tangentwoman

Saturday, April 30, 2005

And you are...?

My husband works in an industry that's pretty old-school: definitely male-dominated, mostly older men in leadership roles. Lots of family businesses, so really the only women and young people are those whose dads owned a company and passed it along.

Occasionally -- and now that the Smelmooo is getting to be in more of a leadership role himself, more frequently -- I need to go to his work dinners and parties and play the good wife. A schmoozer and a socializer I am not, but for the most part I don't mind this role. I'm proud of the Smelmooo, and want to support him, and most of the people are lovely and I have a fine time smiling and chatting and trying to be charming. I've always done better around grown-ups than around my peers, so I actually am, in a weird way, in my element at these things, even if I don't have a ton in common with the other participants, and even if I always struggle to match names with faces with stories, and always resort to saying "So nice to see you," just to cover my ass in case I've actually met this person on three separate occasions during the last 4 years, but have zero recollection of doing so.

And it's fodder for bonding with my mom, who has been playing the good wife at my dad's work events for almost 45 years now, although now that he's retired she takes the occasional out, leaving him on his own so she can curl up for a night alone with a good book or bad tv, eating soup or a tuna sandwich, happy as a clam. But my mom's more than paid her dues, and she's been an excellent role model, being gracious and graceful even if inside she's rolling her eyes and thinking this person she's talking to could not be more pretentious or dopey or full of himself. Thanks, Mom!

Anyway, since our marriage nearly 7 months ago (which, by the way, has flown), the Smelmooo and I had a handful of events to attend, including a meeting in Hawaii, but this weekend was the big annual convention (my third) where pretty much all of the Smelmooo's work folk gather, and it's one of the only big events for which I'm actually registered and listed in the conference program(lots of times the "spouses' programs" are incredibly painful and sexist, like scarf-tying seminars and make-up tips and junk, and in the past I've mostly been spared, although, again, as husband assumes more of a leadership role, the schmoozing with the wives thing becomes more and more necessary...). And I have a little nametag that identifies me as, you know, Ms. Tangent, as opposed to Mrs. Smelmooo.

Which, you know, raises some eyebrows in this crowd.

"I saw you in the program, and I just figured that you'd already gotten divorced and that Smelmooo just has a thing for women named Tangent."

"Wait, you're married? But...wait...you're Smelmooo, and she's Tangent. I don't get it."

I feel compelled to (over)share here that, on my first trip to the gynecologist after getting married, the discussion went like this:

"So, what's your married name?"
"Still a Tangent, actually."
"Really? Ewwwwwwwwwwww....you married your brother?"

It never really hit me, until after our wedding, how much people care about what the heck my name is. Myself included, actually.

I always thought I'd be fairly laid-back about what people called me after we got married. I didn't keep my name to make a big political statement, or because I am an overly radical feminist, or because I hate the name, or because I hate my in-laws, or because this is a starter marriage (I always found it simultaneously hilarious and horrifying when, in the weeks surrouding our wedding, people would ask about my name, and several said, "Oh, smart! It was a huge pain in the ass to change back after my divorce..."). I kept my name because it's who I am; because I didn't want to give up the identity I'd had for more than 27 years; because my name means something to me and to my graduate school professors and to my other professional contacts.

But somehow, I've started getting annoyed when people assume that I'm a Smelmooo just because it's my husband's name, and downright indignant when they judge me for it. No, no! No judgment! I just wonder how you'll deal with that with the kids...

Because of course you're having kids! Only selfish, heartless, child-hating monsters wouldn't want to have kids!

Luckily, my mom (also a Tangent, just like my dad and me) has trained me well, and I smile my lovely smile, squeeze Smelmoo's hand, sip my drink, try not to spill my food, and roll my eyes and make faces only in my mind. See? I can be a proper wife, even if I don't have the name for it.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Word nerds

Yesterday, the Smelmooo and I watched a documentary called Word Wars, which follows four very different men on their quest to be the National Scrabble Champion. Netflix recommended it, I guess because we gave Spellbound a good rating, and they're sort of similar movies: Nerdy types who want desperately to succeed in a national competition of the best and brainiest.

I really loved Spellbound, maybe because I was an incredibly nerdy kid and I identified with the kids in the movie. I dominated classroom spelling bees, to the extent that sometimes the teacher made me read the words to my classmates instead of actually competing, just to give the other kids a chance, although I never did larger competitions, where, based on Spellbound, I would've had my ass kicked. Anyway, with one exception, they were just likeable kids, if a bit overeager and compulsive; I cared about them, and I was really rooting for them.

The subjects in Word Wars, on the other hand, were just compelling in a train wrecky kind of way. Fascinating, but not endearing, and I really didn't like any of them. At one point, after a couple of the subjects had been eliminated, the Smelmooo said, "God, now I'm stuck having to root for THAT guy?!" But, truly, fascinating.

One of the guys showed off his expansive (although I think he referred to it as "dwindling") stock of vitamins and other kinds of "brain boosters" -- his kitchen literally looked like it housed half a GNC -- to help him with his game.

The guy who rated highest in the crazy-quirky category and probably lowest on likeability (again, though, it was a tough call) goes by GI Joel, because of his persistent gastrointestinal troubles. He chugged Maalox throughout pretty much the entire film, and kept a spitoon nearby at all times. And he was just completely matter-of-fact about it, which I guess is what is required if one is in such a position. GI Joel's dad was also featured in Word Wars; like his son, he wears suspenders (for comfort, not as a fashion statement) and was competing in the national tournament. When asked what he was doing there, GI Joel's dad said, "I'm kicking ass!" So, okay, I found one of the subjects kind of endearing, but that's it.

Finally, the winner of the tournament got a gig on The Today Show, and they showed the interview with Ann Curry, who -- bless her -- looked super-interested in the winner and his stories, betraying not a hint of "this dude's crazy." But when we watched some of the extras, they showed some footage of their interactions in the Green Room, and she clearly could not get away from him fast enough, which made me think a little less of Ann Curry, although I sympathized, because, really, CRAZY.

Friday, April 22, 2005

Hee

A comment one of my co-workers made a few weeks ago struck me funny again this morning.

We were in this big brainstorming meeting, and after the facilitator laid out the task for the day, one of our colleagues raised his hand to ask a question, which he prefaced with:

"I'm going to put on my Literal Asshole hat right now..." And, without missing a beat, another colleague said:

"That hat comes off?!"

Which made me laugh and laugh, although maybe it's not as funny if you don't know our literal asshole colleague.

Lies and deception

Somewhere along the way, the Smelmooo and I instituted Pizza Thursday. At some point, as our metabolism slows, we may need to switch to Salad Thursday, but for now, Pizza Thursday.

Yesterday, it was Pizza and Wine Thursday, but I only had a glass and a half, at most. Nevertheless, I was exhausted and frankly a little buzzed. I was doing some work on the couch while the Smelmooo and Tucker happily watched Greatest American Hero between Survivor (bye, Janu!) and ER. Around 9:30, I lay down with my reading, and by 9:45 it had slipped out of my hands and I decided just to take a little 15-minute nap...

"Are you sleeping?"

"No."

"Yes you are. Get up."

(indignantly) "I'm NOT sleeping!"

"Sit up! It's the first new episode in a month, and you really want to see it."

"zzzzzzz...."

"Wake up!"

"I'm SO not sleeping!"

I don't know why I'm like this. I'm obviously sleeping, or on the brink, and it's obvious to everyone, even the dog, that I'm sleeping. I don't know why I can't just admit I'm tired, hit "record" on the VCR -- or skip it altogether, given the quality of ER in recent seasons -- and haul my ass up to bed. It's the same when I'm drinking.

"Are you buzzed?"

"No."

"God, yes, you are! You're hugging everyone and your speech is simultaneously deliberate and slurred."

"Nunh-uh! I'm just haaaaaapy and I loooove you and I'm soooooooo glad we're friends and we sooooooooo don't get to see each other enough and DEAR GOD it's so freaking HOT! It is like a million degrees in here!"

"You are so drunk!"

"I am NOT." (stagger-stomps off to the bathroom)

What is up with that? I'm not fooling anyone, so why the lies?

Thursday, April 21, 2005

Young and employed

I just got off the phone with one of the consultants whom I manage for a small project. I've been working with her for about three months, but since it's a tiny project, we've only met in person once and we talk on the phone or exchange emails maybe once every two weeks.

I mostly like this consultant, although when she came to our office building, I found her to be a little bit of a nosy-pants. She noticed my to-do list on the white board in my office and said "Call Jane Smith -- is that Jane Smith of Competitor Consulting Firm in Philadelphia? Who used to be at Nonprofit X? What are you talking to her about?" So I found that a little off-putting, but in general I like her.

Anyway, she basically gave me a CYA update call, because things are going incredibly slowly with this project and she feels bad about it and wants me to know that they're actually working, even though the results are slow to come in. That was fine with me -- the people she's working with are notoriously impossible, which is part of why we hired this consultant to deal with them and, again, it's a tiny project that I just don't care about that much. I actually was feeling a little guilty that I pay so little attention to this project, and to this consultant.

And then she ended the call with, "Thanks, sweetie! I'm sure we'll talk soon."

There was a little pause, like maybe she realized what she'd just said, but I let it go. What else is there to do? But still, argh. I know she's probably old enough to be my mother, but since she's NOT my mother, or my sister, or any kind of relative or close friend, really, she has no business calling me Sweetie.

But maybe that's not fair. One of the most irritating things about me, I think, is the completely arbitrary nature in which I decide what's acceptable behavior from others and what's not, and how vehemently and rigidly I apply those arbitrary boundaries. One of the maintenance guys at work always calls me Kiddo, and I think it's sweet and lovely. When the guy confirming my furniture order called me Sweetheart, I wanted to jump through the phone and strangle him.

So it's not a gender thing, and it's not expressly a power thing or an intimacy thing. I don't know what it's about, but it just seems like another layer of the nonsense you endure when you're a young woman (with an unfortunately girlish voice) working in an organization and a field dominated by people who are much older. Even though, according to the organizational charts, I'm at the same level they are, or one step down, it's tough to play the part of a peer when every time a reference from more than ten years ago comes up, the entire room turns toward me and says, "God, I bet you weren't even BORN yet. How old are you, again?"

I'm 27-and-a-half. And one day, sooner than I think, I'm sure, I'm going to long for these days when I'm the youngest one in the meeting and the newest kid on the block. And when a few of our wedding pictures revealed, shockingly clearly, that I've developed crow's feet, I was horrified and totally surprised, because I still think of me as so young, definitely too young for wrinkles. I guess I can't have it both ways.

But, really, either way, don't call me Sweetie again.

Ewwwww

Last night, I went to my very first dinner with my organization's board of trustees. I've been here for ages and ages, but just got promoted about a month ago, when I was elevated to the priviliged, just-above-the-threshold position that allows me to be (at least in theory) a known entity the board members.

I'd heard that the dinners are always yummy and lovely, but I didn't quite realize that it's set up like a wedding reception, with your name on a card with a seating assignment (along with your dinner choice in huge letters -- it was sort of fitting, I think, to see "Tangent Woman -- CHICKEN" on my card). And then everyone sort of jockeys for the best seat, which is, to some people's minds, next to a board member, but to me was "not next to the total jackass co-worker at the table" and also, preferably, NOT next to a board member.

I ended up next to a kind of sucky co-worker, but not next to a trustee, and on my other side was one of my favorite co-workers (her EQ is off the charts, and she always asks the right questions and says the right things to stimulate interesting but not stressful conversations; she's pretty much the antithesis of me), so I felt pretty lucky.

Anyway, I'd gone for the CHICKEN because it was accompanied by risotto, of which I'm a huge fan. I'm an incredibly picky eater (although getting slightly more adventurous the older I get; I realize you can't function as a grown-up without occasionally sucking up a bad meal or a food you don't really like), so work dinners are always a challenge, especially if they're fancy, because in general my issue is with condiments. I just don't like them, and they tend to be abundant on fancy foods. Grill me up some chicken with some rosemary or something, but don't throw mustard on it, or mango chutney, or anything of that nature on there. Anyway, salad dressing is also a problem for me, and the salad was swimming in it, so I ate the raspberries that accompanied it and then gave up on the rest. What I thought was a portobello mushroom turned out to be chocolate cream cheese. Weird, huh?

So anyway, I was starving by the time dinner arrived, because no one passed the damn bread, and I was stubborn about the salad. So there's this lovely chicken, and some cooked carrots (newly added to my "Yes, I'll eat that" category, I'm proud to say...baby steps...), and asparagus risotto.

Asparagus is still firmly in the "I will not eat that" category, but I just picked it out and pushed it to the side (Minnams tells me I'm masterful at this trick, although I think I'm fairly obvious and childish about it, but I appreciate her saying so) and ate the rest of the risotto, which was pretty delicious.

But then, when I got home, I realized that even eating asparagus risotto without the risotto makes your pee smell like asparagus pee. And I cannot get it to stop. I asked one of my co-workers (damn you, Minnams, for enjoying a sunny day in the East Village without me when I'm having a personal hygiene crisis!) whether this is normal, and how long the asparagus pee would persist, because we're going on 20 hours here and it's not letting up. She insisted that I simply need to drink a ton of water, but I'm starting to get concerned that this has permanently altered my body's delicate balance and that I'll be saddled with this forever, like how my belly button hasn't ever recovered its original shape following my gallbladder surgery 11 years ago.

So, yeah. Asparagus pee. Eww.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Being a dog owner...

...does not make one a Dog Person.

Almost a month ago, the Smelmooo and I got a puppy, Tucker. Smelmooo's family has always had dogs (they currently have two), whereas I hadn't had a dog since Fluffy (yep) left us when I was three years old (the only ticket my lovely mom ever got was on her way home from having Fluffy put to sleep...so sad...). I really wanted a dog when I was younger, but after the trauma of Fluffy's death and a quickly emptying nest, my parents never caved on that. So except for the in-laws' dogs (and my brother's two dogs, whom I see about twice a year), I've been a Dog Person mostly in the sense of "I'll pet a cute, friendly one if I know it" and "I am the complete antithesis of a cat person."

And that hasn't really changed since we've gotten Tucker. I love him; I like the relatives' dogs; I acknowledge that a particular dog in a commercial or something is cute. That's about it. But now, since I'm, you know, a dog owner, people assume I'm totally a Dog Person (or, more startlingly, an Animal Person). And I'm just...not.

This morning, I was in the yard with Tucker, and another woman was about 20 yards past our house, on the sidewalk, walking her little dog.

I should point out that we've had our house for almost a year. We love our town, and we often take walks into the downtown area or just around our immediate neighborhood. We're out in the garden on the weekends; sometimes, we even play catch on the front lawn. We go to the YMCA on our street (okay, Smelmooo goes much more than I do); I took a Spanish class at the high school; Smelmooo is involved with the town Democrats. We're relatively friendly people (okay, Smelmooo is much friendlier than I am, but still, taken as a couple, we're of at least average friendliness).

And yet, until about a month ago, we basically knew the neighbors on either side of us, and that was it.

But, as it turns out, when you have a dog, people talk to you. Constantly. We've met about a million new people during the last month, and the neighbors we already knew suddenly like us much better. Having a dog buys you street cred.

Anyway, this woman this morning spotted Tucker and me in the yard, turned around and called, "Do you have a new little puppy?!" and came on over. The owner -- whose name I do not know, but her dog is Max -- asked Tucker's name and age, what we do with him during the day while we're at work, etc.

And as she's doing this, she's down on the ground, hanging on to her dog while petting Tucker vigorously, interjecting little "Good dog! Such a cute puppy!" into our discussion. And I'm like, crap, I oughta be down there petting HER dog, but it's totally not in my nature just to start playing with a stranger's dog. I'm sure some of this is bound up on a subconscious level with my germ issues, but I think that the key point I uncovered is that I'm simply not, and likely never will be, a Dog Person. I hope I can at least get better at faking it, though, because I feel like Tucker will suffer if I'm not sufficiently indulgent of his potential friends in the neighborhood.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Yum, and yay!

Today is one of my favorite days of the year: Free Cone Day at Ben & Jerry's.

I normally have back-to-back meetings on Tuesdays, so I thought I wouldn't make it this year, but one of the regular meetings got canceled, so I was able to enjoy a cup (yes, even though it's ostensibly just cones) of Fossil Fuel.

I am seeking a new favorite flavor since the scoop shops no longer carry Mint Cookies-n-Cream (although a colleague just told me that they sell it in pints at her local supermarket in Philadelphia, which might be worth a trip). Fossil Fuel was yummy, but it doesn't quite measure up to the mint cookie.

Puff, puff, puff...bore, bore, bore...

Every once in a while, I remember some random TV show from my childhood or adolescence that I loved, but which is apparently pretty obscure, because everyone looks at me like I'm a big fat liar when I mention it.

My sister and I are, I think, the only two in the world who remember Powerhouse, which I believe was in some way affiliated with the Electric Company (okay, that part I might be making up). Some of the details are fuzzy, but I think it was about this group of teenage sleuths, but I'm not sure if they were officially set up to be a sleuthing group or if they just were friends from a community center or something. Brenda was the adult figure in their lives, and there were 5 or 6 kids, I think, but I only remember Lolo and Pepper.

Anyway, my sister and I quote this show all the time, and no one knows what the hell we're talking about when we say:

"Yeast won't make you rise, Lolo." -- Brenda, to Lolo, after he has been trying all manner of tricks to grow after being picked on for being short and scrawny.

"Puff, puff, puff...bore, bore, bore..." -- Pepper, while watching smoke come out of a factory; it turns out to be an SOS, which Lolo eventually realizes.

"Chabliss, Chablee, what's the difference?" -- Pepper, on her favorite kind of wine, in the "Pepper has a drinking problem, but only for this episode" special episode.

There also was an episode with a pinkeye epidemic that I believe turned out to be not pinkeye at all, but some other thing spread by a stray cat. Seriously; this was quality television.

Anyway, what got me thinking today about Powerhouse was another random show, Fifteen. This was a Canadian show on Nickelodeon in the early '90s, I guess, and it was horrible, horrible, horrible. The acting was atrocious; the storylines were cliched and ludicrous; the sets and props were embarrassing. It made Saved by the Bell look like Shakespeare. But it was oddly compelling, and I secretly watched it every weekend (much like I watched Degrassi, although that was a much better show).

One of the worst characters on the show was Billy, somebody's little brother who they, in the later seasons, tried to make into a Cute Boy, even though he was sooooo not a Cute Boy (although I think he played Cute Boy to Incredibly Unattractive Cheerleader Stacey, so maybe it was okay).

I discovered today that Billy was played by Ryan Reynolds, who is engaged to Alanis Morrissette (who, as we all know, got her start on You Can't Do That On Television); People magazine did a story about them, and I saw the picture and was like "Holy crap! That's Billy from Fifteen!" After I confirmed on IMDB that he is, in fact, Billy, I really wanted to know whether he and Alanis knew each other when they were both shooting Nickelodeon shows in their youth, or at least for the writer to acknowledge that it would've been a possibility but their ships passed in the night or whatever. But nothing; no mention. Because, I'm convinced, my sister and I are the only ones who remember Fifteen.

Monday, April 18, 2005

'Sup?

On Saturday, I took my niece Julia, who's six, to see a production of The Little Mermaid at a tiny little community theater about 45 minutes from her house. I'd wanted to plan a day of quality time in celebration of her birthday, since she already has more toys, arts & crafts, clothes and books than she can handle. So, quality time it was.

Julia told me repeatedly that she'd be having water to drink with her lunch, because it's "healthy for my body" -- a tiny bit ironic, I thought, given that lunch was a grilled cheese sandwich, french fries and half of my hamburger, but still, a nice thought -- and would enjoy a soda for a treat during intermission at the play.

As it turns out, it's possible to tell the story of the Little Mermaid -- the original Hans Christian Anderson version, not the Disney one -- incredibly quickly. Like, the Little Mermaid rises to the surface, meets the dashing young man, discovers he's really a prince, and returns to the sea in one scene. So, yeah, no need for intermission, and no soda for sale (again, a dinky little theater, although Julia was over the moon because the cast hung out in the lobby and autographed her playbill).

We were going to wait until we got to Friendly's to get our soda, but it had gotten pretty hot while we were in the theater, so we stopped at the grocery store for drinks instead. Julia is in a phase where she always wants to pay the cashier (the Smelmooo tells me he was like this, too, as a kid, whereas I didn't want to order for myself or pay the cashier until I was like 13), so I gave her a five-dollar bill at the check-out, which she handed to the clerk, a pony-tailed guy in his early 20s.

He handed me the receipt, and then put out his fist to drop the change in Julia's hand. She waited a second, confused, then made a fist, punched his outstretched hand, and said "'Sup?"

The cashier was completely startled for a second, as the change flew all over the counter; then he just shook his head, laughing, "That was AWESOME," scooped up the change and handed it to me.

I think we made his day.

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

My (third) first post ever

More and more, I find myself saying, "This is why I need a blog..."

I've actually tried, in secret, to start this one before. The first attempt was last summer, right after Suzanne and I did the Breast Cancer 3-Day; I wanted to capture all of the moments of that weekend, which really affected me more than I anticipated it could. But I quit (the recap, not the walk) after Day 1.

My next attempt at blogging was in January, inspired by a New Year's resolution that went the way of the "quit it with all the ice cream" resolution, and nearly as quickly.

Today, Minnams asked for help with creating links in her blog, and I used this space to test whether the advice I was giving her was correct (I haven't used HTML in any kind of consistent way in at least 5 years), and realized that maybe it's time to get on the blogging bandwagon for real. I don't know how often I'll do it, or how widely I'll share it, but I'm taking the plunge this time, for real.