She's gone all domestic on us
Tonight I'm going to go home and bake pumpkin bread with cranberries! This will be the 7th and possibly 8th pumpkin cranberry loaf that I have baked from the same recipe in the past week. Fixation? I like to call it certainty of preference when it comes to holiday-themed baked goods.
Actually, I didn't really get to eat any of the original six. The first three I baked on Wednesday night. The edges of the loaves burned a little and made them look awful (though the insides were fine). I paced the kitchen for a while, trying to think of a way to salvage them without cutting the edges off - so tacky! So easy and logical! I tried using a fine grater to scrape away the burnt part, and only succeeded in giving my dog's head a coating of nasty powder (she is always at my side when I cook) and getting tired arms and bored before even finished with one edge of the three-loaf project. I convinced myself that it was improper pan preparation that caused the burning (not, for instance, the fact that my oven is half-sized and more suited to cakes and breads of the EZ Bake miniature variety) and went back to the store for more supplies. I baked another three with my New Amazing Pan Preparation technique, and of course they came out burnt again. I cut off the edges, Martha Stewart be damned, and served them up without anyone even noticing the trim job. Sometimes I worry about strange things. How is it I can attend a function with my shirt half unbuttoned and not bat an eye, but if the bread crusts are a little singed I lose sleep at night?
The rest of my cooking this Thanksgiving was similarly on the edge of acceptable, but that's usually the case with most of my non-holiday creations too. I am famous for mixing up teaspoons with tablespoons, realizing after I'd baked everything that I'd only doubled half of the ingredients for the recipe, forgetting the last batch of cookies and letting them char into ashes while I was distracted by a speck of dust in the other room. This year I put far more pepper in my broccoli and cheese casserole than was proper (I liked it but my aunt made that "whoooo" noise that signals impending bad things). I tried to bake the artichoke dip at 350 degrees when the oven should have been at 400, leaving it in for twice as long and hoping it would bubble up and brown like it was supposed to (it didn't even get close, but luckily was still tasty).
Stir-fry dishes, that I can do. Anything that involves 5-10 minutes of my time from start to finish will get my full, undivided attention. 15 minutes, you're pushing it. God help us all if I ever have to do Thanksgiving on my own!
It seemed like a good idea at the time...
I should have been a little more wary when the boys asked me if I wanted to go spelunking with them. I should have thought twice when they told me that we would be climbing in a cave system that wasn't on any map and had been discovered by the guy who would be leading us. Red flags should have been waving when I was told to dress for lots of mud, bring two flashlights, a warm blanket, food, rope, and a hard hat. The klaxon alarm should have sounded when they told me that I was invited but my friend Dusty couldn't come, since she was a D-cup and her chest would get her trapped on some of the trickier passages. I was a C-cup and therefore
should be okay, but they warned me that I would have to inhale strongly to make it around certain corners.
"Sounds like fun!", I chirped.
We drove way the heck out into the foothills of the Rocky Mountains (this was in Colorado, near Boulder) and pulled off on the side of a road with no markers, signs, or other human beings within sight. There were five of us, three of my friends from the theater shop (oh, we were a rugged bunch!) and our guide, Sprout, who had discovered the cave system. I don't know what Sprout's real name was. He was a tall, lanky black man who was one of the more flamboyant personalities in the festival. This was only the second time I had ever seen him out of drag. We suited up, slung our flashlights on our belts, slapped on our hard hats and hiked up the side of the road until we couldn't see our cars anymore. Sprout led us in a twisting climb, pausing every now and then to look around before heading out in a different direction.
After a while we began to get worried, but just about the time we were working ourselves up to question Sprout about this mythical cave system, he disappeared right before our noses into a hole in the ground. We whooped and tumbled in after him, meeting in a large underground bubble with multiple holes branching off into the darkness. Sprout's eyes were incredibly bright in the dim room as he explained that most people would take the inviting opening leading off to the left, but that they were amateurs and wouldn't get to see the true heart of the cave. He pointed to a roughly 2-foot-diameter opening at his feet and told us that we'd have to take off our hard hats for this one, since our heads would be too big to fit through with them on. It was a 90 degree turn that was luckily slicked with mud to facilitate our painful twistings through the rock. It led to a series of narrow passages that we either crawled or crept through, depending on whether or not they were big enough to let us get up all the way onto our knees.
We got to another small room that allowed the five of us to sit together momentarily, and Sprout explained that the next stretch was even tighter while giving my chest a glance that was a mix of concern and disgust. I sucked it in and looked at him defiantly. The passage rose at a 45 degree angle from the room and wove between large boulders. The first two people made it up with no problems, and I started in with a good attitude. I made it about 3/4 of the way before my chest got stuck between two rocks. I had been pulling myself up with my arms when it happened, so I was completely immobile and didn't have a foothold no matter how much I twisted around and kicked. I tried everything I knew but it was no use, any motion just secured my position. I was wedged tightly in the passage and completely at the mercy of the rocks. I told the people at the top of the shaft my predicament (the ones below couldn't hear due to the chestal blockage and distance) and they (after chuckling a little) tried to lower down a rope to me. It kept getting caught on the twists and turns and rocks of the passage. I was trapped.
For some reason, I suddenly thought this was the funniest thing ever. I laughed, hard. It echoed up the shaft and scared the crap out of my comrades at the top, who were now getting worried that I'd be there forever, doomed by my boobs to a cold and lonely death. It echoed down the shaft, throwing pebbles at the comrades below who were just now imagining that something might be a little wrong with me. It grew to a magnitude that relaxed my chest muscles, and the combinations of that and the shaking of my lungs contracted them enough to allow me to slide down slightly from the two offending boulders and twist my hips and grab the sides of the passage with my feet. Still laughing, I took a deep breath and pushed upward (yes, I am THAT stubborn) and shoved my way through the narrow spot quickly and shimmied up to meet my friends. They wanted to know what was so dang funny.
We went further, finally ending up in an incredibly long, slanted space that you could only fit into by walking sideways and leaning back onto the angled surface. It was amazing. We turned off our flashlights and leaned back onto the cold stone, feeling just how deep we were in the mountainside. We took a different route back, one that entailed chimneying up a narrow vertical passage (chimneying = one hand and foot on either side of the hole. Pressure on the outer walls is all that keeps you from falling. In "The Emperor's New Groove" it's what the llama and big dude do to get away from the alligators) (I watched it with my nieces/nephew! Shh!). Very exciting, very heart-pounding, and I would do it again in a second. Except maybe next time wear a sports bra.
Slight tug upward on the unemployment yo-yo
I have another interview coming up! Dec. 3rd, with a local company that I've freelanced for in the past. It's as a designer/draftsperson, which is perfect. This company is great, very creative and a fun place to work. Jobs I've done for them in the past include:
* Built/painted a full scale replica of the bridge of the Death Star from Star Wars for some rich guy's "theater room". It had fiber optic stars in the windows and a fiberglass replica of Han Solo trapped in whatevertheheckhewasfrozeninto.
* Painted 3-story-tall funky metal flowers for a mall in Arizona.
* Painted a 6-foot-tall replica of Crash the Bandicoot
* Sculpted three 7-foot-tall drumming teddy bears for some national chain store's Christmas display
* Sanded and helped assemble fully detailed pit droid replicas from Episode 1 that held t-shirt racks
* Helped design and build lighting effects to be contained in 6-foot-tall hatching dinosaur eggs (each dinosaur had a different special power and different lighting effect, it was hard! Try getting fairy dust to erupt from a huge fiberglass egg, I dare you)(without using actual fairies, you cheaters)
* Assembled enormous chandeliers made of tinted balls of resin also for a national retail chain's holiday decoration
* Painted hundreds of side panels for the Staples Center in L.A., for which my name is apparently on a plaque somewhere.
Needless to say, I'm a little excited. I'm going to buff and polish my portfolio a bit and make sure that I have a bunch of stuff to leave with them (who doesn't like stuff? Maybe I'll bake them cookies).
In other news, I realized today that I know too much about cows and should probably hold back a little when discussing them with colleagues in the city. My story of feeding the cows apples and bringing back my hand covered in an inch of slime is NOT appropriate urban lunch conversation. Also, the fact that I can remember multiple breeds of cow and their functions and major characteristics is scary, particularly when I mess up my correct phone number about 1 out of every 5 times I try and tell it to people. And it's my only number. And I've had it for three years now.
By the way, this is a Pinzgauer.
So.
No fancy jobby-job for me. Which is probably good since it was located about 20 minutes away in Tukwila, and I am physically unable to pronounce Tukwila in a way that would be businesslike. They didn't end up hiring anybody, making this my 3rd job application in a row where I've done incredibly well (I was their top choice for this last one) but they've been bitten in the ass by the economy and have had to change their mind about hiring anyone.
I *heart* the economy.
Sent off 4 more resumes today, so now the search begins anew. I'm also at this temp position until December 10th, so all is not at a total loss (I'll be able to pay rent for December and hopefully find something early in January). Anybody want to hire me? I'm cute, I draw good, and I know all the lyrics to "Thoroughly Modern Millie"!
Fear of AT&T
This is the tale of the day I discovered that I am not, in fact, invincible. Snakes, spiders, tight spaces, and heights had never bothered me in the past. My parents were often left fearing for my life when I ran off as a child, knowing that in seconds I could be scaling a tree or jumping off a pier into the ocean.
In college (the Texas version), I was involved with roughly a ba-zillion clubs and activities. I volunteered to walk stray dogs at the animal shelter, I served breakfast to the homeless under an overpass downtown, I ran a group that visited strangers at a local retirement home and regularly convinced Alzheimer's patients to do crafts (with even more regular cries of "Dangit, she's eating the paint again!"). As a result of this, many weekends were taken up by leadership training and retreats where we were all supposed to bond and work together and share our s'mores. Yeah, me and a group of ex-cheerleaders in the woods. I sat in the back a lot and drew rude things on my notes.
The trip that stands out in my mind was led by a particularly peppy fella named Howard. Howard was an outdoorsy peppy guy (the worst kind, as they can take an experience with nature and fast-forward it and color it with extra-bright, high-pitched cheers of death), and I'd made the mistake of "hiking" with him once before. He'd run full-bore up the small mountain we'd chosen while I did my leisurely hike, then ran full-bore back down and up again before I reached the top. It was like a live Speedy Gonsalez cartoon, complete with the trail of dust marking his progress up and down and up and down the trail. For this particular trip, he decided that our group of 20 would do a ropes course out in the middle of the Texas wilderness. I'd seen ropes courses on TV before, and was anticipating a little bit of climbing, some falling backwards into a group of waiting arms... nothing too extreme, right?
The course that we went to was hours away from any city and looked to be run by just a couple of redneck guys. They outfitted us with climbing harnesses and helmets, and waited patiently while Howard launched into the first of many pep talks we'd be tortured by that day. At least, I think they were pep talks, he could have been speaking Swahili for as much attention as I gave him. I was looking at the pretty trees. mmm, trees.
The first challenge was one that I'd seen on TV. Two long ropes were strung between two poles. One was about 10 feet off the ground, with the other 10 feet directly above it. There were a few shorter ropes dangling down from the upper one. We climbed up to a platform on one end and, after hooking in our harnesses, inched down the rope using the shorter ropes for support. Not bad, I did just fine. We climbed a rock wall (cake) and walked a thin bridge over a valley (also cake) and swung like Tarzan from a tree (vanilla sponge cake). Then came the telephone pole. It was almost 30 feet tall, with the original metal L-shaped climbing hooks still intact. There was a trapeze hanging equal with it about 6-7 feet away. The trick was to climb the pole, stand unsupported on the 1-foot-diameter top, and then leap to the trapeze and swing for a while before they slowly lowered you down by your harness. A few people got up and jumped without incident before it was my turn, so I thought nothing of grabbing the metal grips and starting up the pole. I hummed a little climbing song to myself as I worked my way up, only silent when I realized that the little grips stopped about 2 feet from the top of the pole. Undeterred, I stepped on the highest one and shimmied myself up to the top of the pole, getting one foot on top and starting to pull myself into standing position.
Then it hit me. I realized that I was close to standing on the teensy top of a 30-foot telephone pole with nothing around me but a swinging trapeze that seemed miles away. The fear was like a solid thing, it slammed into me with a force that I could feel all throughout my body. I couldn't stand up, my eyes glazed over and my body started shaking uncontrollably. Howard noticed that the climbing/leaping movement had ceased and immediately began a supportive cheer amongst my fellow happy ropers. I calculated the number of them I could hit if I threw myself off the pole and managed to undo my harness. It wasn't enough (is it ever?) so I verrrry slowly took my foot back down from the top of the pole and made my excruciating way back down. Since then I've only felt a couple of mild aftershocks, and only in situations where I'm up very high and with nothing to grab on to. So the invincibility thing might just have a slight setback, is all.
Memories of sand and orange peels
I was attempting to clean my bedroom last night, and stumbled upon the journal that I kept while traveling in India last year. It's a mishmash of stories, half-asleep airport writings, attempts to record drum patterns, lists of food and its approximate names, and one memorable page where I was being peeked at by a girl at the orphanage and took a section to write "Geeta is BAD. MEAN. A BULLY (and a spy)." I think she didn't like that, the page is a bit wrinkled.
The trip was 2 1/2 weeks of traveling all through mostly southeast India, holding medical clinics and visiting an orphanage. I have no medical training besides CPR and basic first aid, but I was one of the few who had gotten all of their shots and was not afraid of icky stuff so I was assigned blood sugar testing duties at the first clinic. The second clinic had a different crowd with fewer adults and elderly people, so I did a craft project with the 100+ kids (we made puppets out of paper bags and pipe cleaners)
But I really want to talk about the orphanage in Narsapur,
We got to the orphanage in the second week of the trip, and our small group was completely overwhelmed with all of the cultural differences we had seen. We had been the guests of a woman who owned a nursing school and elementary school, and spoiled like royalty by her servants and staff. We had been showered with garlands of fragrant flowers, met with elaborate sand paintings, greeted with multiple ceremonies involving town officials and performances and fireworks, and had been led everywhere by a three piece band (please don't ask me what the pieces were, the smallest musician looked to me like he was just playing a box). She hired a tailor for us that made us full traditional outfits for $2, took his shoes off in our presence and wouldn't meet our gaze. Her nursing students deferred to us in the clinics, even though I told them flat-out that I was really an artist and had learned how to use the blood sugar testing machine just that morning.
It was very strange. I found myself sneaking around to try and lift my bag before the porters grabbed it. Never worked, couldn't even pour my own tea.
Dew's Sweet Home was a welcome change, though they still cooked and cleaned for us and the children brought us up buckets of hot water to bathe with every morning. The children there are mostly abandoned by their families, which oddly enough can work out to be a great thing for them and offers them opportunities most families can't afford (though is of course difficult psychologically). The orphanage is incredibly self-sufficient and a very happy place where the children have chores every morning (sweeping the paths, boiling bath water, assisting the cook, tending the vegetables) and spend the rest of the day in school and playing. Their English is incredible, and many of them are at the top of their class at school. They are divided in small houses of 8-10 kids by age, with a house mother and father to take care of them, and come together for meals and playing. It's not a wealthy place, they have a few sponsors but support themselves with farming and whatever donations they can get. We brought them oranges (what we thought was a small, silly present) and the children were so excited - it turns out that oranges are a rare treat for them, something they only see once a year at Christmas! They ate them reverently, completely silent and tearing the peels carefully to avoid any waste.
Our big gift to them during the trip was taking the kids down to the beach. We borrowed a big bus and drove for hours, learning names and trying to get the shyer kids to interact with us (best quote from a child who kept staring at our pale skin: "Why are you that color? Are you sick?") The boys started singing Hindi songs. Soon I noticed a change in the music, they were singing nonsense words to a very familiar tune... "oh, oh-ohhhh"... yep, that "Barbie Girl" song from a few years ago had made it into the minds and mouths of orphan children in deepest darkest India. I became a hero because I knew almost all of the words. I became a guilty hero because I realized just how inappropriate many of the words were (yes, I practiced a little artistic license in passing along the lyrics). I sang "Barbie Girl" at least twenty times for those children. They developed choreography.
When we got to the beach, each of our team members was assigned five children to keep an eye on, and I discovered that my group of girls (ages 7 to 15) had never gone swimming before. Their culture is very modest in the area of women's dress, and they weren't allowed to wear swimsuits or shorts. Their dresses had to cover their knees (pants were suspect). So I decided to teach them to swim fully clothed. They were hesitant at first, but once Jaya the tomboy rode out on my back they all wanted a turn, and it was only a matter of time before I was explaining the dog paddle and telling poor Jaya that swallowing ocean water was a very bad idea and that she should close her eyes under the water as well. Around this time Sharon decided to adopt me. She carried my bag and camera all day and wouldn't let me touch them as we went from the bus to our lunch spot to the beach again. She sat silently by me at lunch, shyly peeking at me with her impossibly huge eyes and looking away when I tried to talk to her. Sharon opened up a little on the bus ride back and I taught her how to french braid her friend's hair. She told me about her classes and the names of the dogs running around the orphanage, and that she wanted to come and see my house and my dog.
A moment of humility: We were watching out the window, looking at the traffic whipping by, and the boys asked me if I had a bicycle of my own. "Yes." They were very impressed. Then they asked me if my family had a car. "Yes, we have our own cars. Most people in the U.S. have their own cars." This almost caused a riot. In an area where the only automobiles are taxis and government vehicles, the idea of personal cars was obscene. And to own a car AND a bike meant that I (even though I was a college student, in debt and fairly poor by U.S. standards) was one of the richest people they knew. I thought about trying to explain, to justify that I really didn't have that much money, but then realized that in comparison I was luckier than I could have ever realized. To live where I live, to have what I have... and I thought I was "poor"?
The day we left was incredibly hard. Even though we had only spent four days with them, the children had bonded with us and we with them. Sharon gave me a hair clip and a rose (both very valuable presents in their community), and cried hard. She made sure that I took pictures of every child, and a few of myself to send to her, and tried to give me her stuffed animal but I wouldn't take it. We had brought a suitcase full of toys to pass out to the children, and she was willing to part with hers even though toys came maybe twice a year. I still think about her at random times, I see things I know she would like, see children that share her characteristics. Such a shy, serious child that in a matter of days formed a bond with me that has lasted over a year! Even though she is in the well-run, supportive world of the orphanage, every time I read a bride-burning story or hear the latest Indian tragedy or natural disaster, I want to get on a plane immediately and rescue her (and all of the other children too). The only thing that stops me is the knowledge that our country has its own problems, and with our prosperity comes overindulgence and a culture where children are drugged into normalcy and questionably educated. The orphans are happy, they have creative and musical outlets as well as a good educational system, and they have a created family that is large and multi-layered and could probably not exist in the U.S. This is my mantra, someday it will work.
Pure Cheese
This is in homage to my friend Scott, who is the only person I know (thankfully) to tell these variations:
THE ORIGINAL
-Knock knock.
-Who's there?
-Interrupting Cow.
-Interrupting Cow Wh...
-MOO!
NEW VERSIONS
French Interrupting Cow. (punchline: MIEU!)
Cowboy Interrupting Cow. (MOO-HAW!)
Greek Interrupting Cow. (MU.)
Stuttering Interrupting Cow. (M-M-M-M.... aww, never mind)
Confused Interrupting Cow. (BAA!)
Mute Interrupting Cow. (...)
Insulting Interrupting Cow (MOO-ron)
Late/Early Interrupting Cow (still "MOO" but all in the timing)
Spanish Interrupting Cow (EL MOO-O!)
Valley Girl Interrupting Cow (Like, MOO)
Bitter/Sad/Angry Interrupting Cow ("MOO" with attitude)
Underwater Interrupting Cow (blub blub blub)
Yodeling Interrupting Cow (MOO-DE-LAY-EEEEEEEEE! Try this at work)
Constipated Interrupting Cow (Mmmmmmm...)
Dyslexic Interrupting Cow (OOM!)
Disinterested Interrupting Cow (walk away)
Cheerleader Interrupting Cow (Gimme an M! Gimme an O! Gimme another O! What's that spell?!)
Unneccessarily Violent Interrupting Cow (Smack on head)
Easily Distracted Interrupting Cow (M - hey look, something shiny)
(I do have to admit, the most fun for me is being able to say "knock knock" "who's there" "easilydistractedinterruptingcow" and making them say "easilydistractedinterruptingcow who?". 'Cause they sound funny. hee. At that point, the punch line is just icing on the cake)
Coming to America
I got this from a random website that I have an old account on, and am wondering if it's the latest Nigerian internet scam (I wouldn't help them wire their Swiss bank accounts, so now they want to make out with me?). It's not spam, it was sent to an address that doesn't get automated replies. It's a mystery - a big, questionable, foreign, misspelled ball of enigma.
Beware, sketchy grammar ahead:
"HI
I came across my brother page on the(*deleted for his privacy*) site
I`m a Nigerian, and currently I live in Lagos,
Nigeria. I studied Business Administation and
Management in the University of Lagos. I
work as AGENT TO NIGERIA PORT,I`ve always dreamt and
hoped to work and raise a home in the United States
with a WOman of my dreams. I lived my entire 27 years
here in Nigeria,l though once or twice I`ve visited
other African countries
I`m of age 27, height 5.7 feet , and my hobbies are of
course READING, BUSINESS.MUSIC,SPORTS,I
love to visit the beach with my friends once in a
while.well just to say l like you, my heart can never deceive me,
l like to know you better,and l
will be very glad if you will like to know me also
better too,to be candid l like to know what can make
you happy,what can make you sad and l also want to
know what can really turn you on,then l will gladly do
it for you l hope we`ll stay together forever because
my happiness is reassured by you, I could have sent a picture
of myself rightaway, but as you can see,well I hope to send it to
you as soon I get a response
from you. I also wish to have a picture of yourself
sent directly to my email box.PLS LET YOUR RESPONSED BE THROUGH THIS EMAIL ADDRESS
BECAUSE THE SITE IS NOT MINE,ALL YOUR REPLY HERE(*deleted*)
I long to have your response as soon as you can make
it. Tell me about everything you think I need to know
about you. Tell me about your family, what you do for
a living and any other thing. Please take your time to
respond to my desire. What I
have to offer is real love and nothing else.
I`ll understand your conditions in any way you can
state them. I should stop here.
Please remember your response is greatly being
expected by me. Don`t forget to talk about what you
think about you and I together.
Bye for now.
Kisses,
solomon,
Lagos, Nigeria"
I sent him a response asking for his picture and more information, so we'll see what happens with this dude/robot/marketing collective. Hopefully I'll end up with a Nigerian mail-order husband!
And a-one...
Still no word about the interview, I guess the hiring-dude-guy is out of town and should be back on Monday. I am taking deep breaths.
I was reading Sarah Vowell last night (she wrote "The Partly Cloudy Patriot", "Take the Cannoli", and probably others) (oooh, she also was one of the voices in Pixar's "The Incredibles"! I cannot convey my geeky happiness at this news) and there is a passage where she describes her marching band days, particularly one number where she is playing the baritone, drops it to go do a marimba solo, and then rushes back to grab a trumpet or break into a complicated series of backflips landing on timpani drum heads in a 6/8 beat. I don't remember the specifics, I only remember her tales of high school band-nerd-dom reaching deep into my subconscious and whispering "hey, didn't you wear a tutu and play a zillion instruments too?".
Piano was the first conquest, beginning at age 5. My parents had an upright piano with questionable heritage (and at least 2 non-working keys) that my mother would use to play an occasional Christmas Carol. When I expressed an early interest, she sent me off to a local mall to learn the basics on keyboards that were larger than three of me combined (this was long, long ago when technology required separate rooms and giant fans and midgets running around with wrenches). I eventually graduated to taking lessons from a series of elderly women and people with multiple cats, ending up at the mercy of Vicki and her sticker book o' validation. Vicki was short and peppy, she had taught choir in our church and had strangely stubby, yet nimble fingers. We never really got along (I lack pep), but she was a patient teacher. I have photos of myself in thick glasses and impossibly frilly Easter outfits, playing in recitals and awkwardly curtseying to the family members forced to attend. The pieces were usually standard fare, though one program my mother has saved features me rocking the "Star Wars Theme". I can only imagine... a tiny little 8-year-old blond girl with glasses and a gigantic yellow poof of a dress solemnly blasting out the Emperor's March on a shiny baby grand while her parents look on deliriously. I quit at the end of Junior High after playing Bach got to be too rigid for me. I tried to get Vicki to let me play blues or jazz, but she didn't like those styles and thought classical was the only way to go. So I said goodbye to the ivories and now only use my skillz for the random Christmas Carol (gotta keep up tradition) and to type like a banshee.
In Junior High I took on the challenge of mastering the clarinet. There are very few instances where a clarinet sounds like anything less than a high-pitched death cry. One, if it is being played by Benny Goodman. Two, in Dixieland music (where every instrument is blaring and the clarinet squawk fits right in). Three, if you are already dead and cannot hear it due to lack of ears and brain. I played it for seven years, in orchestras and band and solo competitions (where for some reason I thought playing modern classical was COOL) (cool in its lack of melody or discernable rhythm, I suppose). I also taught lessons to those unfortunate to attempt the instrument, though most of the lessons ended up being me suggesting maybe they play the trumpet or learn guitar.
I switched to tenor saxophone as soon as I could borrow one from the school (those suckers are spendy! Around $3000 for a playable one) and jumped headfirst into jazz. Bliss followed for the four years of high school and four more years of college (though I changed again to the bari sax in college to avoid improvisational soloing and because I love the sound). Though with the bari sax, I was too short to hold it properly - a.k.a. off the floor - so I developed a way to rest it on the instep of my ankle-crossed feet so that the brass wouldn't scratch. It all looked very demure until I started playing (I am loud).
The only problem arose with the realization that marching with a tenor saxophone strapped to your neck is painful and was beginning to turn me into a hunched-over gnome. Yes, I marched. In formation. Wearing the uniform and snazzy hat. It gets better, I was also in the PEP BAND(!!!) and attended (but didn't watch) every football and basketball game. Sometimes I still wake up playing "Tequila!" in my sleep. I started doing color guard (twirling giant flags) and wearing spandex on the football field. Then I twirled wooden rifles. This is where the tutu came in, since apparently we couldn't dissapoint the sexy underage rifle twirler fetishists.
I am cringing with these recollections that seem to be spiraling into levels of geekiness previously blocked and forgotten.
THEN my friend AM and I decided to form a freelance color guard squad and perform during high school assemblies and basketball half-times. We did it once that I can remember, an edgy psuedo-hip routine to En Vogue's "Free Your Mind" wearing leotard tops and cut-off, frayed jean shorts. We had recruited two other dancers and did gymnastics and sassy twirls with our flags. Dear God.
During all of this I also switched back to do marimba duty (see! Vowell and I could be twins) during particular solos - one for the Little Mermaid's "Under the Sea" - and also played tom-toms and an occasional timpani part. I had rhythm, and piano training, and lacked the ability to be cool enough to turn the conductor down whenever he asked for anything.
I have somewhat redeemed myself lately, by beginning to learn how to play the congas and joining a Brazilian samba band for a couple of years. I played the surdo, which is an enormous bass drum that sets the beat for the entire group. Loads of fun, and we played all over the town for various parties and events. Drums are cool, right?
I also sing, but considering that I'm currently typing this from underneath my desk out of shame thanks to remembering the extent of my dorkiness, maybe I'll save that for another day.
A-buhhhhhhh
I got this in my Cracker Jack today.
They say that you grow to look like your dog, or that people choose dogs that look like them (I really don't know who "they" are, so you can't expect me to quote them perfectly, can you?), what does it ("THEY", the bastards) say for this poor child who apparently was born with the same facial expressions as his family Chihuahua?
I picture the harried parents, tired of Junior's screaming and oatmeal-flinging baby ways, setting him on the floor in front of Rover (oh, who am I kidding. Chihuahuas are always named something awful, like Pepe or Tiny or Mr. Fluffles or Virginia, instead of what they should be called - Dog That Ought To Be Kicked And Hard) and watching as the infant immediately takes on the vacant, slightly perky but unintelligent gaze of the boot-destined furball. They can stare at each other for hours, seemingly using some advanced form of telepathy but really thinking to themselves repeatedly "Hey, look, a baby" or "Hey, look, a rat".
There is an interview result that I am trying not to overly await today, and the self-distraction is not going well. It's for a position that would remove me from the temp world and toss me securely into the employed with health benefits (for the first time in three years!) world. I could finally get someone to look at that rash (kidding, mom! haaaaa. ha.). But really, not thinking about it (the possible job, not the itchy ragingly painful body-covering rash). la la la la la.
Chasing Waterfalls
If anyone is wondering why I would live all the way over in the far corner of the U.S. in such a strange, dorky, caffinated city, take a look at these pictures and realize that this is less than a 2 hour drive away from my house. Well, a 2 hour drive and then a 2+ hour hike climbing around 3000 feet in elevation, but still quite accessible if one is willing to suffer sore calf muscles for a couple days afterwards.
Lake Serene
Not a Jock
Somehow, in the midst of an incredibly painful junior high period punctuated by shyness and isolation from society, I decided that it would be a great idea to play sports. It didn't matter to my adolescent mind that I wore thick glasses and braces, and that I only really had three friends (who didn't play sports at all), I was determined to explore the world of uniforms and sweat and yelling and camaraderie and unfounded aggression towards those who I'd previously ignored and who had previously ignored me.
I joined volleyball, basketball and track. My parents were supportive, but confused (I'd never shown an interest in strenuous activity and was in all honesty a little soft around the edges). It was frightening to jump headlong into the pre-formed jock cliques, which in my school were almost entirely made up of blonde girls with ratted hair and shiny eye makeup. I had the misfortune of being good at volleyball, which meant that I had to leave the safe JV and Frosh levels filled with my geek counterparts and play with the higher-level popular kids who didn't make eye contact with me. Good times. I finally made one friend, another unfortunately talented less-than-popular girl, and we passed the time by developing complicated "pinky switch" patterns and secret handshakes to transfer me to my designated setter position with the maximum amount of effort on our parts (had to keep entertained somehow, Lord knows the other girls weren't talking to us) and the maximum amount of frustration on the coach's part.
Luckily I sucked at track and was able to make some friends on the sidelines as we watched the cool kids huff and puff their way around the field. I was fast, but not fast enough to be a sprinter. I was coordinated, but somehow never managed to make it through an entire track of hurdles without knocking too many over. I ended up doing the shotput, the sport of bull dykes and gigantic men. I was 5'4" and probably weighed 115-120 lbs. with long hair down to my waist. It was a joke that I even competed, but I enjoyed trash talking and didn't mind when my little ball went maybe 1/3 of the distance of the next-nearest throw. I developed complicated tossing rituals and became something of a legend for having the most entertaining but worst record in the school.
Basketball was horrible. I was roughly at elbow level with my teammates, and Mugsy Bogues hadn't yet appeared to redeem the value of short players. I only lasted a season, and decided that the danger of my own teammates' flying elbows in addition to the danger of being run down by the opposing team (who never seemed to see me) was not worth the rare joy of a swooshed shot.
In high school I lost the glasses and braces, and discovered the unique appeal of soccer. Volleyball was all right, but during my sophomore year the team switched from short-shorts to "dance pants", which were basically swimsuit bottoms. The attendance at games went up dramatically. I quit in protest, not willing to dive on a hard wooden floor in my skivvies or know that anywhere from 50-100 people directly behind me were staring at my ass.
Soccer is a sport for the outcasts, for those not tall enough to spike a volleyball or dunk a basketball, not hand-eye-coordinated enough to hit a softball, not quick enough to run down a sprinter. I loved it, and loved the tremendous variety of people it drew. Our team had a horrible record and lost almost every game, so the pressure of competition was completely off of us. We had contests to see who could scare the other team the most via hairstyles (I did Coolio-style dredlocks with my long hair and painted them our colors for one game. Nobody came near me). We invented complicated running patterns that accomplished nothing besides a twisted soccer version of synchronized swimming. We learned how to do the YMCA choreography with our airborne feet on the school bus.
I never scored a goal, never entirely learned the rules of the game even though I was on the Varsity team (offsides? I'm not sure I still know what that means). I was a defender and was fast enough to keep up with most forwards, but couldn't run with the ball to save my life. If I ever ended up with the thing, I'd flip out and boot it like a hot potato to the nearest open teammate, not breathing until it was safely far away from me again. I grew to be a good defender, if not a little on the violent side (who knew sports could be such a bad influence?). I had a rivalry with a girl from our neighboring town after she slide-tackled me once and knocked me in the mud. I got her back and kicked her so hard ("oops, I missed the ball!") that she did a complete flip and landed on her back, winding her and leaving a huge bruise. I got a yellow card and a lecture, but the coach was smiling.
Now I do yoga and save my kicking and bursts of violence for the aggressive boys at the clubs.
It runs in the family
My Dad, who I love despite his frequent (
obsessive, some may say) use of horrible puns, is even more odd, goofy, accident-prone and good story-prone than I am.
In his days as a forester, he almost got killed by convicts working in the kitchen by mistakenly ordering whole potatoes instead of pre-grated hashbrowns for breakfast. He also famously dropped his expensive radio down the honey hole, FISHED IT OUT AGAIN (he claims it had just been serviced and wasn't gross)(mm-hmm), cleaned it as best he could and brought it to the radio technician asking him to fix it. He was well-known for drawing funny Snoopy illustrations for the covers of reports.
When we were children, he starred in a series of children's musicals at our church as "Psalty the Singing Songbook", complete with a gigantic cardboard and foam costume that threatened the lives of any child who dared to share the stage. My sister, brother and I were always in the shows, and soon developed a lightning-fast ducking reflex for every time Dad turned around.
He has been building my parents' dream home/retirement complex (I like to call it their compound) for almost a year now. He bought a piece of land near a town with more cows than people (my parents like the rural life) with a nice view of both Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Rainier, and proceeded to develop the beast into something livable. He dug a well, built a road, got a guy to install a septic system (thank God he didn't try that on his own - it's scary enough seeing him on a CAT digging ditches for the well drainage. He got one stuck in the mud, of course). He got a friend to bring his bulldozer over and flatten out some of the bigger bumps on the property, and then to drag a bedspring over it to flatten it out even more (oh, I wish I were kidding). There are still a couple of big piles of stumps and boulders around the property, but I think my dad is now planning to torch them when things dry up again and plant flowers in the rest of it to turn them into some sort of landscaping.
They rented an apartment for the first months of construction, but once my dad finished the "Shop" - a supposed future wood shop/garage with space for three cars and an RV, with a bathroom (with shower) and oven and fridge and washer and dryer - they decided that the rent was too much and instead moved into what will be their garage, using their RV as a backup living space. The shop has two queen beds with dressers, a living room area with sofa and chairs, and a dining area (all open to each other, which makes it a little odd). The RV has a queen bed, full kitchen, and living/dining areas. My mom calls this "roughing it". I call it more living space than I've had in any of my apartments for the past five years.
The house they've been building is beautiful, of course, but VERY TALL. The living room ceiling is cathedral and about 20 feet high, with peaks of roughly equal height at either end of the house and a 2nd story bonus room over the garage. This is funny because my dad is hugely afraid of heights and had a big problem while building our last house, which was a 2-story as well. This time he's bought some nice scaffolding, but no amount of tiny aluminum bars makes 20 feet in the air comfortable for him. I helped him nail on some of the higher siding a month or so ago and the two of us would pale noticeably whenever the scaffolding rocked a little too much. He finished up all the high parts on his own a couple weeks ago, thanks to my brother and a sudden inspiration. What they worked out was a complicated system incorporating my dad's gigantic truck, my brother's rock climbing gear, and lots of rope. Basically my dad wore the harness and somehow hitched himself to the truck
over the house, and that arrangement gave him the stability/courage to work on the steep roof and finish off the outside of the house. I'm still laughing thinking about how that must of looked to their hick neighbors. I hope they got pictures.
And if you doubt the extent of his bad-joking, I have culled a few examples.
1. (From an e-mail a couple weeks old, dealing with car issues I've been having lately) "Did you know that drinking brake fluid can become habit-forming? There's an ingredient that makes it so. It doesn't work on me, though - I can stop anytime..."
2. (From another random letter) "My wife was in labor with our first child. Things were going pretty well when suddenly she began to shout, "Shouldn't! Wouldn't! Couldn't! CAN'T!" "Doctor, what's wrong with my wife!" I cried. "It's perfectly normal," he reassured me, "She's just having her contractions."
I can't go on. It hurts my comedic soul to even put those two up there. Love the guy, though, and will continue to try and do humor interventions until the puns = not funny message is received.
I have way too much fun on Halloween
The Zombie Mime idea was scrapped due to the choice of a hip-hop club as our party du jour (whiteface would have been redundant).
Zombie Cheerleader seemed to go over well, though a guy dressed as a 1970's P.E. teacher followed me around yelling "Go Wisconsin!" and asking me to do the "Badger cheer" since I was wearing a crimson W on my shirt and he was feeling alma materish. I threatened to bite him but he was a quick little bugger.
