Three Engagement Stories

So, a few weekends ago we went on a hut trip up to Francie's Cabin outside of Breckenridge. It was amazing for lots of reasons (great snow, perfect weather, sauna, good friends, etc.), but the best reason was that our friends J and L got engaged! They've been together more than six years and we all knew it was going to happen very soon, but no one on the trip (except J) knew we'd all get to be a part of it. He even hid some champagne in his bags (could be why the trip up there was arduous, and well, heavy) to celebrate afterwards. Congrats.

Our other friend D and K also got engaged last week. Again, we knew it was going to happen soon, but K was uber surprised when he finally did it. Congrats to them too. Way to go boys!

The last story came from a Nuggets game we went to the other night. It was half time, and they were doing the whole "kiss cam" thing where they focus the camera on a couple (or just two people randomly sitting together) and the crowd cheers for them to kiss. We were delighted to see two couples who had on the ugliest Christmas sweaters possible, but that was nothing compared to the last one...

When the camera focused on this last couple, the man immediately got down on one knee. His proposal flashed on the jumbotron. She stood up, covering her shocked face with her hands. A few uncomfortable moments passed, he's still kneeling, and she's just not responding. Rocky the mascot and a couple cheerleaders are standing there, waiting. The whole stadium is hushed, trying to figure out what she's thinking.

To make matters worse, this woman had on the lowest cut blouse possible, and everytime she moved it looked like her boobs were about to spill right out of her shirt. Now everyone is staring. Trainwreck! Even the players on the court had stopped what they were doing to watch. She just kept shaking her head and saying "I don't know." I'm sure the guy, and everyone else, was really hoping she would just say yes and then discuss later, because after all, he put a lot of effort and money into this.

Finally, she mumbles yes and hugs him. From what I could see she was the young fake-blondini and he was the older (probably rich) man. Match made in heaven? Possibly. I'd like to know how it all turned out.

Note to men: A basketball game is probably not on the top of your lady's list of places she'd like to be proposed to.

Dreams

I really should just start a dream journal blog because I have really complicated dreams all the time. Lately I've been dreaming a lot about babies: one time I was pregnant (scary), another time I was pleading for my life and for my niece's lives, and last night RL and I were taking care of our newly married friends' (non-existent kids). What's the deal? I also dreamt that Britney Spears and I were being kidnapped and she kept taking her shirt off to distract the kidnappers.

In last night's dream RL was deftly feeding our friends' infant, who then threw up on our bed. The parents were around somewhere and they vaguely apologized, then handed over the next kid, who was actually like 20 and a BIG kid, but for some reason he was supposed to be in preschool.

Anyway, in the midst of the weird kid madness, there was a secondary story happening in the background. Apparently I knew this guy who had just set off to track down a woman he knew (loved/was stalking, who knows?). He started sending text-message updates back to me with news and pictures of the this woman. The texts were coming rather frequently, and I remember thinking, sheesh, this guy is a little insistent on sharing his news! They're coming every two seconds!

The funny thing is that I had actually brought my cell phone into the bedroom--a friend was flying in last night and I wanted to make sure she didn't need anything. Well, the friend texted me (and my phone will continue beeping until I look at the message), and for FORTY FIVE MINUTES I incorporated the sound of the beeping into my dream.

I'm rather impressed with my creative dream-state abilities, aren't you?

lessons from a farm

I met some cows today. They were really fricking cute. I don't think people know how cute cows are. They're like horses, only smaller and fuzzier and have cuter noses.

I also met some chickens, and a herding dog that barked at the chickens until they moved out of the road, out of harm's way. Apparently this herding technique works, even though the chickens are all pissy as they're obeying mr. shepherd dog.

Did I mention I was on a farm? I went to meet some delightful people who do biodynamic farming for a CSA up east of Loveland. They grow food all summer long, then can things and ferment things and put things in "clamps" which is a sort of natural outdoor refrigerator that keeps large amounts of produce fresh. At this point in the season they have only a small bit of onions and leeks and radishes, but they're preparing for the summer season of growing.

They also raise dairy cows (only seasonally, because when the green grass to feed the dairy cows dries up, the milk doesn't taste as good), and slaughter a few at the end. It was traumatic for me to stare at the big beautiful eyes of these little calves and know that someday they would be dinner. But I completely respect the fact that these farmers put everything they have into raising these little buggers, and give thanks for the life they give in the end. Really, it's the only way it should be.

The couple who run this farm literally live off of it. The woman told me that when they run out of the veggies they have in a few weeks, she'll go harvest dandelion greens and wild asparagus for supper. Of course they have their canned goods and their frozen meats, but for them, not having spinach in the fridge doesn't mean a trip to the grocery store. Can you imagine?

Toward the end of our talk, I went into their house alone hoping to use their restroom. I walked in and saw two toilets--one conventional, and one compost. There was a little sign next to it explaining how to do it (complete with a bucket of sawdust), but I just couldn't bring myself. So I held it. I'm such a wuss.

After two hours, part of me was ready to get out of the country, to get back to a place where I can have my spinach any time of the year. But on my drive home, I was uber-conscious of the semi trucks full of building equipment blazing past me on the highway. So many trucks ready to build so many more houses, destroying the prairie for ugly housing developments with ridiculous names like "Sweetgrass" and "Prairie View."

It feels like it's too late to go back to living like those folks do. Too late for me I guess, because I really enjoy spinach in January.

love song

It's hard not to fall in love with Boulder on days like today.

Sixty degrees means finally going outside without a jacket. It means people riding their bikes, walking everywhere. Boys and girls holding hands. Soccer games and frisbees. And wearing shoes with no socks.

After months of air dry and heavy with nothing but snow and cold, finally, today, a waft of milkweed, my favorite Boulder scent. It's always reminded me of my mother.

The sky is, as usual, an incredible shade of blue. The warmth of the day contradicts the snow-flecked ever-present hills. The windows are open, and there's not a drop of snow on the ground.

I ride the bus and sense the energy of excitement, of potential, that everyone must be feeling.

I do research for my classes and discover that despite the horrors of the world, despite poverty and factory farms and violence, there are people doing amazing things. Teaching children how to plant gardens, get their hands dirty, live from the land. People learning, traveling, sharing. And people rallying around their candidates, putting more time and energy into democracy than we ever thought possible.

It's about to be spring. Isn't it time we used this newfound energy to do something?

On days like today, it's hard not to fall in love with life.

whose rhetoric is this?

Reading a NY Times article this morning about yesterday's caucuses, I was amused by the language the Republicans are using about this election. Also kind of frightened. I know I am firmly entrenched on the other side of things, but my candidate just isn't talking like this.

On his win in Kansas: "Mr. Huckabee declared that the voters had been heard from. “They spoke with one voice,” he said. “They said I am the authentic conservative in this race.”

I honestly can't believe people fight over who's more conservative, who's more authentic. Have you been with us for the past eight years? That's not going to win this race, not in this America. The people he's speaking to are an ever-diminishing group. Do they not realize this? Why not expand your horizons a little? Open up to new possibilities?

Mr. Huckabee compared himself to Ronald Reagan when he challenged President Gerald Ford for the 1976 nomination. “He was the pariah of the party,” he said. “Now people love Ronald Reagan.”

I'm sorry, but I don't know anyone who loves Ronald Reagan.

Then, his opponent:

A spokesperson from McCain's camp said: “Our focus remains the same: uniting the Republican Party to defeat Democrats in 2008.”

Way to go! It's all about defeating the enemy! Unite to defeat! Who cares about the real issues at stake? We just want to make sure we win! Indeed, I have lost much respect for McCain in the last few weeks, as he has basked in his wins and lost sight of anything that matters. (And by the way, did anyone see his 96-year-old mother on stage with him the other night? Apparently she takes her fashion cues from Barbara Bush. Hey, it worked for George W., right?)

Finally, let's look at this very apropos picture of Mr. Obama, which topped the NY Times story. I don't know if they were trying to make a statement or what, but he seems to be sitting in the center of those two background colors quite nicely.

This just in...

I got on the bus today, and seated in front of me was a man on his cell phone. Soon after I sat down, he pulled the cord to request a stop. When the bus driver stopped, the guy kindly got off his cell phone long enough to say, "Oh sorry, I pulled it for the wrong reason." Then he got back to his phone conversation.

At first I thought he must have meant he pulled it for the wrong stop, and that he would be getting off at the next one. But no. He was on the bus all the way to the end with me.

So I spent the entire bus ride trying to figure out what the hell other reason you would have for pulling the bus cord other than to request a stop. It's like that Lewis Black bit about overhearing a waitress at the IHOP saying "If it weren't for my horse, I never would have spent that year in college." In his words, don't even try to understand what that means or your brain will explode! So I tried to keep calm as I went over the options.

Did he just get excited and have to pull something? Does he have a tic? Was he about to fall out of his chair and grabbed onto the nearest thing?

This is the kind of language you use when you get into relationships you know you shouldn't be in: I did it for the wrong reason! Or steal some kid's milk money on the playground to get in with the cool kids*: I did it for the wrong reason! This is not the kind of language you use on the bus.

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*Please note I have never, ever done this.

Flight 161, DFW to DEN

I had an unusually eventful trip back from Ft. Worth the other day, and I thought you might find it interesting.

Got to the airport, checked in at the kiosk while 50 other people stood in line for a desk agent. Don’t they know the glories of airport machinery?

Got in security line with the bottom outside pocket of my suitcase open because it has the liquid goods in it that I’m about to remove (more on that in a second). Kindly woman behind me in line tells me that the bottom of my suitcase is open. I just smile at her and tell her it’s okay. Not til I get to the scanner do I see that the actual bottom of my suitcase is unzipped, and clothes are sneaking out. Kind of feel like an idiot. Think that somewhere behind me she must be staring and feeling smug.

Spent the rest of the time in the security line wondering whether they were going to bug me about the fact that my clear plastic zip-top bag was in fact a gallon size, instead of a quart. Picked up the bag they provide and saw that it is actually something more like a pint, not a quart, and there was no way I could fit all of my goods in there. Decide to chance it and get through.

Went to Burger King in the hopes of some ounce of protein/nutrition. Indian guy ahead of me orders a Croissan’wich* without the meat or egg, for which I am grateful because I’m about to order one without meat and I am happy to have someone forge that path ahead of me (a treacherous one at places like Burger King). Started a conversation in my head, which went something like this: Do Hindus also not eat eggs? Why? Are they used to going to Burger King? How awful. Seems like there are plenty of other good things they could eat. A croissant with some American cheese on it just doesn’t seem like it would fit the bill.

Sat eating my Croissanwich, sans meat, and watched the plane before mine disembarking (debarking?). See a guy from my neighborhood get off the plane, a guy who I met once at a community gathering, and whom I always see on the bus in town. Weird.

Went up to the desk to ask a question, but had to wait for the desk agent to get off his cell phone, talking to goodness knows who about some possible emergency at home.

Finally, he gets off:

Me: Is there any way to swap my window seat for an aisle?
Older man who suddenly springs up beside me: Is this where you place your breakfast order? (obviously joking)
Desk agent: Only seats left are middle seats, honey.
Me: Okay, thanks (kind of annoyed that I just got called honey).
Older man: Don’t take the last of the eggs benedict!
Me, looking at the older man strangely: uh, huh, ok.

Older man wanders off too, and I wonder if he came up to the desk when I did just to pull my leg.

Got in line to board and watched the boarding agent tell a passenger, somewhat harshly, that she has to have a stroller tag. The agent’s primary language is something like Chinese, so her exhortations seem even harsher. Then she starts arguing with the other desk agent about who exactly is going to get her the stroller tag. Poor stroller-laden woman doesn’t know what to do.

Later, when everyone is seated, Chinese agent gets on the plane, and tells a little man across the aisle from me that the box he’s checked is not going to make it on. “Your BOX is not going on the plane!” she says. Then the other desk agent tells him that the airline is not responsible for the perishable stuff in the box. It’s not clear why the BOX is not going to make it on, but Chinese agent just keeps saying “the BOX, it’s not coming on the plane. The BOX.” The little man apparently does not speak fluent English, so she just keeps getting louder. Or this woman just likes to yell at people.

Weird. After that everything seemed okay. Meaning, after we got the heck out of Texas everything seemed okay.

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*Is that the correct apostrophe placement? I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a Croissanw’ich before so it’s hard to tell.

...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."

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.

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.