C Terminal Freeze-out

I could have titled this "The Crabby Traveler, Part Deux" but I figured Springsteen needed a shout-out-ish.

Anyway, I'm now in Cambridge, Mass; I flew out of Newark, bound for Boston on a 5:30pm flight, which boarded exactly on time at 4:55 and then sat on the runway for 2 hours. Which was not actually a big deal; I read my New Yorker (I am so, so happy that I renewed my subscription; I was fascinated by last week's article on those students at the college that recruits home-schooled kids and churns out ultraconservative Hill staffers, and this week I loved the story about the non-goldfish with all the references to Vertigo, which my mother-in-law lent us so we'll get to watch this weekend) and did a New York Times crossword puzzle (I feel like it's cheating to cross this off the 101 in 1001 list, because it was super-easy, but oh well -- I'll take it) and I got a bit of work done.

My key frustration was not with the actual plane ride, but of the airport experience: namely, that all I wanted in the world was a milkshake, and no one would give it to me. I waited in line for 10 minutes at McDonald's before realizing the ice cream machine was broken (which happens fairly regularly, I've found); searched for another place because I couldn't justify a $5 shake at Ben & Jerry's; found nothing but an I Can't Believe it's Yogurt stand; decided that just wasn't worth it; hoped Twizzlers would be a sufficient substitute; talked to Smelmooo, who suggested maybe I'd be less crabby if I went ahead and splurged on the $5 shake, which he didn't need to tell me twice; went back to Ben & Jerry's at 4:37, waited in line for 10 minutes and was told, "No drinks today; only ice cream."

Which turned out to be better than Twizzlers, but still not quite what I had in mind, although The Last Straw may be my new Ben & Jerry's Scoop Shop flavor, and the name seemed particularly appropriate today.

Amish country

This weekend, my family -- all 18 of us -- descended on a resort in Lancaster, PA.

I feel compelled to mention here that I visited a college in the Lancaster area during the spring of my junior year in high school, and my mom and I -- who both have a pretty keen sense of smell -- spent the whole tour nearly choking on the smell of manure, and fairly quickly determined that this school and I were not such a good fit, particularly when Mom summoned the courage to ask our student tour guide, "Wow, does it always smell like this?" and he said, straight-faced, "Like what?"

So anyway, we landed back in Lancaster on Friday, and it struck me how much things have changed since the last family vacation, which first of all took place in Bermuda, so...Lancaster?

During our last family getaway in 2001, there were three grandkids, plus two in utero, and I was the only kid who was flying partnerless on the trip (Smelmooo and I had just started dating, and at that point he had only met one sister and brother-in-law, so clearly was not ready for a weeklong family vacation, although everyone knew of him and sent a postcard signed by the lot of them), so I bunked with my mom and dad in their little cottage, and spent a good deal of time in the pool and on the beach with my nieces and nephew during the day, and then at night the grown-ups hung out talking and drinking in the much-bigger cottage that my sister and brother were sharing with their families, which was about halfway between my parents' place and our remaining siblings' shared cottage.

So, Lancaster, two parents, five kids with spouses, six grandkids aged 2-8, plus one in utero, in more of a standard hotel set-up, but a resorty hotel with lots of pools (only one outdoor) and pony rides and a petting zoo and stuff for the kids. It was quite a kid-friendly place, from the no-one-over-age-16 waterslide to the smorgasbord (we saw and used that word a LOT in Lancaster; it's a little less haughty -- and, in this case, a little more honest -- than "buffet") of fried food and endless desserts in the hotel restaurants; it was a bit less friendly to the DINKs (that's Double Income, No Kids, for those not in the know) in our crew. But it was good to spend time with everyone, and to see the kids so excited to play with their cousins in the pool and talking about the horse-and-buggy ride they took around the resort, and on Saturday night a subgroup of the grown-ups left the (dry) hotel to venture into a nearby town that permitted alcohol, and had a lovely time at a neat little uncrowded bar with darts (I played and lost; so much for crossing another one off of my 101 in 1001 this weekend...) and pool (I watched).

Finally, on Sunday, we awoke to find a special offer slid under our door: Check out by 9, get $10 to spend in the onsite bakery. Woohoo! Smelmooo got his shoofly pie, and we got Dutch pretzels and chocolate chip cookies for 7 cents altogether.

So not a bad trip, and nice to lie around and read in the sun and have down time with the fam, but I think my favorite part might have been on the way home. Smelmooo and I went outlet shopping not in any of the dozens of outlets advertised near Lancaster -- including one that was the site of the first national shoofly-pie-eating contest on Saturday -- but closer to home, just because we were craving familiarity by that point, plus we figured traffic would be worse later in the day. Anyway, I got a pair of jeans at the Gap outlet that fit super-well and, if I may be so bold, make my butt look really cute (although the pockets are kind of funny, but oh well), which made my day, and then I finally got a belt, which made the Smelmooo's day.

So, a fine weekend overall, but we were very happy to be back to our house and our puppy, who was exhausted from his own weekend resort experience.

Oprah, Oprah, Oprah

Okay, maybe I just don't know all the facts, but why is Oprah kicking up such a fuss about the Hermes store not letting her in after it was closed? I can see, of course, being frustrated not to get in; I imagine that, when you're Oprah Winfrey, you're accustomed to getting what you want, store hours for regular folk be damned! The usual course of events, from what I know from celebrity gossip rags, is that if a big celeb does deign to enter a fancy store during peon hours, the store will just up and close itself to regular people so the celebrity can shop in peace.

So if Oprah is as all-about-the-little-people as she claims to be, where's her outrage on behalf of little people everywhere who want to get their niece a birthday gift at Kitson but can't because Lindsay Lohan needs privacy to find the perfect trucker hat?

But I digress; my point is that I understand Oprah's being personally -- and privately -- annoyed that her celebrity status didn't get her what she wanted in this instance, and I actually think she's got some displaced anger issues, lashing out at Hermes when secretly she's kicking herself for waiting until the last minute to get that watch for Tina Turner.

I just can't believe that she's making such a big freaking deal -- planning to do a whole show about it, for pete's sake -- about not being let into a store when it was closed, and making it into a race issue. I absolutely agree that horrendous racism and discrimination, both overt and unconscious, exist in the world, and as a white woman I can't ever quite know what it feels like to be discriminated against -- excluded from a club, not given opportunities in the workplace, been looked at suspiciously -- because of the color of my skin.

I'm also a rule-follower, which I realize sometimes clouds my vision and imagination, and the store was closed. The store is open and they turn you away a la Pretty Woman, all "I don't think we have anything for you here; you're obviously in the wrong place"? Stop the presses; boycott Hermes; stage a protest; whatever -- I'm with you. But this? I just don't buy it. Get over yourself; they'd have turned me away, too, if the store were closed, and I wouldn't be crying "anti-woman!" or "anti-American!" or even "anti-non-celebrity!" It's just absurd.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually think I liked Oprah better when she was abetting Tom Cruise's absurd declaration of love and insanity on her show. Yeesh.

A square peg

Yesterday was a bit of a surreal day, during which I was transported back to junior high school. I think I've mentioned before that I've been concerned about fitting in with the people I encounter in my new-ish job (can one still call "newbie" past the three-month mark?). For the most part, it's been much better than I expected; although some of my assumptions and stereotypes have been right on the mark, I'd been pleasantly surprised by the people and the work.

And then yesterday, the balance shifted considerably, and although I realize it could just be an anomaly and not a sign of awful things to come, I'm having a hard time getting away from this doomsday attitude.

Without going too much into it, the bulk of our daylong meeting yesterday featured discussions that were just...wifty. Is that how it's spelled? Kumbaya-y and totally lacking substance. There was a lot of quoting of Confucius and Lewis & Clark and Bob Dylan. There were bad metaphors about trains and planes. There was a woman wearing a red pleather leopard-print jacket (which reminded me of how grateful I am that I did not give into my unfathomable desire to buy pleather pants following my break-up with my boyfriend in 2000). There was a discussion of how people work better together when they can understand each other, and in order for that to happen we all need to understand ourselves better, which we can do by developing a "life map" -- with illustrations, of course! -- that could then be hung on the walls of our organization so that we can all hold hands and get along because we understand each other's "truth."

Which nearly made me die from stifling my giggles, because sometimes I'm 12 and seriously, the only things I can think of when someone uses the word "truth" that way are (1) Britney Spears and, of course, (2) Jim McGreevey. There were a lot of Jerseyans in the room, but no one else seemed to find this funny; they were all frantically making notes about developing truth maps. Seriously. This is a scary bunch, and I spent most of the morning feeling pretty superior and unimpressed, but trying hard to keep an open mind and not wear my considerable lack of enthusiasm on my sleeve.

Anyway, during lunch time, I asked to join a mostly-full table of meeting participants, who sort of half-looked at me and mumbled that it was okay to sit there. And then? They completely ignored me. And truly, it was awful. It was worse than being banished from the Queen Bee lunch table for wearing sweatpants on the wrong day; had I been banished, I could've eaten at another table, or taken my lunch outside or back to my office (not quite as pathetic as the bathroom stall). I was trying to join in their conversation, even just as an active listener, and they turned their backs to me, and then one of them started knitting a scarf rather than engage in conversation with me.

Was it because they hadn't seen my life map, and therefore couldn't understand my truth? Wasn't this just a tiny bit hypocritical? Were they just playing the roles expected of them during the formal meeting, and showing their true colors in the dining room? Could they somehow sense that I thought they were selling a bill of goods and shutting me out as a non-believer?

And why did I care so much? I'd spent the whole morning thinking these people were a little bit wacko, and all of a sudden their acceptance meant a whole lot to me.

I somehow ended up on the tennis team (it was a "building year") in ninth grade, and we started practice before the school year even started. I made fast friends with one of my teammates who was beautiful and funny and sophisticated and definitely a cool kid, which I definitely was not. Once school started, I naturally fell in with people who were more my type -- bookish, quiet, dorky -- and although I continued my one-on-one friendship with the popular girl, I had no interest in sitting at her lunch table, and she seemed sort of startled when I told her that. It was like I was Veronica Sawyer and she was Heather Red -- "We're going to a party at Remington University tonight, and we're brushing up our conversational skills with the scum of the school!"

But I was never a good clique person -- I've always done better with individual friendships rather than being part of a big set group -- and, frankly, I just didn't really like her popular friends that much. And although I don't think they thought anything at all of me, were they just as offended that I didn't sit at their lunch table as I was that these women yesterday ignored me at theirs? Can we really never escape the drama of our adolescence?

Wait.

Does that suggest that I kind of support this "life map" thing? That is so depressing.

Belated Father's Day wishes

I was late with my Mother's Day post, so I figured it was only fitting that I also be late with Father's Day.

First, though, a happy first Father's Day to the Smelmooo, whom Tucker feted with a card and a nice breakfast yesterday.

A lot of people last week were talking about how Mother's Day and Father's Day are qualitatively different, how Mother's Day is a much bigger deal, and whether that's appropriate or not. I called for equity; Minnams said no way, because women do the lion's share of child rearing. Although I agree that's long been the case, I think that the prevalence of enlightened, involved dads among this generation have switched that up a bit (I will give Minnams the "nine! months! and...labor!" point, and agree that our male co-worker's protest of "nine months of late-night ice cream runs!" doesn't quite measure up). Mother's Day is fancy brunches, corsages, ugly handmade crafts from children; Father's Day is a goofy card suggesting that dads are kind of bumbling oafs who are primarily interested in golf, beer and the TV remote, whose primary role in child rearing was, "Go ask your mother." Which to me is really sad, whether it reflects reality (which is truly sad) or not.

I've written here a lot about my mom, but not too much about my dad. My relationship with my dad is more complicated, I think; I'm not sure if it's a gender thing or a personality thing or a worldview thing -- it might be a little bit of everything -- but we're just not as easy with each other as my mom and I are. I love my dad to bits, and feel so lucky to be his daughter, but whereas my mom knows the right thing to say to me 97% of the time, Dad...doesn't. If we call home anxious about an exam or a job interview or anything stressful, Dad's response generally amounts to, "Don't worry about it! It'll be fine. You're a good person. Worrying will only make you screw up worse." Well-intentioned, poorly executed, with an effect that's the exact opposite of comforting.

My dad would give me the world, and in many ways, he has. Dad's one of six kids; they grew up poor, living in Jersey City way before it was cool to live in Jersey City, and he didn't want his own kids to have to struggle the way his family did growing up. So although we were always expected to work hard -- I started baby-sitting constantly at the age of 11 or so, and worked crappy summer jobs on top of that beginning at 16 -- we also knew that there'd always be food on the table, and family vacations, and tons of Christmas presents, and private schools and college tuition, and that we didn't have to worry about any of it.

My dad worked hard his whole life; he put himself through law school at night while working a full-time day job and raising my oldest sister. He spent 40 years at the same accounting firm, following a short-lived stint with an ethically shady boss at another firm, whom my dad told to "piss in [his] hat" and walked out. Dad is nothing if not principled, and I so admire that about him. Dad also, apparently, was a huge stud when he was younger; he even dated a Rockette before Millie made an honest man of him, but I digress.

Even though he worked his tail off, family always came first for Dad. He was home -- except occasionally during tax season -- for dinner at 6:30; he brought us souvenirs from his business trips, and passed up big promotions that would've forced him to travel even more or relocate, because he didn't want to disrupt our family life.

My parents held pretty fast to traditional gender roles (it's less the case now that Dad's retired, but some old habits still die hard), with Mom cooking, cleaning, and taking primary responsibility for the child rearing and Dad bringing home the bacon, taking out the garbage, and playing handyman around the house. I remember distinctly the meals that Dad prepared when Mom had evening commitments: undercooked pasta with pounds of butter, or half-frozen chicken pot pies. But he did his best, even though it smacks of the bumbling dad on the Father's Day cards.

One of the things I love about my dad is his unintentional hilarity. His intentional "jokes" are almost always plodding and unfunny, but when he's not trying, my dad makes me laugh and laugh. When I was a senior in college, preparing for my first real job interviews, I was anxious about how to respond to the inevitable "What's your greatest weakness?" question. Now that I've held actual jobs it's clear that I have many weaknesses and really could have potential employers take their pick, but at the time it was a struggle to identify them, because I'd been such a superstar during all of my internships, and my complete incompetence as a bank teller didn't really seem relevant to the types of jobs I was considering. So rather than saying I was a perfectionist, which just sounds too rehearsed and disingenuous, I was trying to find a less crass synonym for "anal," which seemed closer to the truth. And my dad kept insisting that I'm not anal, which of course is preposterous, and was even moreso at that stage of my life, and I couldn't understand how my dad could know so little about me, until finally Dad blurted out, "You're not an asshole! You can't say that!!" and I realized that we simply had a communication gap on our hands.

But there are many things that my dad gets just right:

-- My fancy all-girls' high school sponsored an annual father/daughter dance, which Dad and I agreed was a little snooty for our taste. So on that night, each year, he and I would just do our own thing: bowling, roller skating, dinner for two.

-- When I was learning to drive, my mom was terrified of being my passenger, but Dad would take me out anywhere, anytime, and was remarkably calm and comment-free during even the closest calls.

-- When I need it the most, he knows when to be quiet and just give me a long, tight hug.

-- He once spent an entire day schlepping all around the state to help me get the best deal on a new car.

-- He once spent an entire afternoon patiently showing me the correct way to hit a golf ball.

-- When the Smelmooo and I were looking for a house, he kept his mouth shut until we asked for financial advice, and then he gave us all the right information. And he does our taxes, to boot.

-- He (albeit grudgingly, initially) spent the night at our house looking after Tucker when he was too little to stay at the pet resort.

-- The day before I married the Smelmooo, Dad took me, my mom and my sister to breakfast at the diner; dropped our out-of-town guests' goody bags at the hotel; and wouldn't look at my wedding dress hanging in his bedroom, because he wanted to be surprised when he saw me in it the next day. And when he did, he teared up, because I'm his baby. And then he rejoiced that he was finally done with the child-rearing, officially, and could focus on spoiling his grandkids.


I'm a lot like my mom, but here's what I get from my dad:

-- the color of my eyes

-- being a total packrat, but mysteriously having a method to the madness, and being better able to find things when they're hidden among clutter than when they're out in the open

-- a very limited ability to multi-task. When we were kids, we'd always ask Dad for stuff when he was reading the paper, because we'd invariably get an "Mmmm-hmmmmm" which we could argue was permission for that raise in our allowance, or extra body piercing.

-- an impossible stubborn streak

-- an obsession with correct grammar and usage, and outraged delight in pointing out the grammatical errors in crappy local newspapers

-- a propensity for "resting my eyes" on the couch any chance I get.

On Father's Day this year, my dad took his son and one son-in-law out for a round of golf, then barbecued for the whole family at the condo where he and my mom moved last winter, after they could comfortably sell their house, knowing that I'd officially been married off and wouldn't need to return to my childhood bedroom.

I offered to grill so he could relax and not worry about cooking; he told me, "Oh, no...I'm happy to do it. Having our family here is the only Father's Day present I need. I just like having my kids and my grandkids."

And he means it. His whole life, family has been everything, and he's lived it and breathed it. He's not my mom, and he's not perfect, but that's part of why I love him, and it's part of what makes him my dad. And, more than grammar or boogie boarding or driving or anything else, it's the most important thing he's taught me.

Field Day

Not to be confused with the field trip I wrote about a couple of weeks ago...

Today was my workplace's annual Olympics. I normally object to this sort of thing -- I much preferred when we had a picnic day for staff and their families on a Saturday as our summer gathering -- but I felt a weird sort of obligation to participate, largely because so many other people bailed.

I had planned to sign up for the wheelbarrow race, but apparently they scratched that event this year because of injuries last year (same goes for the standard relay). I ended up doing the first leg of the potato sack race, and I kicked ass! Our team came in first (and wound up with the silver overall).

I was really athletic in my early days, so through about fourth grade I always won the events during field day, but it was pretty much downhill after middle school (as anyone who participated in the flag football game on the Smelmooo's birfday can attest), so I have to admit it was fun to excel in the sack race as an adult. It's the little things, really...

Random things about me

Largely inspired by "85 Things to Know" from Karchamb's blog, but knowing that I'm probably too lazy to come up with 85 things:

-- Movies I watch every single time I stumble across them on television: Office Space; Dirty Dancing; A League of Their Own; Envy (I know...); The American President; The Breakfast Club; Can't Hardly Wait (I know!); Never Been Kissed; Mermaids; that godawful The Shape of Things.

-- I don't own (or, if I do, I can't find it) a belt. It's a huge problem, especially if I lose weight or my jeans aren't newly washed. This bugs the Smelmooo to no end, and I can't believe that buying a belt is not on my 101 Things in 1001 Days list. Dammit.

-- I don't have a gallbladder (but I have a full-color video of its removal, if anyone's interested. The Smelmooo has seen this, and married me anyway, bless him).

-- Extreme temperatures make me very, very crabby.

-- Jenny-from-Africa's husband calls me "sniper-nice" and "a dork at heart" (as opposed to the other option, which is "a jerk at heart"), both of which are pretty accurate.

-- I abhor the phrase "pick your brain"

-- I eat ice cream almost every day, and often more than once a day. I'm sure I can't keep this up forever, but it makes me so happy. I recently began eating our new carton of mint chip with this nearly-fat-free vegan fudge sauce -- seriously! who knew? -- and it is unbelievably yummy.

-- I almost never care about brand loyalty, and with most things I'm just as happy with generic products or whatever's on sale, but off-brand Oreo cookies are just inedible to me. The Smelmooo recently told me he feels the same way about Hellman's mayo.

-- No matter how many times it's explained to me, I'm still never sure whether to use "bring" vs. "take," or of the difference between "complex" and "complicated."

-- Patience is a virtue that I lack altogether.

-- I am definitely not a girly-girl, but I recently discovered that I hate mowing the lawn, and as a child I was completely obsessed with gemstones and any type of jewelry (and I might not have lost it entirely...).

-- My oldest sister taught me to make omelets when I was seven. I hated omelets, but I would make them for the whole family on the weekends, as head chef of "Louie's Diner" (my mom and dad met at a dance, and the music was really loud, and when my mom said her name is Millie, he said, "Louie?"). My other sister and I made up song and dance routines to entertain our patrons as they ate, and we both still remember all the lyrics. We were really weird kids.

-- Despite its numerous shortcomings, I have an inexplicably strong love for my Jetta, and I'm sad that they've revamped the design, because now I don't want another one when my current car dies. Boo.

-- Because it's such a nice day, I think I'm going to cut out of work early. Hooray!

Working from home

Every once in a while, usually when I have a lot of writing to get done, I spend the day working at home, because I convince myself that there are fewer distractions here than in the office. And usually this is true -- I'm able to plow through my to-do list, largely because, even though I'm working, people are much less inclined to interrupt me with stupid stuff when I'm not physically in the office.

So anyway, I had a boatload of writing projects and other stuff that I was getting behind on, so I decided to work from home today, and got a ton done, although I can't say it was a distraction-free day.

First, as I wrote earlier this week, Tucker is confined to his Elizabethan collar, and although he's getting used to it and is slightly less lethargic now that (a) he's feeling better and (b) the disgusting weather FINALLY broke today, he's still somewhat mopey and difficult in the collar. So a few times today, I took a break and set him free in the back yard, or just in the living room, which made him enormously happy.

However, during one of my conference calls, he plopped down on the living room floor, placed his paw on the back of the collar and managed to get it off in one swift motion. Miraculously, I managed to continue holding the phone -- and discussing my project's media plan -- as I maneuvered him back into the collar.

So Tucker was Distraction the First.

Distraction the Second was more Annoyance the First, but at least five times today, my work server booted me while I was in the middle of typing or editing or researching or doing whatever, meaning that I not only had to spend a bunch of time re-logging in, but I lost the stuff I'd been writing (although I'm an obsessive saver, so it wasn't too much).

Distraction the Third was all my doing, because I decided that the Smelmooo and I should have Pizza Thursday during lunch since I was in San Diego last Thursday and he's at a work thing tonight (which, by the way, is right near my parents' old house, and when he went to this same function two years ago, he stopped by to visit them on the way, to ask for their blessing before he proposed to me. Yay!), so I went to get the pizza and then ate with the Smelmooo until I got a work call.

Distraction the Fourth was the most surprising. Almost every time I work from home, there's some sort of delivery for the Smelmooo, so I'm accustomed to the postman or the FedEx guy ringing the bell and asking for a signature. Around 5 o'clock today, just as I was leaving a message to wish Leslie a happy birthday (if you read this, Happy Birthday, Leslie! Sorry I missed you!), the doorbell rang, so I collected Tucker (now back in his collar) in my arms and opened the door to...two soldiers. Like, decked out in their United States Army gear, and I'm like, "...the hell?" and they're smiling and poor Tucker and I'm wondering if they're here to ask how I feel about the war, and I'm thinking through how to frame my message that I so, so, so disagree with the war but support the military, and how I should be thanking them...and then they ask if the Smelmooo's home.

So now I'm thinking...isn't he too old for this? At 31, isn't he really past the age where they should be checking to be sure he's registered? And wouldn't he fail the physical miserably because of his eye problems? And do they believe me that he's not home? And you're here...why?

"He signed up and asked for some information about the Army."

He did? Of course I launch into the "He's 31 and has terrible vision, and I think he's flat-footed, and..."

"So he didn't mention this to you?"

"Uh...nope, he sure didn't. Can I just take that pamphlet and let him know you stopped by?"

"Sure. Are you his sister? Or his wife?"

"Wife."

"Oh...well, you know, sometimes people just sign up to get a free t-shirt or something."

THAT explains it. Phew!

p.s. -- I just talked to the Smelmooo, who said that he signed up at the NASCAR race (of course...) to get dog tags. "It said they'd send me information...it didn't say they'd send two Army representatives to our door to hand-deliver said information!"

A sad, sad Monday

So, it's back to the East Coast grind after my adventures in San Diego last week. My return trip was largely uneventful, although I was startled to go through security in the San Diego airport, where I found myself in the Sentinel Two line. I couldn't find a great web site about this, but basically you go into a giant box, place your feet on the footprints inside, and the machine blows air at you from all directions, which apparently is the way that they can detect more definitively whether you're in possession of drugs or weapons. But it was pretty startling.

The thing I wish I'd asked about at the airport is how the heck two of my fellow passengers managed to get their CATS through the Sentinel Two. I had no idea you could bring a cat on an airplane, like in the coach section as opposed to the cargo section. But anyway, there they were, and thank goodness they were half a plane away from me, because that would not have been pretty what with my allergies to and general hatred of cats.

So I made it back without incident, and had a mostly-lovely weekend, despite the grossly sticky weather, with Tucker's first trip to a dog park (a modest success), a nice dinner out with the Smelmooo, a street fair where I won a stuffed snake playing darts, and generally just good quality time with our little family.

And then, this morning, we noticed that Tucker's eye was kind of red and squinty, and we thought he'd scratched it or something, so Smelmooo took him to the vet. And it turns out the poor little guy has a contusion, I guess because he's a big spaz and runs around the house and crashes into the couch and stuff, but I just feel horrible for him. And for us, because we have to put some kind of salve directly onto his eyeball for the next three days. I am more squicked out by that than pretty much anything else. And yes, I know it's not about me, but yeeeeeesh.

So it'll be a little while before he's back at the dog park, I'm guessing, because all the other puppies would probably make fun of him in his little plastic Elizabethan collar. Poor little guy.

Just a tip

Minnams and I often giggle about the idiocy of advice columns and, particularly, Hints from Heloise. I think I'm particularly attuned to these because I recently read Jincy Willett's short story "Best of Betty" in the David Sedaris collection. In any case, because I'm not sure how much my readership overlaps with Heloise's, I offer you the following, which I found in Thursday's San Diego Union-Tribune:

"When you boil eggs, let them cool and then use a pencil to write 'boiled' and the date on them before putting them in the refrigerator."

Thank you, Chris Land of Pensicola, Florida!

The cranky traveler

Greetings from beautiful San Diego! It was a wonderful feeling to leave the airport this evening and walk into 70-degree weather with zero humidity (it also was the shortest walk I've ever had, in any airport, from gate to taxi line. It took me literally 2 minutes, and it was just heaven). Jersey seems to have skipped Spring this year, hitting sticky, disgustingly humid, 90-degree days in the last week or so, so for that reason I am happy to be on the road (although, as a fellow traveler pointed out, it's awful traveling on a day like today, because everything in the airport smells like feet). Other than that, not so much.

When I first started my job, I was all over traveling for work, and even more eager to tack long weekends onto my trips, particularly in San Francisco and Chicago, which are two of my favorite cities. But now that I'm old and have a gazillion things to do at work, travel is a huge pain. I want to fly in and out and be done. Another reason, for this, of course, is that I miss my husband -- and now our dog -- terribly while I'm gone (when I told my mom today that I wasn't psyched about this trip because "I miss my guys," she laughed and laughed, because I'm such a huge sucker for our poor worm-infested-but-nevertheless-adorable puppy).

I don't really mind hanging out in airports; I actually enjoy roaming around the gift shops, catching up on reading or email in the terminal while I wait to board, and -- to a point -- people-watching. I became a skilled people-watcher at a very early age, because when we'd go on family trips, my dad would insist that we be at the gate at least 3 hours before the plane took off, so I have vivid memories of my siblings and me sitting on top of our luggage, making up stories about the people walking by.

This, of course, was in a simpler time, when you didn't hear people's actual stories -- which are rarely as good as the made-up ones -- because they subject everyone in the terminal to their cell phone conversations.

I don't even think I can continue this rant; instead, I'll channel my frustration into an open letter:

Dear Fellow Travelers,

I know that the TSA people now require us to take our shoes off when we go through security, and I know that it sucks, especially because the rules keep changing, and although there are a million signs telling you to take your laptop out of its case and to have your ID ready, there are no signs telling you you're required to take your shoes off, even if you know they won't set off the metal detector.

But TSA does NOT require you to take your shoes off on the plane. I know that Britney famously went barefoot to the public bathroom, and that Kelly Clarkson performed at the Zootopia concert with no shoes, but you are not a pop star, and, really, you should not aspire to be Britney or Kelly anyway, so please put your shoes back on.

As noted above, there are a million signs instructing you to take your laptop out of its case and have your ID ready before you go through security. You have been standing in line for 10 minutes; please don't get to the front of the line and then slap the side of your head and say "Ohhhh....!" and then fumble to get your ID from the depths of your carry-on and your laptop out of its case.

Please don't stop walking in the middle of the terminal without warning. It's an airport; people are rushing (because it takes so darn long to get through security!)to make connections or pee or buy trashy magazines or whatever, and you are a hazard. Step aside if you need to make a call, check your gate number, or just take in the beauty that is Terminal C of Newark Liberty.

Those passengers who have Elite Status are, indeed, entitled to board the plane ahead of you. Quit your grumbling about "This is absurd" and "I'll show you elite status!" (wha...?). Everyone will get on the plane; wait your turn. You're a grown-up.

If you have a non-grown-up with you on the plane, like an infant, please remember that it is not adorable when said infant screams his/her head off for the entire six-hour flight. Please medicate your child heavily before take-off to ensure that s/he sleeps through the flight and does not disturb the other passengers. I'm only mostly kidding.

If the overhead bins are full when you board the plane (damn the Elite Status passengers for taking up all the overhead space!), suck it up and check your bag. I know it sucks; I know you want a 2-minute trip from the gate to the taxi without bypassing luggage claim, but tough. Don't start moving other people's crap so yours can fit.

Equally, don't waste the overhead space with your jacket and your purse and your other stuff that really belongs under the seat. I know it's gross under there, what with god knows what from people's disgusting bare feet, but it's not fair to use up all the overhead space with stuff that really doesn't need to be in there.

Finally, wearing headphones is a universal sign for "I'm not interested in chatting." Seriously. I'm trying to work, or watch Hilary Duff slouch through her Cinderella role, or catch up on who's leading in Celebrity Dance-Off (which I was totally watching in my hotel room until the computer person had to come fix my outlet and I was too embarrassed to have it on with her in the room). Shush.

Actually, I think that pretty well sums it up: Just, shush.

Love,
Tangent Woman

So much of my nerdiness, I learned from the Baby-Sitters Club

It's no secret that I'm a big fat grammar geek, and that many of my pet peeves relate to incorrect usage. A quick overview of the biggies:

-- If you feel sick, you're "nauseated," NOT "nauseous." If you're nauseous, it means that you're making other people sick. Which happens, of course, but in general most people don't want to own up to it, so people almost never use "nauseous" correctly.

-- A "dialogue" is between two people only; more than two participants means it's a discussion or a conversation. And also, it is not a verb.

-- I don't care how commonly it's used, or how many dictionaries have caved and said it's okay: "impact" is not a verb, and "impactful" is just not a word, and it makes my ears bleed, so please knock it off.

Anyway, now that that's out of the way....Lately, Minnams and I have been noticing how often people misuse the word "hopefully." For example, in a meeting this morning, someone said something like, "Hopefully, this project will be successful." What she really should have said is, "I hope this project will be successful," because "hopefully" is an adverb, and it does not mean "it is hoped." A more proper usage would be, for example, "'Santa's coming tonight, right?' he asked hopefully."

I first learned this from the Baby-Sitters Club books. Yeah, you heard me.

I was a huge, huge BSC fan growing up; in fact, in sixth grade, my friends and I formed our own baby-sitters' club, which was hugely unsuccessful, but we had like 10 meetings and made up fliers and stuff, and got like one call, ever. Anyway, for those of you not in the know, the original books focused on four friends in Connecticut who formed a baby-sitting club: tomboyish, mouthy Kristy, the president; artsy, free-spirited Claudia, the VP; shy, bookish, sheltered, motherless Mary Anne, the secretary; and worldly, diabetic, transplanted-from-NYC Stacey, the treasurer. Other club members were added over time, but the first few books focused just on these four.

Claudia clashed fairly regularly with her older sister Janine, who was impossibly nerdy and socially awkward. Janine constantly corrected Claudia's grammar, which Claudia found infuriating, but from which I actually learned a lot. In addition to the "hopefully" lesson, Janine taught me that "continue on" is redundant. I'm sure there were others, but those are the two that have stayed with me 16 years later.

One last thing about the Baby-Sitters Club books: the members of the BSC were responsible for writing in a journal of some sort to report on their baby-sitting experiences, and most of the chapters started off with one of the character's entries, in her own handwriting. I wondered how they managed to do that, with such a consistent look; was it someone's job to channel Claudia's chicken scratch, and someone else's to perfect Mary Anne's schoolteacherish cursive?

One of my high school English teachers had taken a job at Scholastic, which published the BSC books, and when I posed that question to her, she actually forwarded my email to Ann M. Martin, author of the BSC books!! Which made me hysterical and embarrassed, but Ann M. Martin was absolutely lovely in her response, in which she said that there was one person in the art department who'd been responsible for hand-writing all of those entries. What a sucky job. Maybe by now they're using some computer program to apply different fonts, if those books are still being cranked out; I hope so.

Incongruity

One of my favorite things about waiting in the TKTS line for half-price Broadway tickets is the people-watching (although on Saturday there was a guy singing show tunes, as well, but I still thought the less-obviously-on-display people-watching was preferable).

While the Smelmooo and I were waiting in the TKTS line for our half-price tickets for Hairspray, right behind us were the usual suspects: a gaggle of 60-year-old women who were chatting about their preferences for shows, excited about being in the city for the day, looking at tourist maps and wearing fanny-pack kinds of accessories. Older folks like these, along with students and some families with adolescent girls, make up most of the crowd.

But immediately in front of us was a trio of women whom I just found fascinating. They were probably in their mid-40s, and they were decked out in designer clothing from head to toe. I know next to nothing about designers or anything fashion-related, but I spotted a Marc Jacobs jacket, Calvin Klein t-shirt, fancy sandals with toe rings on their pedicured feet, Chanel sunglasses, Juicy Couture and Seven jeans, huge antique diamond rings. Just sipping their grande double-chai-lattes from Starbucks, standing in the half-price ticket line. Fascinating to me.

98.95 in 985

So I'm making a teensy bit of progress on my 101 in 1001.

I've watched one of my 20 movies, Sunset Boulevard, which the Smelmooo found on cable. Our friends have lent or offered to lend several others, so this one should go fairly quickly, or at least I should be able to watch everything well within my February 2008 deadline. But for now, one down, which I very much enjoyed; there's something about old Hollywood movies about old Hollywood that I just love.

Next off the list was #101, which was to eat a fried Oreo at a street fair. The Smelmooo and I were in New York yesterday to see Hairspray on Broadway, and 7th Avenue was closed off for blocks and blocks with all kinds of vendors (I got a $2 pair of earrings in addition to the Oreo). So we each got a fried Oreo, which was unbelievably yummy, but probably I won't ever have another one. It just sort of sat like a rock in my stomach, and I can't imagine how bad it is to eat any kind of deep-fried anything, but I was glad I tried it once in my life.

As we were roaming around the city (which was fun; we spent a lot of time in Central Park, although much of it was in search of a bathroom, but I'd never actually been to the part with the carousel before yesterday), I realized I wished I knew what kinds of exhibits were at MOMA, and none of the pamphlets at the Visitors' Center had anything about it, and I was so mad at myself for letting my New Yorker subscription lapse. So that's another one off the list (#29), as I signed up for a two-year subscription today.

I have a bunch of travel coming up for work, so maybe I can tackle some of the reading-related items on the list this summer.

Field trips

On Friday, I went on a site visit for work (which took place at the Jersey Shore, which was fabulous, because a Friday at the beach in the summer?! Woohoo! Only it rained the whole day, so boo), which was a nice opportunity to be out of the office, and to learn in a way that I just don't in meetings when we're just sort of navel-gazing and/or talking to ourselves without inserting any sort of real-world perspective into the discussion.

I'd been thinking that, really, "site visit" is just a grown-up word for a field trip, although there was not the requisite singing and group transportation that one finds on a proper field trip. I realize that although I remember some random, obscure details from my schools' field trips, it's the travel time I remember most.

My last field trip that actually admitted to being a field trip was senior year in college, when my Total Institutions class piled into a van to visit what our professor called "the mad and the bad" -- a psychiatric prison in New York State. It was incredibly depressing and scary and sad, and then we went to Wendy's afterward, and we all sang Cher's "Believe" along to the radio on the way home.

When my brother, who's a science geek, chaperoned my 12th grade physics class's trip to Great Adventure, he took the bravest group who'd tackle assignments on the scary rides (and he told us the right answers for all of our worksheets when our velocity-measuring devices weren't functioning on the roller coasters). So everyone just loved him, and we watched Forrest Gump and sang 10,000 Maniacs' "These are Days" on the bus ride.

My sister Kathy took us on a 5th grade field trip (I know most people have their parents chaperone, but when you're the way-youngest of five kids, it's much cooler to bring your older sibling). This was Catholic school in Jersey in the '80s, and this particular trip was a walk to the library, the grocery store and the park. It seems completely absurd, but I guess it encompassed a number of subjects: (1) phys ed with the walking and running around at the park; (2) geography, because we were required to make a map of the route we took to each place (I remember that we passed a Breast Center on the way to the grocery store, and we were all mortified to have to write it as a landmark on the map); (3) math, because we had to budget and figure out sales tax and crap at the grocery store; (4) English, library sciences and current events at the town library, where there was a big scandal at the time about homeless people's right to spend their days there; and, of course, (5) music in the park, where 5 or 6 of us brought boom boxes to play mix tapes of '80s hair band power ballads.

Do kids still sing on field trips or on the bus ride home from away games? Or is that a total artifact because everyone has an iPod and a cell phone? (If I were in high school today, I'm sure I'd have neither, but 95% of my classmates would, I'm guessing.) That would be so sad, and it makes me feel so old.

Today

Today marks my six-year anniversary at work.
That is scary, scary, scary.

I was 21 when I started, and, as my co-worker Paul said the other day, "Green as could be, but cute as button!" That's pretty much spot-on: pretty much all I had going was that I was wide-eyed and eager, had written a decent paper for my AIDS education class that I used as a writing sample, and I had a darn good work ethic. How this was sufficient to overcome my being half an hour late for my first interview (I think that my college roommate, who grew up in the same town in which I work, purposely gave me bad directions), during which I had an allergy attack that made me hack uncontrollably, which in turn made my eyes tear and my face sweat as I tried in vain to keep from coughing, I still don't know, but I'm glad it worked out, because it's been a good ride, and I've been incredibly lucky with the opportunities I've been given here.

I've been thinking about where I'd be today if I'd ended up going with my original post-college plan of doing AmeriCorps for a year and then trying to break into publishing. Would I have ended my relationship with my college boyfriend sooner? Would I really have ended up in publishing after working in an underserved community for a year, or would I ultimately have ended up in a place like this anyway, just more circuitously? Would I have done the graduate program I did? Or would I have followed a totally different path, more like Christopher's, really committing myself to hands-on service for a more extended period of time?

I'm a total sucker for those movies like Sliding Doors and, more recently, Happenstance, that explore the path not taken, or how the small decisions or chance events in life can change its course radically. I'm incredibly happy with the road I did take; it's led me to a place that I couldn't have imagined six years ago: I have a wonderful husband whom I adore and who makes me laugh my head off, a great job in which I've been able to grow and learn and that I still like on most days, friends and family who inspire me and support me and listen to me and put up with me, a dog I love more than I knew I could, a house with a yard that the dog is ruining and I don't even care.

So to some extent it seems silly to play the "What if?" game, because I feel like that's a game you're supposed to play when you're unhappy with the way things turned out and you wonder in a wistful sort of way what might have been, if only. I actually feel the opposite; I feel really lucky to be where I am. I've never been one to support the "everything happens for a reason..." theory, and when I hear it I tend to roll my eyes, but it's sort of fun to wonder whether today I'd be a book editor in London or a Peace Corps volunteer in Honduras, or in this exact same spot with this exact same life, had I not stumbled upon an ad for a communications position in Princeton, NJ, in the spring of 1999. But I'm glad that I did.

To Tell the Truth

So the big news of the day is that Deep Throat's identity has been revealed, in Vanity Fair, no less, which has to be incredibly painful for the Washington Post, which seems to have exacted its revenge by running the most unflattering photo possible of Mark Felt on the front page this morning.

I've been thinking that a better alternative to the Vanity Fair piece would have been to resurrect the old game show "To Tell the Truth" for the express purpose of revealing Deep Throat's identity. Come on -- if people will watch "Celebrity Dance-Off," surely they'd be inclined to watch B-list celebrities asking probing questions like, "Number One, what did you think of the way the movie Dick depicted the Watergate scandal?" Although I guess the big reveal wouldn't be so exciting, as poor Mark Felt can't really stand up so well, but I'm sure his daughter would come out from backstage to help him up.

Speaking of TTTT, Smelmooo and I watched an old episode of TTTT this weekend, on which one of the celebrities was Khrystyne Haje, who played Simone on Head of the Class. Those were the days; she was a hot young actress who even had a column in some teen magazine (to which I actually wrote an angsty letter when I was 10, and never got a reply), so sound and highly regarded was her judgment. And where is she now? Gotta love IMDB -- she was on that show Medium, I'm assuming as an extra of some sort, but this may be her big comeback opportunity.