We live in the country. I mean, Lancaster City has been fairly well hipsterfied, and we have a Target less than half an hour away. So we're trying. But if you regularly find yourself in traffic behind a horse and buggy, it's safe to say you're living in the country.
Which is sometimes GREAT. Like when you need some cheering up so you go on Craigslist and look through the "Free" section and find that people are giving away things like:
Four leghorn chickens they found on the side of the road one day. The three females lay some "pretty nice" eggs. There's no telling what the male does all day, but probably he walks around saying things like, "Go--I say, go away, boy, ya bother me."
"That's a joke, son."
A fica plant. Not a ficus. Nope, this baby is just gonna withhold Social Security and Medicare tax from your paycheck.
That is heavy. Heavier than you know, little plant.
Also known as a Guido Casket.
Can you believe they're just GIVING this AWAY? FOR FREE??
One thing I've found! Is that the scarier! And more dangerous! An item is! The more excited they sound!! LIKE WITH THIS TETANUS-INDUCING DEATH SHEET!!!
"COME SEE MY BEAUTIFUL GARDEN ART BUT FIRST MIGHT I ASK IF YOUR SHOTS ARE UP TO DATE!!!!"
Free Rock. Free Rock! Free Rock? Free Rock.
I'm not sure which rock is being offered, as there are two large rocks in this picture. But maybe one is technically considered a boulder? And, I know this is being a little picky, but the description is like a less-excited echo of the title. If I were the author of this advertisement, I would definitely keep the title. Love that energy. But I think I would use the description for a call to action, something like, "Come 'n' get it!"
Then again, maybe this is a call to action. Maybe the rock is being held prisoner on that lawn and we are being called to free Rock. Free Rock!
I can't even make fun of this one. It is a very pretty picture.
Stay tuned for the next installment of FREE TO GOOD HOME, when we count how many listings there are for free firewood and pianos. Which I guess could also be used for firewood, if you really wanted. In fact, most of the listings can be thrown in a fire. Except Rock. Rock will never be thrown in a fire. Rock will be free. Someday, Rock -- will -- be -- free.
None of these images belong to me but I also don't know how to credit them. So if you took any of these pictures and are displeased with me for posting them on here, please leave a comment below and I will do my best to make reparations. Would you like an old water bottle from a hospital? Or a close-up picture of a persimmon cut out of a magazine?
Wait. Before we get into that, it's been almost two years since I have written anything here, and even though my older sister is the only person I'm certain reads this blog from time to time, more people might someday, so I'll update:
In October, I got married. It was awesome.
In November, I started writing a book.
December was Christmas. Don't pretend like you got anything done that entire month, either.
In January, I turned 26 and began learning about bookbinding (it's just a coincidence that those two happened in the same month. I wasn't waiting until this magic year to learn a new skill).
In February I finished writing the book and got a first round of edits done in March.
Now it's April, and we're finally going on our HONEYMOOON!* We're going to Paris for a week and a half. I'm finally getting the chance to use all the French I acquired from junior high to sophomore year of college -- at least until they start responding to me in English to stop me from butchering their most precious language. More importantly, this is my chance to deplete the national reserves of fromage. Most importantly, it's an opportunity to pretend I'm Ingrid Bergman, and dress up in scarves and red lipstick and take up smoking.
"I would never set foot in a mall, you simpleton."
Hence why I was at the mall, my least favorite place in all the world. I needed a trench coat, naturally. I ordered one about a week ago, but the sleeves fell down past my tiny dinosaur arms and made me look like a small child playing dress-up. Damn you, I whispered. To no one, really. It's not anyone's fault. At least, that's what I told myself as I hung from a set of monkey bars for an hour to try and stretch out my arms.
So this evening, instead of celebrating the start of our honeymoon by lighting an eternal flame, Olympics-style, I went to the mall. I knew what this would entail: Since we don't have a Trench Coats 'R' Us nearby, I'd have to make a sweep of every single store in the entire mall until I found one.
I stepped into Boscov's, took a deep breath, immediately choked on the thick scent of leather mixed with indiscriminate perfume, staggered into a rack of handbags, righted myself, looked around to see if anyone noticed, made uncomfortable eye contact with a man shopping for women's nightgowns, casually picked up a sensible pump, casually put it back down, and then set off.
While shopping, I tend to move in a half-efficient manner: I bee-line from one shop to the next (only way to avoid veering toward the Cinnabon), but once inside a store, I wander, bewildered, among the racks of clothing with my neck stretched up above the hangers, my head darting around like I'm the Meerkat of Macy's.**
From store after store, I emerged with no shopping bags in tow, but with the slightly uneasy feeling that I was doing something wrong. I just know what I want and you don't have it! I'm not casing the joint, I swear! I didn't steal anything and stash it in my tiny purse! I don't even have room for my sunglasses in there! I tried to convey the innocence of my intentions through body language*** to the security cameras which were no doubt hidden around the store, but which I didn't want to address directly as this would only make me seem even more suspicious. Still, maybe if I were wearing a trench coat I could have gotten away with using a phrase like "casing the joint."
I did find several coats, actually. And they were all on sale. But this one looked cheap, that one felt weird, another one was kind of see-through and had a leopard-print lining so that when it got wet in the rain you would definitely be able to see the print. Is it part of the design? I wondered. I considered pouring water on it, just to expose the problem, but I didn't know how long my quest would last. I needed to preserve my resources.
But really, this isn't a story about a coat. This is about the mall.
There's a reason I do all my shopping online. Malls make me tired. And hungry. And sad. Mirrors are everywhere; I'm surrounded by people who are prettier than I am and outfits that are trendier than mine.
BUT HERE'S WHERE THE POST TAKES A DRAMATIC TURN. First you thought it was about malls. THEN you thought it was about trench coats. THEN you thought it was about malls again. BUT NO! IT'S ABOUT BODY IMAGE!
Friends, readers, countrymen, hold onto your butts, because you will have a hard time believing this next bit, and I don't want your butt to fall off from shock...as butts are apt to do sometimes. At least, that's what I hear. It's never...I mean, my butt has never fallen off from shock. Or any other emotion. But that's not to say it couldn't happen. I'm just lookin out for you, man. Better to be safe than sorry, you know?
Anyway.
For the past three weeks, I have been not only exercising consistently, but dieting. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?! My resting heart rate is down. I can run up the stairs and only be mildly winded. I've lost five pounds. And yes, most of that is water weight from all the tears I've shed while clutching entire blocks of cheese to my chest during sit-ups, but I am still proud of myself. This fitness kick is partly because we're staying on the street with all those stairs and I don't want to die next week, but also because this marriage weight I kept hearing about snuck up on me. I almost did lose my butt from shock when I stepped on the scale and found I'd gained ten pounds in four months. That's fine when you're a normal height, but not for someone my size.
Okay. Backstory over. Back to the mall. And all the mirrors. Wandering around, I kept catching glimpses of my reflection from angles I was not prepared to see ever. Even though I know that I look better than I did three weeks ago, nobody else who saw me today knew that. I'd actually been making an effort, but it still didn't feel like enough. I didn't feel like enough. I left the house feeling pretty and confident, but in two hours, the mall beat me down until I was all but crawling back to my car.
Now that I'm home with some Chinese takeout in me, I'm all like, "Why did I care what four pre-teens and some dudes at the cell phone kiosks and the guy at American Eagle wearing jorts and the blonde lady with the chignon at the makeup counter thought of the way I look?"
The answer, friends, is because of the malevolent influence of the mall.
THAT'S RIGHT, DUDES. THIS POST REALLY WAS ABOUT THE MALL ALL ALONG. PRANKED!****
Essentially, online and IRL shopping are the same, except with one you don't have to put on pants. Malls don't have pop-up ads and models on retainer, so they have to show you how hideous you are without using direct comparisons. They do this through poor lighting, and mirrors--mirrors everywhere! They wear you out with all the walking. They never have your size in the thing you really want. They saturate the air with cologne. They play that crazy loud techno music. None of the sizes fit the same from one store to the next. They make you interact with salespeople when all you want to do is wrestle yourself halfway into a pair of jeans in a cramped dressing room before giving up, so you sit there breathing heavily and you try to swallow your shame and frustration before the tears come.
Some people do like the mall. I guess. But I do not. And I finally realized that it wasn't worth torturing myself for the sake of a coat.
So I went home. I tried on the trench coat I already had. I looked at the picture of the model wearing it. I scrunched up the sleeves like she did. I popped the collar a little like hers. I mussed up my hair and cut ten inches off and chemically straightened it and dyed it blonde. I hunched my collar bones forward and jutted one hip out. I made a face that was wry and bored and superior all at once. And you know, as soon as I did all that, the trench coat actually looked pretty good.
Problem solved.
*Do me a favor and shout that in your mind like Oprah would. Or shout it out loud. It'll be weird, but you do what you want. **Just kidding. We don't have a Macy's here. We have a Boscov's. And a Bon Ton. ***The way you do this is to extend your arms out to the sides, palms open, hold your chin up, and walk very slowly, peeling your feet off the ground as if you're a beautiful, mysterious creature emerging from the a beautiful, mysterious lake shrouded in timeless mists. **** "Good one, Carrie," they all said. Image: Publicity shot for Arch of Triumph, a film I have not seen but probably will now.
This set is for sale in Lancaster. Soon I'll be able to perform all my own dentistry at home!
This morning I woke up, as I usually do. I made some coffee, drank it. And then, because I was feeling a little wild, I decided to make another cup. I downed the dregs of my first but instantly recoiled from a sharp pain in my back molar.
"No," I whispered. "The cavity -- she is here." I ran to the bathroom mirror and, peering into my gaping maw, spotted a dark pinprick of a hole in my tooth. "So you're here at last. I've been expecting you."
I called up my dentist's office and explained the situation. "I'm leaving for my honeymoon on Saturday," I said, trying to keep the edge of panic from my voice. "Is there anything you can possibly do--?"
COME ON IN TODAY, said the Very Helpful Receptionist. YOU HAVE ONE HOUR. BE THERE.
"Your tone changed rapidly," I said. "This is a roller coaster."
I quickly dressed, brushed my teeth, and sped on over to the dentist. At this point, I was forty minutes early for my appointment, so I sat in the car and fretted for thirty-eight of those minutes. Then I went inside, let them know I was there, used the bathroom, sat down, and then fretted some more because I couldn't remember if I flushed. Really, what do you do in that situation? It's not like you can sneak back in there without anyone else in the waiting room noticing and wondering what's up with yer finnicky bowels. You can't lean over and ask someone if they heard you flush or not. All you can do is sit in agony and hope to escape to the sweet relief of a woman scraping plaque off your teeth with a sharp instrument before somebody else goes in to use the bathroom --
"Carrie?" It wasn't my usual hygienist. But it was my usual name.
"THAT'S ME." I jumped up, nearly spilling everything out of my bag, and followed her down a hall and to the right. We traveled far into the depths of the building. I usually go through a little door to the left and two doors down, so this new route plus the new hygienist had me on edge.
The room she finally ushered me into appeared at first like any other exam room in the building: a window looking out on the business park next door, a framed picture of an iris (Flower, not eye. That would be weird). Chair. Spit sink. X-ray pictures of my teeth. It feels vaguely intrusive, having the insides of my teeth on display for anyone walking by. So intimate.
"I know you, child," they can say now. "I've seen what's in your teeth."
That's gross. Sorry. I was nervous.
The hygienist asked me a few questions and then left me alone with my thoughts. Which is never what you want, especially in a dentist's office. It gave me a chance to really look around at all the plastic devices from probably-the-'20s, faded yellow-brown with age and sporting names like Drill-o-Matic 5000.
"Are these just here for display?" I said. "Or do they mean to use them on my mouth?" But nobody answered. Because I was alone in the room. For ten minutes. The panic mounted.
Finally the hygienist came back. "The doctor will be with you in just a moment. For now I'm just going to take some X-rays, see what's going on in there."
The one part I like about going to the dentist is when they lay the lead apron on me before the pictures. The cool weight of it is comforting. It's the closest I can get in my adult life to being swaddled. Sometimes when I first wake up in the morning, all snuggled up under the blankets safe and cozy and warm with the smell of freshly brewed coffee on the cold air, I think, "You know the only thing that could make this cozier? The knowledge that my organs are protected from the damaging rays of X by a layer of lead."
Of course, the comfort of the apron was tempered a little by the extreme discomfort of the gag-inducing film apparatus they wrangled into my too-small mouth. But overall it was okay, because when the hygienist left again I got to pass the time by looking at pictures of the inside of my teeth and think, "What if they found something...else in there? Like a tiny person who's made a little home in my tooth?" By the time the hygienist returned, I'd worked out a whole backstory for the little tooth person. I was going to tell her all about it, but who are we kidding, no I was not.
"So, the doctor will be right in," she said. YEAH, I'VE HEARD THAT ONE BEFORE, KELLEY-WITH-AN-E-Y. "I'm just going to do a quick test. Since you say it's affected by heat and cold, it could be something more serious."
Her examination consisted of two tests. First, she sprayed a freezing agent on the end of a Q-tip and rubbed it all over the back few molars. Did I scream? I am proud to say I did not, despite the excruciating pain from parts of my teeth I didn't know could feel any sensation at all. Did I let out a noise like a slide whistle played very slowly yet with a sharp crescendo? Why, yes.
"This is just to make sure that the nerves are still working," she said.
KELLEY. I CAN ASSURE YOU THEY ARE WORKING.
For the second round of torture, she picked up the air shooter thingy. You know when you drink ice-cold water or you smile into a winter wind, and it's like brain freeze on your front teeth? Well, imagine a concentrated version of that feeling, right where your gums have receded so that all that's left are the soft, uber-sensitive roots. I am not proud to say that this time, I did scream. But just a little bit. More like a yelp. And maybe I kicked a little.
"Easy there, girl," she murmured. "Alright. The doctor will be in to see you in just a moment."
I don't care how long he takes. Just go away. Go now and leave me alone. She left me huddled on the chair, the entire left side of my face pulsating in pain. "Could you bring back the lead apron? Please?" I bleated. But nobody heard.
I don't know how long I stayed like that. When I opened my eyes, the dentist came bustling in like Chris Tucker in The Fifth Element. "What's going on, Carrie?" he said. "There's nothing on your X-rays. I see nothing here! So WHAT is the problem, young lady? Why are you here?"
"Well -- it's -- this morning I saw a hole in my back molar. And it's been sensitive to cold and heat, so I just thought I'd get it checked out --"
"A hole?" he repeated, with his eye brows raised, exactly the way a mean middle school girl would try to undermine and mock you. "A hole?"
FREAKIN -- YES, A HOLE. A HOLE IN MY TOOTH. YOU'RE A DENTIST. WHY IS THIS SO HARD FOR YOU TO UNDERSTAND?!
"Yeah," I said. "A hole. Well -- I mean, it looked like one, so I just thought --"
"That's just a sealant that's come out," he said. "Why are you wasting my time with this pedestrian nonsense?" he didn't say. But his eyes did.
Another lady came in to put the new sealant in and apply the medicine. She was kind to me. Spoke to me softly as she drilled the sealant down. Told me she just had a sealant replaced, too (You're just like me! I thought. We're the same!), and that it felt like she had a shoe on her tooth for a few days (You're so strange! Are we best friends now?!). Then she smeared some kind of angel goop on my sensitive roots. And I felt no pain.
"That feels so much better. Thank you." I love you.
"You're all done. Looks like you're due for your six-month cleaning in two weeks," she said. "Enjoy your honeymoon!"
or, Legitimate Reasons to Say "Tough Luck, My Friend" When a Man Asks to Marry Your Daughter:
He refers to your daughter as "that girl."
His "best suit" consists of black jeans, the untucked, yellowed t-shirt that he wore to bed last night, and quilted pleather jacket.
He doesn't even say hello when you open the door. Who's rude now?!
His buddies are leaning against his old beater outside your gate, probably heckling.
He boasts that your daughter will go anywhere he goes, which probably means she goes with him to the store to make sure he buys more than marshmallows and cheap beer.
He doesn't ask for your blessing. He asks if he can HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER. Being old-fashioned is one thing, but if someone treats your daughter like property you're allowed to frown and shake your head for a full thirty seconds.
I feel for you, man. If you were able to get a word in edgewise through all his "say yes say yes" chatter, you could tell us your side of the story. Maybe it's an abusive relationship. Maybe the singer clubs baby seals and kicks canes out from under the elderly and takes up two spaces in the parking lot. Maybe he's responsible for jeggings. Just because he can dance on one foot doesn't mean he's a good guy.
All right, maybe it wasn't the best idea to bring over another young fella. I know you wanted to show your daughter there are other men out there, but the blind date setup never works. She thinks he's a creep because his hair is slicked back and he doesn't understand personal space. Well, her loss. You can give me his number. That guy looks like Bernardo the Puerto Rican Dreamboat from West Side Story.
Why you gotta be so smooth?
I know you feel like the bad guy, but stay strong. The singer will reproach you, but don't give in. When he ignores your concerns and dances away, stay strong. Try not to laugh when he goes back to his friends and has a good cry in the middle of a group hug. Just proving your point. And when the entire band, along with Your Daughter the Groupie, dress up (Oh look - the guy does own a real suit! But he has to dress it down with a red beanie so he's not a sell-out) and entreat you from the front lawn, keep your cool. You can't support your daughter marrying a petulant man-child.
You realize this all started when she got that butterfly tattoo on her shoulder three years ago, don't you? "Neat-o, honey!" you said when she showed it to you. "You look like you belong in a rock 'n' roll group! Cyndi Lauper, watch your back!" What a fool you were.
The music video ends ambiguously as the group flounces down the driveway with nothing resolved. Nobody changes their mind; nobody learns anything. But let's go back to the beginning of the song, when the singer "got in my car, raced like a Jet." If his rival is the slick-haired Bernardo, the singer is clearly Riff.
"Why you gotta be so rude?"
After the music video ends, I can only assume there's a rumble where fake-Riff and fake-Nardo end up dead. Blonde Girl is distraught. There's a very moving scene in which she yells, "Are you happy now?!" at her father and crushes her flower crown under her heel.
Eventually, she runs off with the bass player in the tuxedo shirt. They have four children. Tuxedo Shirt joins a polka band ironically, and Blonde Girl opens an Etsy store selling handmade flower crowns and hemp bracelets. She visits Riff's grave every week, where her father has written in Sharpie on the tombstone:
Facebook is all ablaze with summer wedding pictures, and we're about to add our share. Tomorrow Bill and I are driving to New Hampshire for a college friend's wedding. So while I finish up all the work I want to do before the weekend (read: buying Sour Patch Kids and energy drinks for the drive), I'm going to be lazy and re-post a guide I wrote last year for surviving wedding season with grace and poise:
Start looking for an outfit online as soon as you receive the Save the Date.
Find out who else is going so you can book hotels with them.
This is a delicate maneuver. If you aren't sure whether they were invited or not and don't want to risk hurting feelings, try this approach: You: Have you talked to that mutual friend we have lately? Them: Not very lately. You: Yeah, me neither. Sooo, ya got any plans June 20th? Them: I don't think so, why? You: Oh. Just...it's my quarter-birthday, plus three days. (act hurt that they didn't remember) Them: That's...weird. Oh, wait - actually, I am going to our mutual friend's wedding that day, were you invited? Works every time.
Freak out when you get the invitation because you still haven't found a dress to wear.
Look through their registry. Buy the gravy boat and a punch bowl. Tell your date, "IT'S A CLASSIC GIFT! THEY'LL THINK IT'S FUNNY! Plus, they registered for it, so."
Regret buying them a gravy boat and punch bowl when you find out your friend got them a hot air balloon trip for two over wine country. Shrug and mumble, "Well, they registered for my gift, so." Tell them the groom is afraid of heights, whether or not that's true.
Redouble your outfit-finding efforts. Surreptitiously browse at work. Only rein yourself in when your searches drift toward flowy, sequined jumpsuits. Nobody else will know it's a joke and everyone will think you're weird.
Oh no! The shoes you ordered - the perfect, beautiful shoes that you would give your life for if they were in trouble - have been canceled! The seller on ebay advertised the shoes in your size, and then turned around five days before the wedding and told you he actually didn't have them in a size 6, after all.
REMAIN CALM.
Definitely don't roll around on the bed in despair and utter the words, "BUT THOSE SHOES WERE SO BEAUTIFUL. THEY WERE THE PERFECT SHOES AND EVERY OTHER SHOE IS UGLY." Or if you do say that, at least make sure your boyfriend isn't around to write down what you said and read it back to you from time to time in a serious voice, like he's in an experimental play.
Wear an outfit you already own.
Go to the wedding. Dance your little feet off. You wouldn't have kept those beautiful shoes on for longer than twenty minutes, anyway.
Sometimes I just sit awake at night and think up things to make myself laugh.
For instance, say it's karaoke night, and two guys go up to sing "The Sound of Silence" (it's late by this point, give 'em a break). It starts off okay, but then they both keep singing the harmony part because neither knows the melody and each assumed the other would sing it. So instead of this exquisite, lovely song we just have two guys droning for three minutes.
She got engaged last week while making soup, and then afterward she got to eat soup. That's a good day. She's getting married a year from now, which means for the next twelve months she will be going to nursing school, killing it at two jobs, and planning a lovely wedding in Northern California even though all her bridesmaids and family live out of town. What a champ.
Danielle and I met when we were both in junior high and so awkward it hurt. She likes Harry Potter and "Airplane" and works out voluntarily, which I will never understand, and she's one of the most dedicated, caring, goofy people I know. Basically she's the best human person, even though she says SoCal now, and I'm so happy for her and her fella.
I made a dentist appointment. It was time. I'm fairly certain I have at least one cavity, there's tartar everywhere, and my gums are receding. (Come back, I call. The party's up here! No reply. Thass cold, I whisper.) It's been over two years since my last appointment, which is the only explanation for the state of my mouth, because I brush my teeth all the time - ask my college roommate. And I do realize this is more than you ever needed to know about my teeth.
So maybe I have a tiny bit of dentist anxiety, but mostly it's a secret fear that when the dentist peeks in my mouth his eyes will widen with horror until he has to look away in disgust. "Your mouth..." he'll say, unable to finish the sentence. He'll confer with the hygienists and consider referring me to a specialist, but ultimately decide that he can't do that to a fellow dentist. "No," he'll bravely say, "This is my responsibility. I made an oath to master any set of teeth, no matter how repulsive." So he will examine my teeth. He will clean them himself, too noble to put any hygienist through that. And when it's all over, he will tell me not to eat or drink for half an hour and then lock himself in his office for two weeks to recover.
...My appointment is still two weeks away. This craziness is just going to escalate.
[Historical note: My teeth have been out to get me since they popped up. Not literally, which is good because if any part of my body turned on me, I would not want it to be the teeth.* My mouth was too small to fit all of them, so I had ten teeth removed before getting braces. Then the wisdom teeth came out.** I wish I'd kept all of them on a necklace so I could wear it into battle. Or to the dentist itself! Show them all I'm not afraid.***]
* Although I think I would prefer that to the emotional pain of having my nose turn itself up at me.
** Which was a whole big thing, as wisdom teeth surgeries usually are. One of the nurses wore black scrubs, which I thought was weird and a little ominous, but apparently he was a pretty cool guy because as they wheeled me out I called feebly, "Good bye, nice nurse!"
*** Yes I am.
Somehow, I end up at a Super Bowl party every year with no idea how I came to be there. I guess I get swept up in the anticipation of all the cheesy foods, but I can't just load all the snacks in a wheelbarrow and head out (although it would save time for everyone). So I stick around for the whole game, look up from my plate once a quarter, and comment on at least three funny commercials. The rest of the time it's just me and the seven layer dip.
Someday, this will be my Super Bowl reality.
Although if I get a few jalapeno poppers in me, by halftime I usually lose all inhibitions, rip someone's jersey right off their back to wear as a turban, smear hot wing sauce under my eyes and start chanting, DO THE SPORTS! WIN THE POINTS! SCORE THE GAME!
I'm not trying to steal focus from the game. This is a last, desperate attempt to fit in. And I think it's working.
For those of you stuck in a similar situation, here are some handy tips to get you through the weekend:
Pick a team. This sounds deceptively simple. Toss a coin and you're done, right? WRONG! Unlike those heathens indoctrinated since birth to live and breathe for a certain team, you were not born with a logo imprinted on your DNA and must therefore take various social mores into consideration. For instance:
- House rules. Will rooting for a certain team get you kicked out before the pigs in a blanket even hit the table? THINK AGAIN.
- Where are you? This morning I had to look up which teams are playing. To save you twenty seconds, it's the Seattle Seahawks and the Denver Broncos. Still not sure why they're playing in New Jersey. If you happen to be in Seattle or Denver this weekend, ROOT FOR THE HOME TEAM.
- Personal preference. Let's say there's a mix of fans at the party and you're on the East coast. This allows you the freedom to base your decision on the better mascot, which in this case is clearly the seahawk. I don't think I need to explain myself. Is there anything more majestic than a hawk? Now put it in the ocean.
Buddy system. Make sure you have an ally at all times - a friend who will stand by the chip and dip table with you and talk about Not Sports. Choose this person carefully. You don't want someone who'll bail on you at halftime because they told Charlie they might stop by and like, they haven't seen Charlie since he had a kid and left for Afghanistan.
Whatever.
Positioning. This may be the most important step, apart from Step 7. You don't want to be stuck in the corner far away from the snacks and in a seat parallel to the TV so that you have to crane your neck just to pretend you're interested in football. If possible, get there early to stake out a prime position on the couch. Right in front of the coffee table, preferably next to an arm rest. This means your bladder has been completely emptied and you have ceased all consumption of liquids at least two hours prior to game time. Be mindful of any liquids that enter your general vicinity. You break the seal at your own risk.
People to Avoid at All Costs: -Superfans -Woman who wants to get in on the fun, but understands less about football than you do. She will spend the entire game asking questions about the rules of the game instead of watching in silent boredom like the rest of you. Nobody with actual knowledge will answer her, so she will turn to you repeatedly for answers and will not catch on to your ignorance even after your fifteenth "I don't know." -Children. Because once you make the slightest sign of acknowledgment that the creature exists, you will be expected to look after it for the remainder of the evening. If you are a female, its parents will assume that just the whiff of a child has you foaming at the mouth with maternal longing, and that they are in fact doing you a favor by pawning their offspring off on you.
If possible, sit next to the fourteen-year-old girl who looks like she'd rather be reading a book. Then talk to her about books.
Supplies. -Fully charged cell phone. This is not only for potential rescue phone calls from sympathetic friends, but also for, you know, playing games and stuff. -Snacks. If you're trying to pass yourself off as a Person Who Sports, the ultimate accessory is a beer hat. Otherwise, stock up on high-sugar, low-protein snacks like gummy worms and Warheads. Feed them to any young person you haven't been able to avoid. -Football cheat sheet. If you're going to try to feign any interest at all, you'll need at least a few basic phrases to yell, like "Aw, come on!" and "Yeah!" and "Lookit dat ass! Love them tight little pants."
Practice the Irish Goodbye. Let's say the worst has happened: You've been trapped in a corner between two drunk dudes arguing about stats. Your buddy has bailed. A child is attached to your leg and wailing indistinctly. That asshole Maureen drank all the Pinot Grigio, and the plate of hot wings has been reduced to a pile of bones and one celery stick. The only thing you can do is hit the floor and crawl through people's legs. Don't stop for anything.
Unless they bring out a fourth-quarter cheese ball.
The Hail Mary. Feel out the crowd. If there is a majority of People Who Don't Sports, you have the advantage. You should be able to scan the room and feel the shift in power like a gust of wind. The winds of change.
This is when you Take Over the Super Bowl.
Pile all jerseys you can find on the coffee table, douse them in stale beer, and set them ablaze. Claim your dominance over the snack table and set guards to bar the kitchen door. Yard by yard, you will seize their territory. IT IS YOUR MANIFEST DESTINY! CLAIM YOUR BIRTHRIGHT! THE DAY IS YOURS!
Of course, that probably means something different to me than to other people I know. Instead of training for super-marathons and pretending to like kale, I'm still working on eating a vegetable once a week and going outside sometimes. I am easily impressed by people who take multivitamins and worry about their fiber intake.
Maybe someday that'll be me. Until then, this is the year that I:
Find a doctor. Aside from the time I got a Tylenol lodged in my throat in college, I haven't gone to a doctor since my pediatrician. That made it a little awkward when I had to get a TB test before I started teaching. The parents in the waiting room kept glancing over as if expecting me to pull a sick child out of my pocket, but the nurse gave me a cartoon lion sticker that said RADICAL! on my way out, so I guess it was worth the stares.
Go to the dentist for the first time in years. Although I did recently start flossing AND using mouthwash. CAN YOU EVEN BELIEVE IT?! Four days in a row so far. Flossing and mortgage payments are the marks of a real grown up. I'm halfway there. My teeth actually started this whole health craze. A week ago I looked in the mirror and yelped because I thought my bottom teeth were about to fall out. (Receding gums are in my genes. I guess everyone has some flaw.) So I ate an apple, flossed, and made a half-hearted search for a dentist. I'm not afraid of going or anything - I just really liked my old dentist in California. I liked the lady who cleaned my teeth and the Korean Bibles in the waiting room and the little chair-side TV screens with the animated fish tanks on them. Now my best option is Smilebuilderz, but I don't trust any medical "professionals" who would replace the S with a Z like that. I'm afraid they'll pressure me to get a grill.
Eat salads that are at least 50% lettuce. The other 50% cannot be just cheese.
Exercise enough that switching wet laundry to the dryer doesn't leave me winded.
Work on being less paranoid about every little ache or twinge. But dismissing all symptoms isn't great, either. A nice, moderate amount of caution is probably best. For example...
Right now it's 3 in the morning. I've a pain in my lower right abdomen that's been getting steadily worse for several days, possibly from all my poking and prodding. The Boy is still out of town. I'm all alone and wearing a shark onesie. It's raining.
According to the interwebs, I could be suffering from:
A peptic ulcer
Appendicitis, naturally
Crohn's disease. I'm not entirely sure what that is, and I didn't want to find out the specifics.
Ovarian cysts
Ectopic pregnancy (possibly an alien baby)
Cramps
Stomach bleeding. I took a lot of ibuprofen over the holidays and I'm very concerned about stomach bleeding.
Gas?
Please let me know if you have any other suggestions, and I will google them for two hours until I'm pretty sure about my symptoms either way. Right now I'm resigned to appendicitis, but I want to hold off on going to the hospital. Every time my stomach hurt when I was a kid, my mom said, "It's probably just gas," with all the casual confidence of a woman who's raised six children. My plan is to repeat that phrase like a mantra until the pain either goes away or overwhelms me, and if anybody looks at me weird I'll just shout, "IT'S BETTER THAN THE ALTERNATIVE" and let them make what they will of that.
The Boy had his appendix out last March. We took a 3am trip to the ER, and I cheered him up by singing every song from that one episode of Madeline until I passed out from all the excitement. After the surgery he was given some pretty nice painkillers and spent a week propped up on a pillow throne while I fanned him with palm fronds and washed his feet with my hair. Every sneeze and trip to the bathroom was agony, but at least he got a couple days off work. Better than an ectopic pregnancy.
Mostly I don't want to go to the emergency room alone. How much are you supposed to tell the person at the front desk about your symptoms? Would it be more or less uncomfortable to write a note explaining the situation and then stand there while they read it? Assuming I'm not hobbling and weak from the pain, how confident should I make myself sound? I could charge in and shout, "NURSE! PLEASE FETCH SOMEONE TO REMOVE THIS APPENDIX AT ONCE!" or go with a more casual approach, along the lines of "Welp, I may need a mop if my stomach explodes." I had the same problem a few months ago when I thought I had a lung infection and drove to Urgent Care. The nurse at the desk looked expectantly at me until I said, "Yeah, I...need some care? It's urgent."
Please advise.
...I looked up Crohn's disease. I couldn't help myself.
I wish other humans were awake so they could talk me down. Until then, I'll assume that nothing's really wrong with me after all. It's probably just gas.
I am very strict about resolutions, New Year's or otherwise. Once made, I do not rest until my resolution is achieved, which actually made "Stay awake for a week straight" pretty easy.
In every area of life, it's wise to keep your standards low and your expectations in check. This is especially important for your goals. For example, I would never choose a resolution that required me to do something every day for a year, like "Have at least one pleasant conversation with another human being every day." Completely unrealistic. I might as well challenge myself to lasso the moon each night. Which would be impossible, because some nights there is no moon.
Instead, choose a resolution that requires sporadic effort and has subjective results. This year I resolved to develop a thicker skin. Literally and figuratively. I've burned all my shoes and warm clothes so that the elements can toughen up my skin, but that only takes care of half of it. If I want to write, I'll have to deal with regular rejection, humiliation, taunting, and threats, and I can't let it get to me. By this time next year I want to be so thick-skinned that I don't even notice when people judge me.
Since yesterday was my birthday and The Boy was out of town on business, it was the perfect opportunity to work on my resolution. So I decided to throw myself a birthday party and only invite new friends and acquaintances. I bought a ton of food, made myself a cake, and stood outside the Taco Bell for two hours to hand invitations and extra napkins to everyone who went through the drive-thru. I also invited the maintenance guy for my apartment building, the crossing guard by the elementary school, and stuck invitations under my neighbors' doors. Then I joined an online forum for reptile enthusiasts. I did not invite anyone from there. I'm just interested in any advice they can give me about growing scales.
That evening I laid out the Twister mat, put ABBA's Greatest Hits on repeat, and waited. A few people stopped by, but they didn't stay long. A couple left threatening notes or unflattering drawings of me labeled "loser" or "weirdo." All really good, hurtful stuff, useful for developing the thick hide I need to destroy any criticism that gets in the way of my success. Although one person took it a little far and left a flaming bag of poop on my doorstep. I stomped on it to put the fire out, but burned my feet pretty bad since I got rid of all my shoes. Smelled awful. I suspect it was the crossing guard.
Overall, my birthday was a great success. I could not have been more pleased with the results. Four people total wished me happy birthday - half as many as last year, super good for my resolution - and my grandma pretended to forget not only my birthday but also my name. She hung up soon after I called. I ate an entire cake by myself. Cried for thirty minutes. The maintenance guy stopped by today, ostensibly to make sure the pipes to the washing machine weren't frozen. He didn't mention the party, but I saw him eyeing the pound of mini corn dogs and leftover sodas sadly. I didn't ask him where he was last night. Like any good friend, he was helping me achieve my goals.
So I'd say things are going very well. At this rate, I'll have the hide of a dragon and no feelings left to hurt by Halloween.
Here are some ways you can become less sensitive and grow a thicker skin:
Walk into a high school classroom in your underwear. It's picture day and yesterday you cut your own bangs. Also there's a test you didn't study for.
Post your diary on the internet. Nobody makes fun of it. Because they didn't read it.
Put on a ton of weight. Go to your college reunion.
Last year The Boy and I roasted a goose for our own little Christmas celebration before flying to California to spend actual Christmas with my family. The goose looked like a dinosaur and tasted like grease on a stick, but this year we're amping up the CHEER by making a traditional Christmas dinner with flaming plum pudding and everything. Actually, I'm considering serving the entire meal on fire to make it the Most Exciting Christmas Dinner Ever.
THIS MEAL IS ON FIIIIRE
(Topical, I know.)
Our pre-California Christmas is on Saturday, and this time around you're getting an account of preparations for the entire week! HOORAY!
This doesn't even include the traditional raw oysters and clear turtle soup.
We invited some friends to help us eat all this, but the three inches of snow predicted and an unexpected trip to the hospital (shout-out to Owen, infant who cannot read!) might mean we're on our own. We may have eaten our way through all the courses by the time the snow melts.
Tuesday: No Baking.
Winter descended upon us with an unceremonious snow dump, so I stayed home and watched White Christmas over and over until the neighbors downstairs complained about my singing and ungainly tap dancing.
Well. They leave a tiny Christmas tree and a pair of big snow boots outside their front door, presumably for Sinterklaas to leave candies in, even though no decent human should eat candy out of a boot (couch cushion or car floor is fine). Late one night I'm planning to sneak downstairs and trade the snow boots for these:
It's hard to tell without any feet in them, but those are baby boots.
I'm hoping they're not very bright, so they'll just stand there in wonder, trying to figure out whether their tree grew or their boots shrank.
But I'll also get them something nice. Like a copy of White Christmas so they can learn the songs and harmonize with me next year instead of getting all uppity and sending me fake eviction notices.
Wednesday: THE SHOPPING TRIP
To give you an idea of how this holiday season has gone, I went to three stores to buy ingredients for a traditional Christmas dinner that's also gluten-free, dairy-free, and egg-free. BECAUSE I WILL NOT SACRIFICE CHEER FOR ANY DIETARY RESTRICTION. I fought a lady over some Brussels sprouts and wandered up and down the aisles shouting, "HAVE YOU ANY SUET FOR A POOR GEHL AT CHRISTMAS TIME?"
The checkout lady examined the canned mincemeat before she scanned it and asked, "Is this any good?"
I straightened my collar and gave a little laugh. "As a mincemeat connoisseur," I told her, "I would have to say this brand ranks about a 3.5 for me. Of course I would prefer to make it from scratch from my personal recipe tweaked after years of mincemeat trial and error, but I really just haven't the time this year. Why, I still have to butcher the goose I've raised from a gosling and find homes for all the children at the orphanage. NOT TO MENTION THE PLUM PUDDING."
Thursday: The Plum Pudding
This pudding is a three-day process. Today the prunes, currants, and raisins soak in Madeira and make my fridge smell like an old person doused in booze. Tomorrow, who knows! Recipes are for chumps!
Friday: Pudding, Day Two + Mince Pies
Fact: Most English food has the color and texture of week-old porridge. I am fondly calling this Christmas dinner "50 Shades of Beige."
You'll see when it's all on the table.
The pudding is worrisome. From all the pictures I've seen, plum pudding is supposed to be a dark, glossy mound that looks like chocolate but then you find out it's all raisins and prunes and you realize life is just a slow, painful process of disillusionment. I'm pretty sure that's the reason people started setting it on fire.
However, mine just looked like oatmeal. I'd hoped it would turn plummy and delightful once I added the dried fruit all plump with Madeira, but instead it just looked like oatmeal with raisins. I'm not sure where I went wrong. It's steaming away, and maybe that will darken it somehow, but my hopes aren't high.
The original recipe calls for suet, which is hardened fat with a high melting point. Also it looks like housing insulation and apparently isn't sold in any grocery stores in the United States.
British people: Please explain.
Nigella Lawson said vegetable shortening could be used instead. But first I had to freeze it and then grate it into the pudding. Which I did - or tried to do, anyway. It worked about as well as the time I froze some Jell-o and took a cheese grater to it. On the bright side, my arms are completely waterproof now.
I did remember to add a coin to the batter, though. Whoever finds it without choking to death will find prosperity in the year to come! Which means you get to keep the sticky pudding quarter. Congratulations!
THEN CAME THE MINCE PIES!
For those of you who've never tried mincemeat, you may be surprised - like I was - to find out that there is no meat in it. Way to be intentionally confusing, old-timey Brits. Instead, it's all citrusy and jellified and surprisingly tasty. I went the easy way this year and used store-bought mincemeat and frozen pie crusts, because I tried making a gluten-free pie crust.
Once.
These little guys actually turned out better than I expected - sweet and zesty, so tiny and cute - all in the traditional English color scheme of Various Shades of Brown.
Since tonight is our Christmas Eve, The Boy is picking up Chinese food and later we're going to bake cookies and drive around to look at Christmas lights. Both at the same time - won't that be a feat! Meanwhile, the goose is prepped, the pudding is bubbling away, and we're all bundled up for the snow storm. Seems like the perfect time to watch White Christmas.
Much to the downstairs neighbors' dismay.
Stay tuned tomorrow, won't you, for the Second Annual Goose Day Live Blog!
* * *
Saturday: Goose Day
9:30 am - No snow. Have never been more disappointed. Am standing at the window with my nose squished on the glass, letting out a long, high-pitched whine of sadness.
10:30 - Coffee is made, presents are opened. But am I happy? No. Because there is STILL NO SNOW.
1:50 - Watching the 1938 version of A Christmas Carol and stringing cranberries and popcorn onto floss (waxed, unflavored) to make garland. The Boy is having problems with the admittedly complicated pattern of popcorn-cranberry-popcorn-cranberry. Mostly because he's eating most of the popcorn, and I guess it's throwing him off. This wouldn't be a problem if he ate an equal number of cranberries, but he said they were "too tart" or something. Whatever. I bet starving people in Dickens novels would be happy to eat raw cranberries, with or without the floss. Way to keep the Christmas spirit.
1:53 - Garlanding finished. The string is about a foot and a half long and is now draped over one section of the tiny Christmas tree like it was just named Miss Tannenbaum 2013.
2:43 - Extremely tense kitchen atmosphere because of some heavy whipping cream. I'm using a janky stand mixer to whip it, whip it good, but if I turn the dial too high the kitchen becomes speckled with white dots, so I've been hovering for ten minutes watching the mixers turn ever so slowly, hoping it will still whip. Would I be better off using a whisk and my own raw power? Will the cream get too warm? The last time I whipped cream that was less than chilly, it turned into butter. Please advise.
2:55 - The cream is in the freezer to cool down for a while. It will be beaten. As God is mah witness, Ah'll nevah make buttah agayun!
3:00 - Pretty sure this is the longest post ever.
3:07 - Potatoes have been tossed with goose fat and paprika, and the goose fat has been drained from the roasting pan, which required taking the goose out. So, I confidently stuck a barbecue fork handle-deep in from the neck and scooped up the rear with a big ladle. Then, my elbows all akimbo and my sad little arms straining with the weight of the 10-lb bird, I quickly transferred it to a platter, dumped the fat into the sink, and wobbled the goose back into the pan. Only need to do that three more times.
3:10 - I DON'T KNOW WHY I EVEN CARE. THE ABILITY TO WHIP CREAM DOES NOT DEFINE ME.
3:12 - It whipped! Cooking is magic, you guys.
4:00 - The pudding is back on the stove and bubbling away. Things are getting pretty merry up in here.
4:12 - Snow! Big, fat flakes of it. Am standing at the window with my nose squished on the glass, letting out a high-pitched whine of joy.
5:00 - One hour until guests arrive and everything has been planned down to the minute. Goose comes out in half an hour, gravy is going on now, and at 5:30 the Brussels sprouts, carrots, bacon-wrapped sausage, and potatoes start cooking. I feel an odd sense of calm amid the chaos, like the moment in disaster movies when the characters pause to turn back and watch in awe as the gigantic tidal wave crests over whatever city's being destroyed that day. Not that I think this meal will be a natural disaster, just...you know. I'm so zen.
5:35 - The carrots are being abandoned! The Boy is making cranberry sauce! It's bubbling over in orange foam but is no longer my problem!
5:48 - HOT DAMN these bacon-wrapped sausages are delicious right out of the hot oven, but also my taste buds have been singed right off.
5:49 - "YOU GUYS! IT'S - ARE YOU COOKING OR SOMETHING?! IT'S LIKE SO HOT IN HERE FROM...LIKE, THE BURNERS AND STUFF, I GUESS. THE OVEN IS SUPER HOT TOO, LIKE A MILLION DEGREES OR SOMETHING. SO, I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW THAT. I'LL CHECK IN WITH YOU AGAIN EVERY TIME YOU OPEN THE OVEN DOOR. TAKE IT EASY." -the fire alarm
5:51 - The Boy asked about the bread sauce I mentioned earlier, and I just laughed and laughed and laughed.
5:56 - WE ARE ALL OF A DITHER AND IT'S SO HOT IN THIS KITCHEN
6:20 - "Now, we can beginnn the feeeed!" -The Walrus
7:48 - The pudding is on fire (and yet the fire alarm didn't go off when there were actual flames in the apartment). The boy was a little too enthusiastic while pouring on the brandy, so it's more like a moat of fire around a soggy lump of dried fruit. Let me know if you want the recipe.
7:51 - Tastes great! If it were possible to squeeze Essence of the Elderly out of grandparents, I think it would taste just like plum pudding. The one person who made it through all the snow to share our weird Christmas meal insisted that it's not that bad and ate an entire plateful of pudding. He's a good man - a brave man.
Nobody found the coin.
10:13 - Completely forgot to take pictures of the meal, but that doesn't matter. The table looked pretty much like this:
Delightful!
And now the kitchen looks like that episode of the Brady Bunch where Mr. Brady helps Marcia with her cooking badge. After dinner we played Settlers of Catan, my Christmas gift for The Boy, and Snapdragon, which involves snatching raisins out of a bowl of flaming brandy. I forgot to bring out the hard sauce at all, so I'll be taking a big spoon to that whipped cream later tonight.
This morning when I walked out to my car, a little monarch butterfly was waiting for me on the sunroof. From the agitated way his wings were clamped together, it seemed that I had kept him waiting. I reached out my hand to show I was sorry, and he stayed still and let me pet the edge of its wing.
"Oh no...Are you just dead and petrified, little guy?" I whispered. "Am I just standing here petting a dead bug?"
Indignant, he swept off. To settle on the hood. Although to be fair, I guess that's a respectable distance for a butterfly.
"If you wanted a ride, you could've just asked," I said. "I would've let you sit on the steering wheel and everything. As it is, I'm late and have no time for your moods. Oh--good morning, Mr. Henderson!" I wish I could say this is the first time my neighbor has caught me in the middle of a one-sided conversation.
I shut the door and started the engine. The butterfly stayed where he was. I turned one corner, and then another, and he clenched on with his little butterfly feet (Do butterflies have feet? Grippers? I have no idea how he stayed on, honestly) and his entire body flapped in the breeze until it was almost horizontal. Finally as I was waiting to turn onto the main road, he took off back the way we'd come.
"You're welcome!" I shouted. That butterfly carried way more drama than I had time for, but it would have been fun to sneak him into work with me.
The moral of this story is that butterflys are ungrateful and also I don't know the plural form of butterfly because it's so early. Image via Comic Vine.
The story about the beggar lady in the introduction still confuses me. It's all about the importance of charity and hospitality, but nowadays kids are warned not to talk to strangers. The prince may have seemed selfish, but to be fair, if an old beggar woman came up to your house and asked to stay the night, you probably wouldn't even open the door.
"Go away, old woman!" you'd shout. And even if the woman began to cry, and rolled about on the lawn, and intercepted your mailman, chewed up all your mail and then spat it out onto your begonias, you still wouldn't show her the least bit of hospitality.
But the prince did talk to the old beggar woman, and he was turned into a beast for his trouble.
Whenever someone comes knocking on my door, I creep away into the bedroom until the door opens and it's the maintenance guy and I holler, YOU CAN'T JUST BARGE IN HERE, and he says, "But I had a key. I'm here to fix your window. You called like an hour ago." So I shout, I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO BURGLE ME. NEXT TIME MAYBE ANNOUNCE YOUR INTENTIONS. And then he asks why I'm not wearing pants.
"That's rude," I say. But I still offer him a bite of my grilled cheese and a sleeping bag, just in case he considers cursing me.
The moral of that story is: Get a padlock for your front door. Can't nobody open those bad boys from the outside.
If you've never seen one, soft shell crabs are all blue and spidery, and I wasn't entirely convinced that they were dead.
"Are you sure that one's not just old and sleepy?" I asked the man at the seafood counter.
He gave me a look, but I couldn't tell if I was the weird one or if he was trying to cover up his guilt.
A nice, warm bath would be just right for these old freaky claws of mine, those crabs were probably thinking as they tried to get comfortable on their bed of ice.
They never saw the hot oil coming.
Because their eyes were gone.
I had to Google how to eat one. When I did, I found out that people also eat soft shell turtles. Since we went to the park earlier today and saw some turtles paddling around all plump and juicy, I surreptitiously checked the town's laws on removing animals from a local pond for human consumption. As far as I can tell, it's a no on fishing, but turtling isn't even mentioned.
I guess it's no coincidence that the Mayor of Lancaster's nickname is TURTLE SLAYER.
I'm not really sure why I feel okay about frying up turtles and not crabs, but that's beside the point. You come to me for fine culinary information, and I'm here to give it to you. Fortunately, there really isn't much to making soft shell crabs, which is good because I don't want to think about it any more than I have to.
Dredge 'em.
Fry 'em.
Set 'em in front of your squeamish girlfriend along with a big bowl of hot sauce.
Sit back and watch as she starts to cry a little bit. Adorable.
It wasn't all that bad when I was just poking at it with my fork, nodding my head and trying to look super adventurous and totally game while The Boy ripped an entire claw off his crab like some feral beast. I put my head down and daintily cut off the tip of a leg, dipped it in hot sauce, and set it on my tongue just as The Boy said, "Okay, I don't know what this green stuff is that just shot out, but I don't think it's bad."
Here's an artist's rendering of my face, drawn on a used paper towel:
Just look at those eyebrows.
I made it through one claw and a bite of meat before I had to give up. So while I ate a lovely, light summer salad with sliced strawberries and vinaigrette, The Boy finished up three crabs by himself, then tried to to make me feel better by showing me pictures of all the gross sea creatures he didn't try to feed me for dinner.
But now, one of us is bent over the toilet, and it isn't me.
I love weddings. Weddings are my sports. Sometimes I wish I had made more close friends during high school and college not because I wanted to spend time with other human beings, but because Wedding Season is coming up, and it seems that all my acquaintances are getting married. I knew lots of people well enough that I should congratulate them on Facebook, but not well enough that I get an invitation.
But I'm a really good wedding guest! I shout. I never cry loudly during the ceremony, and I will ask your grandpa to dance! As long as he doesn't get fresh on the dance floor!
Clearly, all my close friends need to pick it up a little so I can attend some more weddings. Like the one friend who bought a house with her boyfriend? That backyard would be perfect for a simple ceremony in a couple weeks. I'll take a leave of absence from work and help you plan it. IT'LL BE FUN!
Or the one who's been going out with her man for half a decade? Let's just put that year-long trip to Japan on hold until after you get hitched. Wouldn't it be nice to have a husband waiting for you back in the States?
And my single friends can just match right up. I'll arrange it all, don't you worry about a thing. Come over for dinner tomorrow night, you'll have a ball.
Notice that I'm not stepping up to the plate. That's because I don't want to risk developing a patronizing tone as an old married woman who's seen this all before. I want the celebration of my friends' nuptials to be fresh and joyful and a total delight, not old news.
I'm going to a wedding next weekend, and I am a hot mess about it. I'm guessing at least some of you must be anxious little freaks like I am, so here's a guide to getting through any wedding with grace and poise:
Start looking for an outfit online as soon as you receive the Save the Date.
Find out who else is going so you can book hotels with them.
This is a delicate maneuver. If you aren't sure whether they were invited or not and don't want to risk hurting feelings, try this approach: You: Have you talked to that mutual friend we have lately? Them: Not very lately. You: Yeah, me neither. Sooo, ya got any plans June 20th? Them: I don't think so, why? You: Oh. Just...it's my quarter-birthday, plus three days. (act hurt that they didn't remember) Them: That's...weird. Oh, wait - actually, I am going to our mutual friend's wedding that day, were you invited? Works every time.
Freak out when you get the invitation because you still haven't found a dress to wear.
Look through their registry. Buy the gravy boat and a punch bowl. Tell your date, "IT'S A CLASSIC GIFT! THEY'LL THINK IT'S FUNNY! Plus, they registered for it, so."
Regret buying them a gravy boat and punch bowl when you find out your friend got them a hot air balloon trip for two over wine country. Shrug and mumble, "Well, they registered for my gift, so." Tell them the groom is afraid of heights, whether or not that's true.
Redouble your outfit-finding efforts. Surreptitiously browse at work. Only rein yourself in when your searches drift toward flowy, sequined jumpsuits. Nobody else will know it's a joke and everyone will think you're weird.
Oh no! The shoes you ordered - the perfect, beautiful shoes that you would give your life for if they were in trouble - have been canceled! The seller on ebay advertised the shoes in your size, and then turned around five days before the wedding and told you he actually didn't have them in a size 6, after all.
REMAIN CALM.
Definitely don't roll around on the bed in despair and utter the words, "BUT THOSE SHOES WERE SO BEAUTIFUL. THEY WERE THE PERFECT SHOES AND EVERY OTHER SHOE IS UGLY." Or if you do say that, at least make sure your boyfriend isn't around to write down what you said and read it back to you from time to time in a serious voice, like he's in an experimental play.
Wear an outfit you already own.
Go to the wedding. Dance your little feet off. You wouldn't have kept those beautiful shoes on for longer than twenty minutes, anyway.
Before you scroll down, you should know that the caption is, "They Found THIS on Radar":
BATS.
The Weather Channel never disappoints. Take this little gem:
I didn't actually read either article, so I'm not sure if the second one goes on to say, "Nope, that would be absurd. But thanks for boosting our traffic!"
On the other hand, let's examine the facts:
1. I'm using more colons in this post than I ever have before.
2. This cat is either in the snow, or it's been badly Photoshopped and also has extreme dandruff.
3. Those eyes are magnificent. Hypnotic. He's like the Daniel Craig of cats. Or he's wearing colored contacts to conceal his identity. Nice try, Murder Cat.
4. Hiding in snow would be the perfect ruse for a dolphin-killing feline. Dolphins can't swim in solid water! They'll never get away!
5. Cats are notoriously evil. Snow Cats are the most dastardly of all.
6. Cats eat fish. But ordinary fish present no challenge to Snow Cat. Murder Cat. I've used too many names. Snurder Cat.
7. Snurder Cat sounds real stupid. I'll just switch off, because you know what I mean.
8. A feline as villainous as Murder Cat, its heart cold as its wintry habitat, would only be satisfied hunting the cleverest prey: THE DOLPHIN.
9. You know, to go back to the first picture, those bats probably knew where the radar was the whole time. They probably plotted to all flock together and freak us out, and now they're screeching at the hilarity of humans trying to use their own tactics against them. "ECHOLOCATION, BITCHEZ," they chatter, before dispersing to their various attics. Like so many old people.
10. Dolphins also use echolocation.
11. The Weather Channel is almost definitely run by Snow Cats. Now the real headline should be, "SNOW CATS: HUNGRY FOR DOLPHIN, OR JUST JEALOUS OF SONAR?"
12. Late spring is clearly a slow time, weather-news-wise.
Images via The Weather Channel. I keep it up on my screen all day at work, refreshing it every hour like a countdown to the end of my day. ...My job isn't very interesting.
Since I have my own apartment but no friends that I want to come visit it, decorating hasn't really been my top priority. Luckily, some friends got married and gave me their second set of kitchen stuff; otherwise I'd be eating off of the bathtub ledge (because it's easy to sterilize, and afterward I can just shower the crumbs away. Don't pretend you've never done it).
Here are the things I have in my apartment currently:
A bed
A table
Two chairs
A desk still in the box, waiting to be assembled by tools I don't own
A fully stocked kitchen
Old yogurt in the fridge, among other foodstuffs
Stackable plastic drawers for my clothes
A trash can
A shower curtain and some very fluffy towels
Candles
Cardboard boxes stacked up so that I can't even see the back door anymore. I keep them there to deter burgling. And in case I want to build a fort.
I'm like a less-charming Holly Golightly, in that I can't find anything, although that's most likely because I probably think I own a bunch of things that I don't. So I just wander around my apartment yelling, "WHERE DID I LEAVE MY GROWN-UP WARDROBE/HAIR DRYER/SOFA/DOG?" And then my downstairs neighbor shouts up, "CARRIE. YOU ONLY HAVE A BED AND THREE PLATES AND LIKE FOUR OUTFITS YOU BOUGHT WHEN YOU WERE TWELVE. STOP DOING THIS EVERY DAY."
Maybe I'm just a minimalist. Not because I particularly need my life streamlined, but because it's too hard to bring anything bigger than a lamp up the three flights of steep, narrow stairs. Plus, I prefer to spend my paycheck on more useful things, like fine cheeses and silly string.
I do, however, have an impressive collection of mugs. I moved to a third-floor apartment so that on the worst day of my life, I can stand on the rickety back stairs and smash them all onto the ground. But I'll wait until the Amish are passing by, and scare them.
Anyway. I have lots of decorating ideas now that it's spring and I can shop at the thrift stores downtown and then just haul my new stuff home without worrying about breaking my body on ice and slush. Check in for regular installments of Auntie Carrie's Decorating Tips, including:
Match Your Home: Using textiles to blend in with your surroundings
Hobo-Chic: Tin cans and old shoes make any lean-to feel cozier instantly
In the Belly of the Beast: Throw out your zebra print ottoman; animal innards are what's in today!
