Sexier than a Librarian is the tagline being use to advertise the Sony Portable Reader, and librarians are ticked. Why shouldn't we be? As one patron told me, "Librarians are search engines with smiles and hot legs." (Well, he might have left off that part about hot legs. I frequently confuse reality and fantasy.)
Any public librarian will tell you that she probably gets hit on at least once a week by the mental ill, partially blind, or homeless, which is a pretty good indicator of our desirability and general hotness.
As a group, we cannot stand for this discrimination and hate speech (that's a little strong, but it's still insulting, capitalizes on stereotypes, and is just not nice). We must take action. If we cannot all descend on Sony's headquarters to unfurl our buns, remove our glasses, and hike up our ankle length skirts while dancing to Motley Crue's Girls, Girls, Girls on the top of the CEO's desk, then let's bombard them with letters and emails until they change the slogan.
The address is:
Sony Corporation of America
Sony Drive
Park Ridge, NJ 07656
Here is a link to email customer service (If you have a better email address, please leave it in the comments).
http://esupport.sony.com/US/perl/model-accessories.pl?
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Busted
"Did you write today?", my husband asked me. This is a strange and leading question from a man who normally doesn't engage me in conversation and prefers for me to confide, confess, and inform. He selectively listens, knowing I'll repeat it 10 to 12 more times.
"No, I didn't have time today, but I am working on a few pieces that I want to edit before I send them to you," I said.
"I'll be the first one to read it, right?" he said. "Another strange and leading question. Maybe he found my blog," I thought briefly but quickly dismissed it as insecurity or sincerity.
"Well, you'll be the first person to read the whole thing, but I always try out some material in my emails to Stephanie first," I said. I left the room to avoid additional questioning.
Taking joy in my integration he followed me to the kitchen asking, "So, when do the kids start Chinese lessons?", a slightly more bizarre question but this time showing interest in the kids. Perhaps he is reading a self-help book on communication, I rationalized.
"Mid-January," I said, "Kids use your indoor voices."
He said, "I know those kids are so loud, I'll probably go tone-deaf."
"Tone-deaf. That is a phrase directly off my blog. When did you find it?" I said.
"What blog?", he coyly responded.
"The blog that I have been keeping for four-months without you knowing. When did you find it?" Since I was clearly caught with no real explanation, I had no other option but to attack and question the questioner.
He never admitted to the when and how. But the when was probably that day, and the how isn't too hard to figure out. For months, I have been sending him emails cut and pasted from my blog. A little thing called a search engine retrieved my deception.
Anticipating his fury, I was ready with my rebuttals. "I take care of your four kids. I need a creative outlet" , "Writing keeps me off of antidepressants" , "If you read my blog, I can't write about you", "What if I wanted to write about my past, I didn't want to hurt your feelings," "Everyone needs a secret cyberlife," and if he got rude "I needed a blog to go along with my Facebook and MySpace pages. Need to maximize online opportunities for meeting men." I was ready for anything that he dealt.
"I am proud of you," he said.
(Hi sweetie. Love you bunches. Thank you for taking care of me and the kids, so I can write whatever I want whenever I want. Please give the baby a bottle and put the dishes in the dishwasher, Your Dear and Loving Wife.)
"No, I didn't have time today, but I am working on a few pieces that I want to edit before I send them to you," I said.
"I'll be the first one to read it, right?" he said. "Another strange and leading question. Maybe he found my blog," I thought briefly but quickly dismissed it as insecurity or sincerity.
"Well, you'll be the first person to read the whole thing, but I always try out some material in my emails to Stephanie first," I said. I left the room to avoid additional questioning.
Taking joy in my integration he followed me to the kitchen asking, "So, when do the kids start Chinese lessons?", a slightly more bizarre question but this time showing interest in the kids. Perhaps he is reading a self-help book on communication, I rationalized.
"Mid-January," I said, "Kids use your indoor voices."
He said, "I know those kids are so loud, I'll probably go tone-deaf."
"Tone-deaf. That is a phrase directly off my blog. When did you find it?" I said.
"What blog?", he coyly responded.
"The blog that I have been keeping for four-months without you knowing. When did you find it?" Since I was clearly caught with no real explanation, I had no other option but to attack and question the questioner.
He never admitted to the when and how. But the when was probably that day, and the how isn't too hard to figure out. For months, I have been sending him emails cut and pasted from my blog. A little thing called a search engine retrieved my deception.
Anticipating his fury, I was ready with my rebuttals. "I take care of your four kids. I need a creative outlet" , "Writing keeps me off of antidepressants" , "If you read my blog, I can't write about you", "What if I wanted to write about my past, I didn't want to hurt your feelings," "Everyone needs a secret cyberlife," and if he got rude "I needed a blog to go along with my Facebook and MySpace pages. Need to maximize online opportunities for meeting men." I was ready for anything that he dealt.
"I am proud of you," he said.
(Hi sweetie. Love you bunches. Thank you for taking care of me and the kids, so I can write whatever I want whenever I want. Please give the baby a bottle and put the dishes in the dishwasher, Your Dear and Loving Wife.)
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Cut That Grey Out Of My Hair
The question is always the same: "Do you know who you look like?" Of course my natural response is Beyonce with Angelina Jolie's lips and Adriana Lima's abs, but instead I feign interest and surprise with "Who?" The answer has always been the same since 1987, "Jennifer Grey."
Although I have considered replying "Pre-nose job or post nose-job" or "No, I am much prettier," I normally respond with "Really." The conversation becomes painfully silent and ends abruptly. "Thanks" would be a more polite response, but I just can't bring myself to say thank you because I don't know if I am being complimented, insulted, or simply being told the facts in a nonjudgmental manner. Now if they said I look like Cindy Crawford, Julia Roberts, Bette Milder or Steven Tyler, I would know where I stood. With Jennifer Grey it is not so clear cut. Is she the ugly-pretty that Tyra Banks is always babbling about when she is not talking about herself or trying to cure people of their phobias?
Wonder if it would be rude to ask for clarification, "So, do you think Jennifer Grey is pretty?", or "Do I look Jewish to you?" , how about "Are you saying I need a nose job?", or maybe "Are you telling me I still have an 80s hairstyle?" The interpretations are endless but chances are they are saying I am a Jewish looking woman with bad outdated hair, which is odd because I am half-Italian and very Catholic with hair that suits my face and disposition. I consider my nose as unique and truly mine and sure my hair says: "I love the 80s." But wait a second, Dirty Dancing takes place in the 60s, so do I have a 60s hairstyle? No, she also had that hairstyle in Ferris Bueller, so maybe she refused to change her look for the movie. Probably should have taken that stance before the nose job in 90s. Bad nose plenty of work; good nose no work. (Luckily in my case, you don't have to a good nose or good hair to be a librarian/essayist.)
It's Jennifer Grey's ugly prettiness that help makes Dirty Dancing a campy cult classic; her untraditional looks work to build the tension between the shy good girl baby and handsome bad boy Johnny (played by Patrick Swayze), making it the archetypal tale of an ugly duckling turns into beautiful swan and finds self-worth and love through semi-rebellious not so dirty dancing. Grey emanates her alluring reticence throughout the film from her initial graceless and bashful saunter to the back quarters with Johnny to the dance finale of independence and self-actualization. But it is during the Love is Strange number that Grey exudes awkward sexiness as she lip syncs: "Come 'ere lover boy" and crawls to her Johnny.
I like to think I also give off that same kind of awkward sexiness. So one day, I tried to use my Jennifer Grey look-alike status by reenacting that classic scene during my freshman year of college. I was trying to convince my chemistry partner Mitchell that I should be his girlfriend.
He asked if I was having stomach cramps and offered to drive me to hospital. Later he told me: "You would have better luck with guys if you weren't so desperate."
I retired my Jennifer Grey personae forever. I think I'll get a long platinum blond wig and clean out my refrigerator now.
Although I have considered replying "Pre-nose job or post nose-job" or "No, I am much prettier," I normally respond with "Really." The conversation becomes painfully silent and ends abruptly. "Thanks" would be a more polite response, but I just can't bring myself to say thank you because I don't know if I am being complimented, insulted, or simply being told the facts in a nonjudgmental manner. Now if they said I look like Cindy Crawford, Julia Roberts, Bette Milder or Steven Tyler, I would know where I stood. With Jennifer Grey it is not so clear cut. Is she the ugly-pretty that Tyra Banks is always babbling about when she is not talking about herself or trying to cure people of their phobias?
Wonder if it would be rude to ask for clarification, "So, do you think Jennifer Grey is pretty?", or "Do I look Jewish to you?" , how about "Are you saying I need a nose job?", or maybe "Are you telling me I still have an 80s hairstyle?" The interpretations are endless but chances are they are saying I am a Jewish looking woman with bad outdated hair, which is odd because I am half-Italian and very Catholic with hair that suits my face and disposition. I consider my nose as unique and truly mine and sure my hair says: "I love the 80s." But wait a second, Dirty Dancing takes place in the 60s, so do I have a 60s hairstyle? No, she also had that hairstyle in Ferris Bueller, so maybe she refused to change her look for the movie. Probably should have taken that stance before the nose job in 90s. Bad nose plenty of work; good nose no work. (Luckily in my case, you don't have to a good nose or good hair to be a librarian/essayist.)
It's Jennifer Grey's ugly prettiness that help makes Dirty Dancing a campy cult classic; her untraditional looks work to build the tension between the shy good girl baby and handsome bad boy Johnny (played by Patrick Swayze), making it the archetypal tale of an ugly duckling turns into beautiful swan and finds self-worth and love through semi-rebellious not so dirty dancing. Grey emanates her alluring reticence throughout the film from her initial graceless and bashful saunter to the back quarters with Johnny to the dance finale of independence and self-actualization. But it is during the Love is Strange number that Grey exudes awkward sexiness as she lip syncs: "Come 'ere lover boy" and crawls to her Johnny.
I like to think I also give off that same kind of awkward sexiness. So one day, I tried to use my Jennifer Grey look-alike status by reenacting that classic scene during my freshman year of college. I was trying to convince my chemistry partner Mitchell that I should be his girlfriend.
He asked if I was having stomach cramps and offered to drive me to hospital. Later he told me: "You would have better luck with guys if you weren't so desperate."
I retired my Jennifer Grey personae forever. I think I'll get a long platinum blond wig and clean out my refrigerator now.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Lesson Learned
If you microwave wet pants, you'll still have wet pants -- really, really hot wet pants.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Uncontrollable Sobbing
I have never understood why people cry at concerts. I never have, and I have even seen Prince twice. I did not cry. I did not sing. I did not dance, and I barely saw my husband sharing a beer, grinding, and possibly making out with a skinny blond woman beside him. It's okay; Prince makes everyone randy. Transgressions at Prince concerts are fully acceptable and always forgiven. Until his career-damaging, creativity-draining, fun-sucking conversion to Jehovah Witness, Prince concerts were all about the D.M.S.R. (for non-Prince fans that Dance, Music, Sex, Romance). My husband was just capturing the spirit of the concert as I kept eyes focused on stage trying to remember every song in the order they were performed -- absolutely no crying until today.
All in the name of research, I watched some old Prince concert footage. Tears flowed; filled up 13 Kleenex, and turned my face pink. Was I shedding tears of regret that I was too young to see Prince in the Purple Rain glory days? Was I crying because he will never again perform Erotic City and Let's Pretend Were Married in concert? Because the man has not had a hit since 1995? Because of way he touched his tight little bottom in a 1984 performance of "Do Me Baby?" Because Apollonia is a really awful actress?
Just in case you haven't seen Purple Rain in the past 20 years or the last 7 hours, Apollonia only shed one tear during the passionate musical tirade: "Baby, baby, baby, What's it gonna be baby? Do u want him? Or do u want me?" What was wrong with her? Was she just ticked that the part really wasn't intended for her. It was suppose to be played by his lover Vanity who got annoyed that he was sleeping with Jill Jones and Susan Moosie too? (Why did people ever think he was gay? Besides that whole androgyny thing.) Or maybe she was irritated that once Prince realized there was no singing ability to go with her lacy bustier, he dropped her from his tour, took back his songs and recorded them himself, resulting in the hit Take Me You. Then there is the little known fact that she had to hide her marital status, so fans would think the pair was romantically linked off-screen. This clearly worked given Kayne West's line in Stronger, "You know how long I've been on ya? Since Prince was on Apollonia /Since OJ had Isotoners" Prince, Apollonia, OJ and Isotoners, and the man wonders why he doesn't win music awards.
I know way too much about Prince's personal life. No more Prince biographies for me; four is my absolute limit. At least, I am not one of over the top crazy fans who post to the fan website, list their favorite Prince songs on their blogs, and uses eBay to bid on Prince memorabilia (although I did just win Musicology for 99 cents.) I am a serious scholar with many serious articles about Prince.
So, would it be weird if I transposed my tear-stained face on top of Apollonia's?
All in the name of research, I watched some old Prince concert footage. Tears flowed; filled up 13 Kleenex, and turned my face pink. Was I shedding tears of regret that I was too young to see Prince in the Purple Rain glory days? Was I crying because he will never again perform Erotic City and Let's Pretend Were Married in concert? Because the man has not had a hit since 1995? Because of way he touched his tight little bottom in a 1984 performance of "Do Me Baby?" Because Apollonia is a really awful actress?
Just in case you haven't seen Purple Rain in the past 20 years or the last 7 hours, Apollonia only shed one tear during the passionate musical tirade: "Baby, baby, baby, What's it gonna be baby? Do u want him? Or do u want me?" What was wrong with her? Was she just ticked that the part really wasn't intended for her. It was suppose to be played by his lover Vanity who got annoyed that he was sleeping with Jill Jones and Susan Moosie too? (Why did people ever think he was gay? Besides that whole androgyny thing.) Or maybe she was irritated that once Prince realized there was no singing ability to go with her lacy bustier, he dropped her from his tour, took back his songs and recorded them himself, resulting in the hit Take Me You. Then there is the little known fact that she had to hide her marital status, so fans would think the pair was romantically linked off-screen. This clearly worked given Kayne West's line in Stronger, "You know how long I've been on ya? Since Prince was on Apollonia /Since OJ had Isotoners" Prince, Apollonia, OJ and Isotoners, and the man wonders why he doesn't win music awards.
I know way too much about Prince's personal life. No more Prince biographies for me; four is my absolute limit. At least, I am not one of over the top crazy fans who post to the fan website, list their favorite Prince songs on their blogs, and uses eBay to bid on Prince memorabilia (although I did just win Musicology for 99 cents.) I am a serious scholar with many serious articles about Prince.
So, would it be weird if I transposed my tear-stained face on top of Apollonia's?
Friday, December 12, 2008
A Librarian in the Sorority House
The day of the party, everything was in place: A $13.00 bottle of Shiraz (the worker at the liquor store said anything over $10.00 isn't cheap); a plate full of two-bite chocolate and cream cheese brownies made by Whole Foods and delicately placed on a cute Christmas tree platter from the local dollar store; flat-ironed hair to subdue my trademark frizz; trendy DKNY jeans that make my legs look thin and my butt firm; pink sweater with turtle neck (because I finally live in a sweater wearing climate); a padded bra for an extra boost from AA to A; and, of course, my "I am librarian with two master degrees and my husband makes as much money as your husband so don't snub me" attitude.
Even waited 20 minutes to not appear too eager then crossed the street to mingle with the former prom queens and ex-sorority girls. Walked in the door--show time. Quickly flipped through my catalog of personalities and found friendly, but not nauseatingly perky, mother of four. Scoped out the room looking for the plainest and chubbiest party-goers. Pretty girls have to invite a few homely friends to really showcase their beauty and to prove to themselves that they are not superficial. Conversation with my peers went well. Mostly I focused on my kids, their school, and the neighborhood. After about of 40-minutes of small talk and lots of wine consumption by others while I sipped soda, I was in my element. But the sorority girls couldn't be avoided. We all gathered in basement for more small talk, the wine exchange and a game of Naughty or Nice.
Time to mingle with the once sorority girls. Struck up a conversation with a skinny straight-haired blond lady and her friend a curvy, curly-haired blond lady. Repeated same conversations that I had upstairs. This time my kids were older than theirs, so I had to explain a little more about the school. Casually, threw in that I co-founded the school's new chess club (don't know how to play but just saying chess raises the appearance of your IQ by 10 points) and also mentioned my kids will be starting Chinese in January in addition the Spanish that is part of their regular curriculum.
The skinny one said: "So if my kids go to the neighborhood school, they will learn Spanish? I thought about sending them to the bi-lingual school. But I want them to go to school with um, um...normal...um, um... no that's not the right word, um, um...yeah, normal kids." Although this woman spoke English, she was in need of translator to find her real sentiment: "I want my kids to go to school with all white, good-looking, upper-middle class kids." (It would be a hoot to re- institute busing). Sensing her elitism and possible racism, I felt it was my obligation to talk about how the kids from the trailer park situated across from our upscale development make the school more economically diverse with about 11-percent of school qualifying for reduced lunches, which all was said with my multiculturalism is grand tone. Nothing alienates like demographic talk. My fun was just beginning.
Next, I moved onto the big circle of sorority moms who were discussing the best places to go for margaritas without husbands and kids. I listened quietly until one of the older women in the group asked me where I go for drinks with the girls. That would be nowhere, but somehow I managed to turn the conversation to career and education. I used that as opportunity to self-aggrandize in front of the sorority mamas. In under 2 minutes, I mentioned my 2 masters, career as librarian, past job as a reporter, and a child who was just placed into Gifted and Talented program. My groundwork has been laid to counter balance the good hair and straight, white teeth. I'll still have those 2 degrees when their breasts begin to sag and their teeth yellow.
When they depleted all the options for margarita talk, it was time to start the wine exchange with a game of Naughty or Nice. The rules were simple: Sign up for three bottles of wine/accompaniment that appeals to you. The Naughty or Nice coin would be flipped; the red side was Naughty and the green side was Nice. You would win bottles based on how Naughty or Nice the group voted your stories to be. (I don't drink wine, so I signed up for ones that had chocolate as an accompaniment -- the litmus test of high sophistication).
By that point in the party, the attendees polished off close to 18 bottles of wine, which is almost one bottle per person. So when it was time to confess the naughties of their past, inhibitions were no were no longer in sight, and the stories were flowing faster than the wine. The tales were actually what you would expect from this group of former pretty party-girls: lots of drugs and alcohol, lesbian stories, rowdy and raunchy all-girl trips to France, Amsterdam, and Vegas; tons of one-night stands and fraternity house hook-ups; public sex, public nudity, and a little bit of adultery.
The party even took a Moms Go Wild turn when one of the former prom queens exposed her red thong to supposedly re-enact a scene from a Vegas swimming pool. But really it was: "I am almost 40 and my ass doesn't have cellulite; how about you?" I didn't partake in the contest.
Although I made sure to laugh outwardly during these stories to not appear prudish, I was lamenting my misspent youth of being good and not having even one slightly naughty story because I don't think compulsive lying is the same as being naughty. While these women during their college days were kissing girls, screwing one boy after another, drinking to the point of blood poisoning, and riding bikes while high, I was writing almost around the clock. I wrote approximately 10 to 12 articles a week for a local newspaper while also writing for the school paper, working in the school's PR office, and writing really crappy sentimental poetry and short stories for the school's literary magazine. (I attribute the bad poetry to being tone deaf). It was all about my craft and that big break that I knew was right around the corner.
At the age of 21 while reporting on watermelon eating contests and the size cannonball splashes at a local Labor Day picnic, I told a reporter friend: "This is going to be my year. This will be the year that I am discovered." Wish someone at the picnic would have had a crystal ball to show me my great future: A handsome husband, 4 beautiful, intelligent kids, a minivan, and not a single freakin' byline in a national magazine. I would have scrapped all the writing and went for the meaningless sex, illicit drugs, and underage drinking. Still could have had my great life and the same byline count. These attractive, successful, happily married women with great kids and beautiful homes prove you gave have a slutty past and happy present, despite everything my mother said. Thanks mom. I have no naughty stories. Thought you wanted me to be part of the in-crowd?
Since I have earned several hundred bylines in 3 small newspapers with a total readership of like 27 instead of one filthy story, I had to go with a bad mom story for the naughty tale. "When my daughter lost her first front tooth, the Tooth Fairy forgot to put money under her pillow. I told her the Tooth Fairy got confused, and put it in my wallet. I only had a ten dollar bill, so I forked it over. Bet the Tooth Fairy won't forget next time." Luckily, my audience was drunk and found everything funny. I lost the wine to the woman who celebrated her 30 birthday by running naked in a field.
Two bottles later, it was my turn again. This time, the coin flipped to Nice. Dionysus was in my corner on this one. The competition was tough: A veterinarian who was giving free animal care for disadvantaged families; woman adopting a family for Christmas; another woman volunteering at the food bank. Those stories were nice but small potatoes compared to: "I am librarian, which means I am nice by trade. The library where I worked in Texas had many patrons who were just looking for someone to be nice to them. There was one homeless man in particular that told me on a daily basis that I was one of the smartest, nicest and most helpful people that he ever met. So occasionally, I would sneak him some food that was left over from the programs that I hosted." The crowd responded with a collective, "Aaah."
Victory! With humanitarian eloquence, I won a bottle of port wine and a box of organic chocolate truffles. I'll regift the wine, the truffles went to my husband, and I firmly planted my nice girl image.
But little do they know, I am the naughtiest of them all. I just wrote this blog.
Even waited 20 minutes to not appear too eager then crossed the street to mingle with the former prom queens and ex-sorority girls. Walked in the door--show time. Quickly flipped through my catalog of personalities and found friendly, but not nauseatingly perky, mother of four. Scoped out the room looking for the plainest and chubbiest party-goers. Pretty girls have to invite a few homely friends to really showcase their beauty and to prove to themselves that they are not superficial. Conversation with my peers went well. Mostly I focused on my kids, their school, and the neighborhood. After about of 40-minutes of small talk and lots of wine consumption by others while I sipped soda, I was in my element. But the sorority girls couldn't be avoided. We all gathered in basement for more small talk, the wine exchange and a game of Naughty or Nice.
Time to mingle with the once sorority girls. Struck up a conversation with a skinny straight-haired blond lady and her friend a curvy, curly-haired blond lady. Repeated same conversations that I had upstairs. This time my kids were older than theirs, so I had to explain a little more about the school. Casually, threw in that I co-founded the school's new chess club (don't know how to play but just saying chess raises the appearance of your IQ by 10 points) and also mentioned my kids will be starting Chinese in January in addition the Spanish that is part of their regular curriculum.
The skinny one said: "So if my kids go to the neighborhood school, they will learn Spanish? I thought about sending them to the bi-lingual school. But I want them to go to school with um, um...normal...um, um... no that's not the right word, um, um...yeah, normal kids." Although this woman spoke English, she was in need of translator to find her real sentiment: "I want my kids to go to school with all white, good-looking, upper-middle class kids." (It would be a hoot to re- institute busing). Sensing her elitism and possible racism, I felt it was my obligation to talk about how the kids from the trailer park situated across from our upscale development make the school more economically diverse with about 11-percent of school qualifying for reduced lunches, which all was said with my multiculturalism is grand tone. Nothing alienates like demographic talk. My fun was just beginning.
Next, I moved onto the big circle of sorority moms who were discussing the best places to go for margaritas without husbands and kids. I listened quietly until one of the older women in the group asked me where I go for drinks with the girls. That would be nowhere, but somehow I managed to turn the conversation to career and education. I used that as opportunity to self-aggrandize in front of the sorority mamas. In under 2 minutes, I mentioned my 2 masters, career as librarian, past job as a reporter, and a child who was just placed into Gifted and Talented program. My groundwork has been laid to counter balance the good hair and straight, white teeth. I'll still have those 2 degrees when their breasts begin to sag and their teeth yellow.
When they depleted all the options for margarita talk, it was time to start the wine exchange with a game of Naughty or Nice. The rules were simple: Sign up for three bottles of wine/accompaniment that appeals to you. The Naughty or Nice coin would be flipped; the red side was Naughty and the green side was Nice. You would win bottles based on how Naughty or Nice the group voted your stories to be. (I don't drink wine, so I signed up for ones that had chocolate as an accompaniment -- the litmus test of high sophistication).
By that point in the party, the attendees polished off close to 18 bottles of wine, which is almost one bottle per person. So when it was time to confess the naughties of their past, inhibitions were no were no longer in sight, and the stories were flowing faster than the wine. The tales were actually what you would expect from this group of former pretty party-girls: lots of drugs and alcohol, lesbian stories, rowdy and raunchy all-girl trips to France, Amsterdam, and Vegas; tons of one-night stands and fraternity house hook-ups; public sex, public nudity, and a little bit of adultery.
The party even took a Moms Go Wild turn when one of the former prom queens exposed her red thong to supposedly re-enact a scene from a Vegas swimming pool. But really it was: "I am almost 40 and my ass doesn't have cellulite; how about you?" I didn't partake in the contest.
Although I made sure to laugh outwardly during these stories to not appear prudish, I was lamenting my misspent youth of being good and not having even one slightly naughty story because I don't think compulsive lying is the same as being naughty. While these women during their college days were kissing girls, screwing one boy after another, drinking to the point of blood poisoning, and riding bikes while high, I was writing almost around the clock. I wrote approximately 10 to 12 articles a week for a local newspaper while also writing for the school paper, working in the school's PR office, and writing really crappy sentimental poetry and short stories for the school's literary magazine. (I attribute the bad poetry to being tone deaf). It was all about my craft and that big break that I knew was right around the corner.
At the age of 21 while reporting on watermelon eating contests and the size cannonball splashes at a local Labor Day picnic, I told a reporter friend: "This is going to be my year. This will be the year that I am discovered." Wish someone at the picnic would have had a crystal ball to show me my great future: A handsome husband, 4 beautiful, intelligent kids, a minivan, and not a single freakin' byline in a national magazine. I would have scrapped all the writing and went for the meaningless sex, illicit drugs, and underage drinking. Still could have had my great life and the same byline count. These attractive, successful, happily married women with great kids and beautiful homes prove you gave have a slutty past and happy present, despite everything my mother said. Thanks mom. I have no naughty stories. Thought you wanted me to be part of the in-crowd?
Since I have earned several hundred bylines in 3 small newspapers with a total readership of like 27 instead of one filthy story, I had to go with a bad mom story for the naughty tale. "When my daughter lost her first front tooth, the Tooth Fairy forgot to put money under her pillow. I told her the Tooth Fairy got confused, and put it in my wallet. I only had a ten dollar bill, so I forked it over. Bet the Tooth Fairy won't forget next time." Luckily, my audience was drunk and found everything funny. I lost the wine to the woman who celebrated her 30 birthday by running naked in a field.
Two bottles later, it was my turn again. This time, the coin flipped to Nice. Dionysus was in my corner on this one. The competition was tough: A veterinarian who was giving free animal care for disadvantaged families; woman adopting a family for Christmas; another woman volunteering at the food bank. Those stories were nice but small potatoes compared to: "I am librarian, which means I am nice by trade. The library where I worked in Texas had many patrons who were just looking for someone to be nice to them. There was one homeless man in particular that told me on a daily basis that I was one of the smartest, nicest and most helpful people that he ever met. So occasionally, I would sneak him some food that was left over from the programs that I hosted." The crowd responded with a collective, "Aaah."
Victory! With humanitarian eloquence, I won a bottle of port wine and a box of organic chocolate truffles. I'll regift the wine, the truffles went to my husband, and I firmly planted my nice girl image.
But little do they know, I am the naughtiest of them all. I just wrote this blog.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
A Real Garbage Man's Daughter
Received an email yesterday that asked: "Are you really a garbage man's daughter?" Although I love the metaphorical baggage associated with garbageman's daughter and I think it would be a great synonymn for "trailer trash," I am indeed a daughter of a garbageman and my dad was a son of a garbageman. And when my oldest son eventually runs for public office and I'm writing his speeches, he'll be "the grandson of a garbageman." I think it will be a effective way to show blue collar roots and to connect with the Joe Plumbers and Joe Six-Packs of his day. (Remember, John Edwards constantly referred to himself as a son of a mill worker opposed to scum-bag corporate lawyer who cheats on long-suffering wife battling cancer).
Anyway, please don't feel sorry for me or my family.
Bag after bag of trash paved my way to go to a swank private college, study in England, and have a fantastic wardrobe in my high school and college days (some of which is still in my closet just so I can periodically see how big my butt has gotten since the age of 16).
Now as an adult, I am proud that Williams Santiation has been in business for more than 70 years in a town about 70 minutes from where I grew up, and almost no one from my childhood days knows that my trademark pomposity did not come from a blueblood upcoming.
In a Gatsby-like style, I wanted to create an heir of mystery about my upbringing and when that didn't work, I outright lied. One time on a date with a guy from a prominent family in a surrounding community, I said my dad was a convenience store owner. I wanted to give him a respectable clean, non-smelly career that did not require a college education.
For most of my youth, I concealed my dad's profession until it worked in my favor to exploit it, like in the case of the college entrance essay. I wanted to go to a college where students were either rich or smart and since I was neither, it was time to flaunt those humble roots in hopes of pity in the form of a scholarship. My hero, My dad was a cheesey exercise in heart-string tugging and humility; a plea to have a life of books and knowledge and not filth and foul-odors. My shameless explotation worked, and I got my scholarship.
Hmmm, when you have roots this humble, how else can they be exploited?
Anyway, please don't feel sorry for me or my family.
Bag after bag of trash paved my way to go to a swank private college, study in England, and have a fantastic wardrobe in my high school and college days (some of which is still in my closet just so I can periodically see how big my butt has gotten since the age of 16).
Now as an adult, I am proud that Williams Santiation has been in business for more than 70 years in a town about 70 minutes from where I grew up, and almost no one from my childhood days knows that my trademark pomposity did not come from a blueblood upcoming.
In a Gatsby-like style, I wanted to create an heir of mystery about my upbringing and when that didn't work, I outright lied. One time on a date with a guy from a prominent family in a surrounding community, I said my dad was a convenience store owner. I wanted to give him a respectable clean, non-smelly career that did not require a college education.
For most of my youth, I concealed my dad's profession until it worked in my favor to exploit it, like in the case of the college entrance essay. I wanted to go to a college where students were either rich or smart and since I was neither, it was time to flaunt those humble roots in hopes of pity in the form of a scholarship. My hero, My dad was a cheesey exercise in heart-string tugging and humility; a plea to have a life of books and knowledge and not filth and foul-odors. My shameless explotation worked, and I got my scholarship.
Hmmm, when you have roots this humble, how else can they be exploited?
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Turns Out I'm French
After sharing a little bit of my writing with my husband, he responded: "You're not American. You're either English or French. You need to read Twain's How to Tell a Story."
I took that as a compliment because with all certitude English literature is better than American literature. The French just have better art, fashion sense, and a prettier language, so why not be French?
Felt pretty good about myself as I started to read the essay. Twain crisply and clearly distinguishes between the threee nationalities. "The humorous story is American, the comic story is English, the witty story is French. The humorous story depends for its effect upon the manner of the telling; the comic story and the witty story upon the matter."
Sounds reasonable. My work probably focuses a little more on matter than on narrative style. And like the French and English my stories are "brief and end with a point," or at least the point exists somewhere in my head. Still feeling pretty darn superior.
Twain contiues, "The humorous story is strictly a work of art--high and delicate art-- and only an artist can tell it; but no art is necessary in telling the comic and the witty story."
Not feeling so superior and French anymore.
I took that as a compliment because with all certitude English literature is better than American literature. The French just have better art, fashion sense, and a prettier language, so why not be French?
Felt pretty good about myself as I started to read the essay. Twain crisply and clearly distinguishes between the threee nationalities. "The humorous story is American, the comic story is English, the witty story is French. The humorous story depends for its effect upon the manner of the telling; the comic story and the witty story upon the matter."
Sounds reasonable. My work probably focuses a little more on matter than on narrative style. And like the French and English my stories are "brief and end with a point," or at least the point exists somewhere in my head. Still feeling pretty darn superior.
Twain contiues, "The humorous story is strictly a work of art--high and delicate art-- and only an artist can tell it; but no art is necessary in telling the comic and the witty story."
Not feeling so superior and French anymore.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
An Anniversary Gift
Writing humor is hard. As you can tell by the last few entries, I am not that funny.
But sometimes things are just funny without being set-up or stylized, they stand alone on their pure ridiculousness. And one of those wonderfully ridiculous sentiments was sent to me today by my childhood friend, Stephanie.
She writes: "...19 years ago today was our infamous trip to Pittsburgh to see NKOTB. " Let me repeat that in case you missed it the first time, "...19 years ago today was our infamous trip to Pittsburgh to see NKOTB. "
I was a part of crappy music history. I'll be smiling all day.
But sometimes things are just funny without being set-up or stylized, they stand alone on their pure ridiculousness. And one of those wonderfully ridiculous sentiments was sent to me today by my childhood friend, Stephanie.
She writes: "...19 years ago today was our infamous trip to Pittsburgh to see NKOTB. " Let me repeat that in case you missed it the first time, "...19 years ago today was our infamous trip to Pittsburgh to see NKOTB. "
I was a part of crappy music history. I'll be smiling all day.
Wine, Cheese & Chance at Social Redemption
I have now asked 7 friends, emailed 5 relatives and clocked three hours and 11 minutes searching for the perfect wine and appetizer. For the moment, choosing the perfect vintage and accompaniment is the chief challenge in my life.
Why is this so important? This little decision could cement my reputation and position in the neighborhood. This could be my way to win friends and influence people, or at the very least, get invited to more parties. Best case scenario, I become a cool kid (at last) and will be considered refined, cultured, and sophisticated (finally). Plus, my kids won't be banded from play dates due to their uncouth upbringing.
Bringing the wrong beverage could result in me being branded as cheap, crass, and foul as the bad tasting wine that I bear. My kids would be blacklisted indefinitely.
The pressure is on. Considering that I think most wines taste like bad cough medicine that is in desperate need of copious sugar and after-taste reducer, pulling this off may be difficult. And not appearing as poser could be an issue since poser with a touch of pompous snob is my go-to disposition in social settings.
The invitation specifically said no cheap wines. What is a cheap wine? How little is too little to pay? Should I get a white or red? Dry or wet? (Isn't all wine wet?) Pinot noir, a Burgundy red or Italian Barolo, and Beaujolais? You got to be kidding me. It is liquid made by smashing up grapes either red or white and then letting them rot. Can you really tell the difference? Those distinctions just exist so a bunch of foodies (a.k.a. culinary snobs) can make normal soda drinking people feel insecure and uneducated. I prefer to do that with classic literature. I recently finished Perl Buck's The Good Earth and just started The Tin Drum by Nobel prize-winning author Gunter Grass all while I edit an article for publication about Gertrude Stein's work in relation to Deleuze and Guattari's Theory of Minor Literature. That's how it is done without the aftertaste.
I digress. Friends recommended a Shiraz that is only about $8.00. Is this a cheap wine? Will I be admonished for this choice? Will I be given a "C" to wear around my neck to denote my cheapness for perpetuity? ( Another high literature reference).
So even if the $8.00 wine flies, there is the whole issue of the accompaniment. Having to cook something for strangers makes me break out in hives, which is really gross when preparing food. Can't take my customary corn bake casserole for this one.
Some recommendations online included:
- Lamb Sausage in Puff Pastry with Laurent du Clos Mustard
- Asparagus Wrapped in Crisp Prosciutto
- Mini Crab Cakes encrusted in potato chips with Rémoulade Sauce
- Endives with Gorgonzola
- Smoked Salmon Canapés
- Stuffed Cherry Tomatoes
- Prosciutto and Melon
Don't really think those are in my league. I need to make something that I can spell. I make a great queso with Velveeta cheese and Rotel tomatoes, and when I am in the mood to impress I whip up the Harry & David's Sweet Pepper Relish with cream cheese. I just discovered a spinach dip from a packet that can be poured into a bread bowl from Wal-Mart. I would be the talk of the party with any of those options.
But most likely, I'll repeat the success I had at the neighborhood picnic by picking out something delicious and pretty at the local deli and sliding it right onto my holiday serving dish.
Stay tuned for the update from the party as my quest for universal acceptance from former prom queens and ex-sorority girls continues.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Breaking Up Is Never Easy
I am going through the worse break-up of my life, and I can't help doing all the stereotypical break-up rituals. I cry; I read old correspondence; I think about the good times; and, I email friends to see how my ex is doing.
No, I am not getting a divorce or ending an affair with a lover. The love I lost is far more pathetic and perverse.
I am mourning the loss of a my job. I initiated the separation when I moved out of state, but it was a hasty separation. We had only been in this relationship for two and half years, and the honeymoon wasn't even over yet. Like most of other break-ups, I wasn't ready for it to be over. The relationship ended before it was fully explored. Over before I could wreck it like I have wrecked all my past relationships. I would have been dumped eventually, but knowing it is no consolation for the experience.
I am used to exs leaving me in the dust and moving on quickly. After Michael, Patrick, Harry and Brian dumped me, they all went to meet, fall in the love with, and marry my replacement. (Pretty sure Patrick was engaged and in the marital bed before I picked up my keys, deleted the white wedding dress, baby names, and mini-van from my hopes and dreams bank, and walked out the door).
Like all previous exs, my new ex has moved on and seems to be doing well with out me.
Now it is time to put down the chocolate, turn off sad songs, and look for my rebound relationship.
No, I am not getting a divorce or ending an affair with a lover. The love I lost is far more pathetic and perverse.
I am mourning the loss of a my job. I initiated the separation when I moved out of state, but it was a hasty separation. We had only been in this relationship for two and half years, and the honeymoon wasn't even over yet. Like most of other break-ups, I wasn't ready for it to be over. The relationship ended before it was fully explored. Over before I could wreck it like I have wrecked all my past relationships. I would have been dumped eventually, but knowing it is no consolation for the experience.
I am used to exs leaving me in the dust and moving on quickly. After Michael, Patrick, Harry and Brian dumped me, they all went to meet, fall in the love with, and marry my replacement. (Pretty sure Patrick was engaged and in the marital bed before I picked up my keys, deleted the white wedding dress, baby names, and mini-van from my hopes and dreams bank, and walked out the door).
Like all previous exs, my new ex has moved on and seems to be doing well with out me.
Now it is time to put down the chocolate, turn off sad songs, and look for my rebound relationship.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Another First Birthday
My fourth child just turned one on October 6. His birthday was on a Sunday, and we were too just too busy to stop and eat cake. So, we delayed the party for a week.
Our rationale was: He's one. He doesn't know what a birthday is and won't be offended if we celebrate it late.
So, the following Saturday, I bought a cake, packed up a few presents, threw the kids in the car, and headed to a popular destination for kids' parties. We did everything by the book. Ordered pizza, got lots of tokens, let the kids play arcade games, sang Happy Birthday and let the baby play with his cake.
The camera didn't work.
So we just staged it the following Saturday when we celebrated our third child's birthday.
As long as the photos aren't time-stamped and his siblings don't tell, he'll never know.
Our rationale was: He's one. He doesn't know what a birthday is and won't be offended if we celebrate it late.
So, the following Saturday, I bought a cake, packed up a few presents, threw the kids in the car, and headed to a popular destination for kids' parties. We did everything by the book. Ordered pizza, got lots of tokens, let the kids play arcade games, sang Happy Birthday and let the baby play with his cake.
The camera didn't work.
So we just staged it the following Saturday when we celebrated our third child's birthday.
As long as the photos aren't time-stamped and his siblings don't tell, he'll never know.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Threat of Girl Haven and the Fear of Eternal Damnation
Girl Haven does not exist, and I have misspent my youth being good and fearing a mythical place where bad girls go to be reformed and learn to respect their mothers.
"We will send you to Girl Haven," said my mother with a cold mix of irritation, resentment, and love required by Church and State.
Girl Haven took girls all ages for every and all kinds of offenses. Bed wetting, bad grades, swearing, smoking, underage drinking, drug-use, teenage pre-martial sex, and disrespecting your parents were all offenses worthy of a stay in Girl Haven.
And as if threat of Girl Haven was not enough, weekly CCD lessons reinforced the threat of eternal damnation for giving into temption and living of a vice filled life.
Parenting by fear certainly worked for my folks. They succeeded in getting me to adulthood with no addictions, no sexually transmitted diseases, no illegitimate children, and no grades lower than C+ in high school Calculus.
Now I often wonder if squandering my opportunity to screw up and be protected by the Juvenile Court System will lead to binge-drinking and serial cheating in my mid-40s. Will I grow to hate my children and husband because I never hooked up with strangers, threw up in a college dorm for reasons other than the flu, or stole lipstick from the corner drugstore?
"We will send you to Girl Haven," said my mother with a cold mix of irritation, resentment, and love required by Church and State.
Girl Haven took girls all ages for every and all kinds of offenses. Bed wetting, bad grades, swearing, smoking, underage drinking, drug-use, teenage pre-martial sex, and disrespecting your parents were all offenses worthy of a stay in Girl Haven.
And as if threat of Girl Haven was not enough, weekly CCD lessons reinforced the threat of eternal damnation for giving into temption and living of a vice filled life.
Parenting by fear certainly worked for my folks. They succeeded in getting me to adulthood with no addictions, no sexually transmitted diseases, no illegitimate children, and no grades lower than C+ in high school Calculus.
Now I often wonder if squandering my opportunity to screw up and be protected by the Juvenile Court System will lead to binge-drinking and serial cheating in my mid-40s. Will I grow to hate my children and husband because I never hooked up with strangers, threw up in a college dorm for reasons other than the flu, or stole lipstick from the corner drugstore?
Monday, September 22, 2008
Melissa A. Williams, First Grader
During a recent Back to School Night for my daughter Natalie, her first-grade teacher organized the parents in groups of five and asked all the parents to recall their favorite memory from first grade.
In a flash, only the most traumatic memories of first grade came rushing back to me as I thought "Why, why, oh why, can I not think of anything cute, funny, pleasant or, at the very least, ordinary to share?" My mind just did a continual loop between:
- Having a pee accident and being walked home by a sixth grader ever. I later told a few bullies that a pipe broke under my desk, and I stuck with that story until now.
- Being pushed down by a girl whose name I can't remember because she moved away in the middle of the school year after she caused my top front grown-up tooth to be projected outward and upward in my mouth, resulting in braces at the age of 16.
- Getting my first pair of glasses that would lead to me getting my first pair of contacts in third-grade because according to my mother "pretty girls don't wear glasses." Little did she know that 29-years later a pair of glasses would make Sarah Palin a fashion icon.
- Going without permission to Stella Rodgers' little shack beside the railroad tracks where she and her 4 siblings were allowed to eat candy for dinner. Wow, candy for dinner. I was in huge trouble and was not allowed to be her friend, which was good because in high school she became part of group known as the "vermin" who smoked on the corner before school.
- And of course there was Grant Vogel. He would put on Mrs. Reece's glasses and run around the classroom with her chasing close behind. This started a crush on Grant that would last until the 12th grade and result in years of rejection although I still believe that secretly he liked me.
I could not get the loop to stop "pee accident, tooth deformation, ugly glasses, candy for dinner with a future vermin; and, yes he really did like me and never had the courage to say it."
Why didn't I make anything up such as" I liked when Mrs. Reece read us stories", or "I remember my sense of accomplishment when I learned how to subtract." My self-absorption was getting in the way of my lie generation, which normally comes pretty easy. So, I looked at the 4 other parents and said in an attempt to be funny and self-deprecating "I only remember traumatic things from first grade. I had a pee accident, got my front tooth knocked crooked, and had to get glasses."
Horror quickly went across their faces as they made a mental note of my daughter's name.
So Over Sarah Palin
Sarah, your fifteen-minutes are over, so now you must go.
TV appearances, radio interviews, documentary, books deals...why? Does she really have enough depth and accomplishments to fill 200 pages or 2 hours worth of film? And more importantly, does the public really care? When Sen. McCain announced Sarah Palin as his running mate, I was intrigued. Like most people, I had no idea who she was or what her politics were. I only heard that she was a governor in a state known for good ole' boy politics and a mother of five.
Glass ceiling shatter/mother was enough to start my searching frenzy. For days, I read every article about her. I wanted Sarah to be the Everywoman for my generation.
I kept wanting to find something about Sarah that showed me that she was like me. I wanted to pin my hopes and aspirations onto to this woman. If she went to the White House, moms everywhere would be at the White House too.
At first, the checklist looked promising:
TV appearances, radio interviews, documentary, books deals...why? Does she really have enough depth and accomplishments to fill 200 pages or 2 hours worth of film? And more importantly, does the public really care? When Sen. McCain announced Sarah Palin as his running mate, I was intrigued. Like most people, I had no idea who she was or what her politics were. I only heard that she was a governor in a state known for good ole' boy politics and a mother of five.
Glass ceiling shatter/mother was enough to start my searching frenzy. For days, I read every article about her. I wanted Sarah to be the Everywoman for my generation.
I kept wanting to find something about Sarah that showed me that she was like me. I wanted to pin my hopes and aspirations onto to this woman. If she went to the White House, moms everywhere would be at the White House too.
At first, the checklist looked promising:
- Sarah is a mother of 5. I am a mom of 4.
- Sarah is working mom. I was a working mom.
- Sarah is a hockey-mom. I am a soccer mom.
- Sarah is from humble roots. I am from humble roots (being a Garbage Man's Daughter)
Then the more I looked, the more different from me Sarah looked:
- Sarah is anti-gun control
- Sarah is anti-gay or according to the Republicans "pro-family," whatever that means.
- Sarah is pro-life
- Sarah is pro-offshore drilling (not so good for the environment)
- Sarah is a former Beauty Queen
- Sarah is a former sports broadcaster
- Sarah is largely in support of abstinence only programs and has a pregnant teenage daughter (good evidence those programs don't work).
- Sarah has a special needs baby that is being cared for by others.
Take that list in combination with one botched interview after another. This is woman has no future in National politics. She is not a lifelong advocate of change. She is pretty girl who turn into a pretty politician that has gone as far as she can a national stage.
So Sarah, go home, make some moose chili and take care of your children!
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