeling happy about the simple fact that I was going out on a date. I wasn’t desperate, it had just been a few months, and it felt good to be, well, normal. We met for dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant, talked about our lives, and it seemed to be going okay.

Until he pulled out his favorite bug. Seriously.

I think he felt like things were going well enough that I could be trusted to appreciate the things that made him tick (no pun intended). He told me that this small beetle, encased in its little resin cube, was the reason that he got into his field, the thing that really inspired him about entomology. Blah, blah, blah.

Now, picture me on the other side of the table, mouth somewhat agape and a million things running through my mind: What do I say? Why didn’t I foresee this? I guess it’s nice that he feels inspired, but by that? I don’t even like bugs. How do I get out of this?

After (what felt like) a few minutes I pulled myself together and tried to change the subject. By the end of dinner I was feigning tiredness and trying to play up the whole “I have to be at work early tomorrow” thing. He tried pushing for another drink, but I managed to cut it short.

So you’d think I could put the date behind me, right? Not quite.

By 9am the next morning I had an email waiting for me from Mr. Bug Guy. “I really enjoyed our time last night. You’re smart and sexy and I’d like to go out again. What are you doing this weekend?”

Bad form, dude. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s not cool to contact the girl within the first 12 hours after the date, especially when it was clear that she wasn’t that into you? Wanting to nip the situation in the bud, I quickly wrote him back and said maybe we could be friends, but I didn’t really think we were “relationship material.” Then came a flurry of emails over the next few days, all saying about the same thing: “Maybe I came on too strong. Give me another chance. Won’t you just have one more drink with me?”

After awhile I stopped trying to spare his feelings and just didn’t write back. The next week he began apologizing for the previous emails, saying that he felt like he was digging himself into a hole and he didn’t know what to do. Unfortunately I didn’t know what to tell him. There was certainly a hole, and I wasn’t going to help him out of it.

By then it was comical—I started sharing Bug Guy’s ridiculous messages with my friends, who looked at me with that I-told-you-so look. As in, they told me not to date someone from work. Especially someone from bugs. What was I thinking? In the following months I avoided him as best I could, and tried to seem friendly, but his complete and utter inability to act in a normal social manner made it difficult to overcome what was, possibly, the worst date I’ve ever been on. Since then I’ve made sure that future dates have passed a serious screening and reference process, including a “pocket check” to ensure that there aren’t any unwanted creatures joining us for dinner.

Check out other people’s bad dates at Dating Tales.

Warning: Cattiness in Courtroom 12

A few days ago I did some volunteer work for my company, sitting as a member of a “fake jury” and critiquing lawyers on their “fake delivery” of opening and closing statements. The attorneys use a “fake case” to practice their courtroom skills, and in some instances, they will actually practice these skills in front of folks who get paid to pretend like they actually care.

For years my company has relied on groups of retirees for this service, paying them a small fee and feeding them breakfast for their time. I got recruited because they were short a few senior citizens (don’t ask my why), and they needed another person to sit in. Eager to get out of sitting at my desk, I agreed.

When I walked into the gathering room at 8 o’clock that morning, I could already see that these seniors were settled into their social cliques. They had separated to different tables, munching their bagels and holding their private conversations.

When we moved into our individual “fake courtrooms,” I got placed with three white-haired ladies, of varying ages and states of hearing loss, and sat and listened as they chatted about their upcoming social activities.

Apparently they were going to the dinner theater. And apparently, one of their fellow retirement-village residents had waited too long to purchase her tickets. Suddenly, everyone was talking about this woman and rattling off the times that she had “forgotten” something or had screwed something up. I was shocked by the downright maliciousness in these women’s comments, talking about a friend of theirs who was getting on in age, and in their words, “really failing fast.”

I tried to suppress a chuckle as I sat and thought about the irony of this—these women, breaking down someone else’s “failings,” which were not such a distant prospect in their own lives. And really? Their behavior was not so different than what we experienced on the playground. When we’re threatened by what the world is about to offer us, we find the weakest link and start picking, just to assure ourselves that we are not so bad off.

For me it was a reality check. I thought I had left that cattiness behind in high school. Now I know it’s just a few short years before I’m right back in the middle of it.

You and me and the parking spot we fight over

When I lived in Chicago parking was a big deal. My apartment near Wrigley Field had such limited parking that I literally planned my life around not going out with the car past 7pm on weeknights, 5pm on the weekends. Later, when I lived in a more normal neighborhood, I relaxed my parking policies, but was still thrilled when I could find a spot on my block.

Now I live in an apartment/townhouse complex in uber-relaxed Colorado, and there’s almost always a whole blockful of parking right in front of my house. You’d think this would make me happy to no end. And it does. But in addition to the plentiful street parking, there’s also a parking lot, right next to my house. We have one reserved parking spot in said lot, and there’s a great unreserved spot right next to it. Now, to be honest, this spot is actually an extra few steps to my front door than the almost-always available street spot in front of the house. The difference is that the street spot’s much harder to get out of, as the u-turn required to leave the complex necessitates a several point turn.

Small details, right? It would be, except that now it’s a matter of honor.

A few months ago, a blond-bearded hippie in a rusty grey Jetta started parking in my lot spot. Being the hippie that he is, he only uses his car once in awhile. This means that when his car’s parked somewhere, it’s parked somewhere.

Last weekend was a perfect example of my annoyance with this situation. I left my house for a few hours, clearly noting that the Jetta was parked in a lot across the street (where Hippie’s house actually is).

When I came home his spot across the street was empty. But my beloved spot was not. Convinced that he had seen me leave the house and stealthily slipped out to move his car into my spot, just to piss me off, I nearly shook my fists into the air (in the general direction of his house). The Jetta then sat there for days.

But today, the game changed. Coming home from work, I rounded the corner to my house, and saw it: the beloved parking spot was free. Ha ha! I had beaten him at his own game! I had chosen the perfect moment to arrive at home, during Hippie’s one miniscule outing of the week, and could reclaim the glorious slot.

But wait, what was that in my rearview mirror? It looks like a Jetta. A grey, rusting Jetta. Could it be? Had I actually cut it this close? I glance back and see him glaring at me, knowing he knows that I am his foe and I have won.

Instinctively I speed up, wanting to eliminate any possibility that he could sneak by me in the next 300 yards and take the spot out from under me. I slow towards the lot, making sure my turn signal is on and Hippie knows where I’m going. That’s right buddy! It’s mine!

He pulls into the lot across the street, and I work hard at looking casual as I exit the car, covertly glancing over as he makes his own way home. As I enter the house, I breathe a sigh of relief. For the moment, I am the parking lot queen. And boy, does it feel good.

ingredients: marine lipids

My boyfriend smells like fish today. Why, you ask? Did he munch on some tuna for lunch? Spend an afternoon at the seaside? Nope.

Last night, when he was rubbing yet another goop-ful of Neosporin on his kickball wounds, I suggested that some Vitamin E oil might help it heal quicker. Not wanting to go all the way upstairs to get said oil, he says he'll do it later.

Fast forward to us going to bed two hours later, wherein I have placed his two nightly vitamins on his side of the bed (I'm sorry, when did we turn into our grandparents?). The supplements are Vitamin C and Fish Oil, to be exact. Now, even though the vitamin bottles reside on my side of the bed, RL knows what he's taking every night. He knows that this little capsule is fish oil, not Vitamin E. Yes, they LOOK an awful lot alike, but they are not, in fact, the same thing. But before my very eyes he bites off the tip of the fish oil and proceeds to spread the marine lipidy goodness all over.

The funniest part of this story is that I didn't think a thing of it. I am the one that emptied the little capsule into my hand, directly from the fish oil jar. I watched him as he spread. And then I quietly went to sleep beside him.

After this morning's shower he went back to his half-empty capsule, and continued spreading. Something clicks on in my mind--I see the jar flash before my eyes, replay last night's conversation about Vitamin E, and it dawns on me even as I catch the first scent of fishiness emanating from his person. "What you're using there? That's fish oil. Why are you doing that?"

A few hours later I get the following email:

"Computer is locking me out and i smell like fish. f%*k."

It's okay, the absent-mindedness is endearing and reminds me of my mother. OMG.