tangentwoman

Saturday, March 29, 2008

Spring Cleaning

Confession: I am a pack rat.
Unfortunately for him, I am married to a man who values order and tidiness. I don't know how he puts up with me sometimes.

This week, it's seems, he'd had enough, and he christened this the weekend for spring cleaning (ostensibly because we're having a yard sale in a few weeks, which is true, but I think really it's more about getting rid of all my useless crap).

The Smelmooo presented me with a list before I went to work yesterday, so I could think about what we might need to add. We went out to dinner last night, to a terrific new Portuguese place in town, and partway through dinner, out came the list, again, so we could divvy up the tasks. And then, oddly, I started getting excited about a weekend of cleaning and crossing things off the list.

There were some sitcom moments (I somehow ended up with a big smudge of grease on my cheek while I was cleaning the grill); some finally moments (I painted around our new thermostat, which is considerably smaller than our last one, and which has been surrounded by a two-inch patch of white on our green wall for about three months); and many, many nostalgic moments (I found a sixth-grade essay I wrote about my brother, which I wish I'd dug up a month ago, in advance of his 40th birthday party).

But the bulk of the nostalgia came from an activity that wasn't even on the list (where did I read recently that someone's pet peeve is "Doing things that aren't on my to-do list, so I can't get the satisfaction of crossing them off when I've done them"?): it seemed in the spirit of things to go through all of my old mix tapes, write up the song lists and make playlists or CDs of my favorites.

If you went to an all-girls' high school in the early-to-mid-'90s, you have some idea of what an undertaking this was.

I'm still only about halfway through, and I'm laughing and cringeing and gasping as I find songs I'd totally forgotten about. Here are some of the things, both predictable and surprising, that I've surfaced thus far during this walk down memory lane:

-- Practically every mix from 11th or 12th grade includes "These are Days" by 10,000 Maniacs.

-- An inexplicable number of tapes, including ones made by my guy friends, include songs from Disney movies, particularly The Little Mermaid and The Lion King (also prevalent: Muppets and Sesame Street songs).

-- I put this awesome Kermit the Frog song called "If I Were..." on a mix for my sister, and I had totally forgotten about it until I saw it today, at which point the entire thing came back to me in about 10 seconds, and I sang it all the way through.

-- I made another mix for my sister, called "Mi Hermana, Mi Amiga," but the title is the only thing that's legible on the cover; the ink has totally faded, the tape isn't in the case, and I have no idea what's on it. I'm hoping she has a copy, because it seems like it'd be a nice, mushy mix.

-- I had a weird obsession with the song "Labour of Love" by Frente.

-- I have the cassingle of "1, 2, 3, 4" by Coolio. I didn't even know they still made cassingles when that song came out, but I loved it.

-- Perhaps the most revealing self-made mix was my "Cheesy/Homey" mix; Side A featured '80s-hair-band-ballads; Side B included stuff like "Tootsie Roll" and "O.P.P."

-- To the Smelmooo's question, "Are there a bunch of mixes from old boyfriends in there?" I did discover a couple. But the most cringe-worthy is the two-volume set by a non-boyfriend, titled the "Mike [Heart] Tangent Mix," beginning with "Hold me Now" and closing with "Blue Eyes (Tangent's Song)," even though my eyes are actually not blue. Shari is rolling around on the floor laughing right now, by the way.

I wonder if, 10 or 15 years from now, I will be going through my collection of CDs, or my antiquated iPod play list, and experience this same emotional tug. My first thought was that I wouldn't, because in many ways I think my life will be very much the same 10 years from now. It seems unlikely that I'll listen to "Forever in Blue Jeans," our wedding song, and hear it with the same nostalgia that today accompanies my prom theme. But even as I typed that, I thought of how, every time I hear "Crazy in Love," I think of J and J rocking out at our wedding, and every time I hear "Hey Ya," I think of Minnams and her misinterpretation of the lyrics as "Shake it like a pony boy preacher."

Tomorrow, in addition to cataloguing the rest of the tapes, it's on to cleaning out the library, the basement and the attic. I'm thinking that all of my college and grad school papers won't evoke the same emotions and memories that the elementary school papers and the mix tapes did today, but with me, you never know what will have been place absent-mindedly in a box of school notebooks. I'm hoping I'll finally find that dress I haven't seen since September 2004.

Friday, March 28, 2008

Because blogging is sometimes easier than Googling...

When one is returning from Asia to the East Coast of the United States, does one tend to be up at 3 in the morning, or want to sleep until noon? I'm trying to determine whether it's wise to set up a 9 a.m. meeting with my CEO the day after she gets back from Japan.

I recognize that this is one of the many things about me that makes the Smelmooo smack himself on the forehead and say, "You have a master's degree from an Ivy League university. Really? You really can't figure this out?"

I don't know; I strive every day to prove that book-smarts do not equal common sense.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Happy people don't kill their husbands!

Last Wednesday, while I was walking from my office to get my lunch, my right foot totally seized up, and I nearly threw up and fell over, I was in so much pain. Out of absolutely nowhere; I hadn't gone running that morning, wasn't wearing uncomfortable shoes, had pretty much been sitting at my desk editing all morning. Totally bizarre and scary; I'd never experienced anything like it.

The general consensus -- I think I've polled pretty much everyone who reads my blog -- is that I have a spot of Plantar fasciitis. And I've had good treatment recommendations that have been pretty effective: rolling a golf ball under my foot; rolling a cold soda can under my foot; stretching my foot using an exercise band; getting orthotics for my shoes. But I'm still not 100%, and by yesterday I still was afraid to exercise and put any kind of extra strain on my foot, for fear of screwing it up even worse. And, boy, did I feel it, as did pretty much everyone around me.

I've discovered anew that I am cranky when I don't exercise. I'm tired and cranky and irritable, and it's absolutely no good. By yesterday afternoon, I was an absolute bear. So I decided to screw it; I left work early and rode the bike at the gym, which seemed less bad than the elliptical or, certainly, the treadmill (not as good as the pool, but we have sucky hours for swimming, and I'm totally intimidated by the regular swimmers, anyway). And, voila: Improved mood, almost immediately after I was home and showered, and the good effects are persisting. It's really extraordinary. I swear, if I were in charge, and if it were legal, I would require all of my employees -- hell, everyone, everywhere -- to get regular exercise.

The other reason it was great to leave work early yesterday? I found out on my way home that Yosh on ER was Long Duk Dong!! The Smelmooo said he'd known that all along, but I had no idea. I am such a geek, but this is part of the reason I love NPR, the random stuff they throw in along with the topical and hard news stories.

Best lowbrow culture moment of the week thus far? Heather's return on Rock of Love, particularly the instant-classic line, "That's all I need to know. I gotta pee."

Her awesomeness made the lackluster appearance by Saaphyri and Buckwild on Flavor of Love even more disappointing by comparison.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Grammar queen, stumped

Even though I'm a shrew about grammar and usage, there are a few rules that I can never get my head around.

[And some rules that I know but disregard. For example, I know that that first sentence was grammatically inferior; I should properly have written "rules around which I can never get my head," but that sounds dumb, so I can make an exception to the rule that one shouldn't end a sentence with a preposition. Likewise, I know that the correct pronunciation of "forte" is one syllable, but no one knows what the hell you're talking about if you say "fort," so I generally go with "for-tay," or just avoid using that word altogether.]

Anyway. I never understand the rules about "bring" versus "take," no matter how many times the Smelmooo and his brother explain it to me. Total mental block.

The other one I struggle with is "heads up," because I overthink it. I just sent an email to alert a co-worker about a potential problem, and started the subject line (because my other pet peeve is having blank email subject lines) with "Heads up..." and then stopped and looked at it for like 30 seconds. Because I was just alerting one person, one who does not have multiple heads, but I also knew that "Head up" would not sound right. "Head's up," suggesting "head is up," to direct her where I wanted her head to be?

I think I did the right thing, sticking with "Heads up," because it's an expression, and it's not like it was a formal piece of correspondence, and really, who else but me cares about this stuff? Certainly not the recipient of the email, who employs quotation marks in the most bizarre way I've ever seen. ("Aha!" Minnams is saying, because she knows exactly who and what I'm talking about....er, exactly about whom and what I'm writing.)

Okay, enough about grammar...time to get my free Rita's water ice! Happy Spring! And happy last-day-of-being-a-reasonable-weight, because (1) Lent ends at midnight on Saturday into Sunday, meaning I reintroduce chocolate and ice cream into my diet; and (2) there is now a Rita's directly on my drive home from work. Scary.

Judgy McGrudgy

It's long been instilled in me that one should be as pleasant and respectful to the guy in the mail room as to the CEO, not only in the spirit of the Golden Rule, but because you never know where the guy in the mail room will end up one day.

Back in 2000, I wasn't quite working in the mail room, but I was in a much more junior position than I am today, although I had some significant responsibilities, some occasionally smart ideas, and a hell of a work ethic. And this one woman I had to work with on a project that summer -- not someone from my organization, but a senior-level person who was one of our partners on this project -- pretty much only deigned to acknowledge me when she wanted me to go and fetch her something. She was supercilious and snotty and entitled and just awful, unless you were someone important, in which case she would totally kiss your ass.

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a looooooooooong memory for this sort of nonsense. I do not forget, and I do not easily let go of a grudge.

Anyway, fast-forward nearly eight years, I'm still at the same organization, but have climbed up several rungs, and now this person needs something from me. Not a coffee or a water or another staff member; something substantive. And you know what? She's still talking to me like I'm her bitch. With no context for any legitimate urgency, her email asks for me to make time for her today. Which, of course, I will not do, because I'm just that petty. Just that petty -- I will actually reply to her today, and I will actually help her.

But I won't be able to avoid doing so with a somewhat exasperated tone, and I won't do more than the absolute minimum required of me to be helpful, because I am exactly like my mother: sweet and accommodating and pleasant until you're not. And once you're not, we're done, and there's no going back.

Which is rigid and unfair and not very Christian, but if I were perfect, I'd be even more boring than I am already.

Sunday, March 16, 2008

The road not taken

Minnams has written before on the subject of near misses, and I sometimes play this game in my own head, too: what if I'd stayed at school that weekend instead of going home; what if I'd answered the door instead of ignoring the knock; what if I'd not gone to England. I enjoyed seeing this notion of near-misses play out in both The Post-Birthday World and Sliding Doors (shut up, it's not a bad movie!).

Anyway, I forgot to mention that, while we were in Vegas, we participated in one of those market research things where you watch a TV show and share your opinions, ostensibly for great prizes, but in reality for a couple of crappy food court coupons that we didn't even use. Anyway, the show we watched was Welcome to the Captain, which apparently has been airing since February. I had vaguely heard about the show, but had no idea that it had already been on TV, and it strikes me as odd that they're doing viewer-testing of the pilot after the fact, but who knows. Maybe they're looking to make some tweaks? I don't actually know that it's salvageable, to tell the truth. I love Jeffrey Tambor to pieces, but I think even he cannot save a show that features Chris Klein.

Chris Klein just annoys the crap out of me. He is like a less talented, less attractive, more wooden Keanu (and I am no big fan of Keanu, either, but he at least was Ted Theodore Logan, and I can't think of anything that Klein's done that I love). He's oily and smarmy without being edgy or sexy or ironic; he seems to aim for surfer-chill without being cool enough to pull it off.

And I wonder whether Katie Holmes has watched this dopey show, whether she thinks about her near-miss with Chris Klein, whether she wonders about how her life would have gone had she married him instead of Tom. I suspect she wouldn't be friends with Posh; she likely would have been sort of a B-list actress who got the occasional nod from People magazine when her former co-stars got married or when she came out with a new movie. I think she's not quite as talented as Keri Russell, but I imagine that they'd get about the same level of attention if Katie had stuck with Chris instead of building this life -- or scam, depending on your perspective -- with Tom. I think Suri is super-cute, and Katie clearly adores her, so I expect that she's for that alone pretty pleased with her choice, but does she ever think longingly about what life would be like if she'd chosen differently?

[I was about to make a comparison to Joey choosing Pacey over Dawson, but I think that gives Tom too much credit and, if I'm honest, Chris Klein not enough.]

And what about Ginnifer Goodwin? Does she watch this TV show and think, "What a tool! I can do so much better! Whither my Scientologist in shining armor?!" Or does she feel grateful that it didn't work out, the way I feel grateful that it didn't work out between the Smelmooo and his ex? Because despite being annoying as an actor, Klein could be a totally nice person, a perfect boyfriend.

I just had this flashback to a shot in People or US or some other goofy magazine of Katie Holmes and Chris Klein getting ready to cross the street, and the caption was something like, "C'mon, Katie! Chris wants to hold your hand!" because he's reaching out to her and she's turned in the opposite direction and not paying any attention. Which I'm sure was included as evidence of their impending demise if anyone bothered with a body-language post mortem of their relationship. But remembering that makes me think slightly more of him as a person, or at least feel for him a little, and hope that he's a good guy for Ginnifer.

Hey, is Kirsten Dunst out of rehab yet? I feel like she's been totally under the radar since going in. I am happy about that; maybe it means she's getting better, for real, and not just that I'm out of the celebrity gossip loop.

Breaking the rules

What happened in Vegas isn't staying in Vegas, which in and of itself, I suppose, suggests that I'm not a Vegas kind of gal.

This was my first time in Vegas, except for a brief stint in the airport during a layover on the way back from Los Angeles a few years ago (during which I won about 30 bucks on a slot machine). I didn't gamble in the airport this time, but I did win a little bit of money playing low-stakes poker. And that was plenty for me; although I'll hang out and watch while the Smelmooo plays Let it Ride or Roulette or whatever, I'm generally too cheap to gamble myself.

Speaking of too cheap, I was shocked at how expensive pretty much everything was in Vegas. The Smelmooo and I walked probably an extra three-quarters of a mile on our way back to the hotel on Thursday night so I could buy water at a convenience store rather than at one of the hotel shops. It's one thing to splurge on a fancy dinner or a show or something, but paying eight bucks for a banana is something I just can't stomach, on principle.

And generally, even the fancy dinners are wasted on me, because I'm both an incredibly picky eater and an incredibly plain eater. I am just as happy with a salad or a sandwich as a hundred-dollar meal. Nevertheless, I super-enjoyed the fancy meal we had at Picasso. I would never in a million years have chosen this restaurant, or eaten there if I had to pay for myself, but it really was extraordinary, from the food and wine to the real Picassos hanging everywhere to the view of the Bellagio fountains from our table. And, even though I was completely stuffed when I left, I couldn't turn down the gift-boxed cinnamon rolls that they offered the women in our group on the way out the door (one of many examples of the sexism in Vegas, although certainly not the most egregious).

I thought the Second City show we saw was okay, but not as good as the performance I caught a few years back in Chicago. I super-enjoyed the Penn & Teller show, and was particularly relieved when a woman two seats down from me was pulled up onstage, and not me (who knew that the eighth row or so back wouldn't be a safe zone?!). And I liked seeing all of the hotels and casinos, all the cheesiness and gluttony of the strip. But it was a little bit of sensory overload for me, and by the last night I was tired of all the cigarette smoke, the ads for "Hot Babes: direct to you in 20 minutes!" and the general hedonism and debauchery.

More my speed was the trip to the Grand Canyon, which also included quick stops at both the Hoover Dam and a chocolate factory. We didn't ride a donkey down to the bottom of the Canyon, a la the Brady Bunch, but we did venture out onto the west rim Skywalk, which was pretty amazing. I think I'd like to go back to visit the other side, to the National Park, where you can explore the bottom of the Canyon.

For now, I'm just happy to be home, although it occurs to me that it's quite a stretch between now and my next vacation at the end of June. I know, I know, I'm totally spoiled, but that's, as they say in Vegas, how I roll.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Party pooper

I went to a bridal shower this weekend for my friend J (Hi, J! See, I'm blogging again, just for you!), who did two brilliant things: (1) knew about her bridal shower in advance so she didn't spend the whole time trying to calm down and get over the near-coronary she experienced on walking through the door; and (2) had a say in the location of the shower, a restaurant with a bountiful salad bar. I love me a good salad bar, even though I know they're not especially sanitary, and I think my love of salad bar's will not transfer to the Vegas buffets that I encounter later this week.

Anyway, one of the gifts that I gave was a duplicate. I still don't understand why there are inevitably problems with gift registries; it seems like it should be fairly straightforward. And I secretly think it's a good thing to have duplicates, because although it's annoying to have to schlep returns to the store, it's fun to have free money for housewares (or a rifle).

So my gift was one of the few duplicates at this shower, which is starting to be a trend with me. Last month, for M's baby shower, I gave one of four baby monitors. And, you know, with the second one, you can pull the, "Oh, no problem, one for grandma's house!" And even the third: "The other grandparents' house!" But four is ridiculous.

At M's shower, I had actually attached the gift receipt, and told her so; at J's, I hadn't included it but did keep it, and told her so. And both of them responded identically: "Oh, no -- I'm going to keep yours and return the other."

I don't know why that strikes me funny; I appreciate that they're being polite, and that that's their knee-jerk response. But, really, I already know that you like the gift I gave you; you picked it out. So I don't actually feel bad, at all, if it's mine you're returning, rather than someone else's. Buy yourself something else fun, or buy yourself some bedding if it's a bridal shower, and some nursing equipment if it's a baby shower, because those are the most uncomfortable thank-you notes to write, so sometimes better to buy them for yourself.

The other trend that I need to disclose to J: at the last two bachelorette parties I attended, the bride-to-be became violently ill. Not enough of a track record, I don't think, to exclude me from the list, but definitely enough not to plan around me, and to hope secretly that I'm not able to make it, just in case.

Sunday, March 09, 2008

No worms, but what IS inside Tucker?

The Smelmooo and I took Tucker to the vet yesterday for his annual check-up and immunizations, and were all three doing the happy dance when we learned that Tucker is worm-free (and otherwise healthy, as well). Hooray!

Our vet, who almost never remembers us or Tucker -- which is fine with me, because we fortunately see him only once or twice a year -- again asked us whether Tucker's a rescue dog (yes), and whether he himself had neutered Tucker (yes). And then he said, "Well, that's great that you rescued him, and you're taking good care of him. Do you know there's now genetic testing available so you can figure out what kind of mix he is?"

And, as an avid reader of People magazine, of course I knew about it, and when I was reading the article on the treadmill a couple of months back, or whatever it was, I thought, "Huh, interesting," and then went on to read about Eddie Murphy's marriage and/or divorce without giving it another thought.

And even though I'd heard of it, I was surprised that the vet was offering this up as a legitimate option (and it struck me, of course, that this a problem with the human health care system, too, though certainly not the only one, and probably not the biggest).

[By the way: On ABC Family right now: Sixteen Candles, followed by Better Off Dead. I may not get off the couch today. I haven't seen Sixteen Candles in a really long time, but I caught it just as the chaos is really setting in at the party, and Jake keeps calling Sam's grandparents and hanging up on them. It's also funny to me the editing on ABC Family vs. stations like TBS, which I think have less strict definitions of adult language and content. I still don't understand how CBS is airing Dexter, but one of my co-workers who never saw the Showtime version is enjoying it.]

So anyway, the vet assistant brought in a little pamphlet, and the vet started looking at us expectantly. "Uhhhh...so, is there any legitimate reason for doing this? Other than, you know, out of curiosity?"

"Well, it's just a blood test, and it's only, like, $180. And if there's some breed in him that's particularly susceptible to certain conditions, it can help you figure out the best way to care for him."

To me, it seems like a total scam, and I actually sort of like the mystery of what dogs might have come together over the years to result in a funny-looking, long-bodied, short-legged, sweet-faced, floppy-eared black dog with a couple of splashes of white. But who knows, maybe I'm missing something.



  • Yes, for his health and well-being.
  • Yes, just for fun.
  • No, are you insane?!

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

Party time, excellent!

My dad is big into his birthday, every year, but he get especially excited about his milestone birthdays. As far as I know, he's never explicitly said, "I expect a party every decade," but it's an operating assumption for our family. So as he approaches 70 this spring, the family is in planning mode for a surprise party.

(It should go without saying that my dad probably has no idea what a blog is, never mind that I have one, so I think I'm safe to write about it in this space. Although, even if he did know about my blog, he probably knows we're planning a party anyway, so it's sort of moot.)

I was only a baby when my mom threw dad a 40th birthday party, and I was just home from college for his 60th, so I had little to do with the planning of either of those. We actually had to cancel his 50th because of the death of my oldest sister's husband, which was a terrible time all around, and my brother's wife really just put her foot in her mouth last weekend when she mused aloud, "Was it dad's 50th or 60th when mom had about a year's supply of chicken in the freezer afterward?" and we all sort of looked anywhere but at each other and awkwardly mumbled, "Uh, 50th, we had to cancel..."

Anyway, back to the point(ish): I really wanted to be a part of the planning for the 70th, so I took on invitations. Which was a lot of fun, especially the part when my worse-control-freak-than-I-am oldest sister, bless her, looked at a mock-up and started criticizing everything about the language ("I think you need to say 'PROMPTLY' in there somewhere. Or add a line that says 'Don't be late; it's a surprise!'"), and our mom basically told her to stuff it, because the guests are all adults and understand the general operating principles of a surprise party.

But I did have fun with the invitations; we put three pictures of my dad (as a baby, in his early 20s, and finally in his late 60s) on the front, and people have been exclaming in their RSVPs how much they enjoyed the photos.

The other nice thing about getting the RSVPs is hearing how much people love my dad, and to see him through the eyes of his friends and colleagues in a way that I really haven't before. One of his former partners from the accounting firm sent a lovely note saying that my dad was like a brother to him, actually closer than a brother; another woman who's an old friend wrote, "I can't wait to give your dad a big hug; he and your mom are so special to me!"

[side note: I'm on the train to D.C. as I write this, and some guy a couple of rows back just made a phone call that started, "Yes, good morning, I just wanted to [muffle, muffle] police activity in the area..." and I just saw all of the heads around me, in unison, inch up just a bit, then turn slightly toward the guy, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. I think the guy saw it too, because he then lowered his voice considerably and hurried off the phone. I think we're all on somewhat heightened alert because the conductors keep mentioning over the PA system, and then actually enforcing, the random ID check that they almost never seem to do.]

I don't know yet whether we'll have some sort of forum at the party where people will make toasts, or if the guests will just express their affection and admiration privately to my dad, but it feels like a real gift to have this peek into a whole other side of my dad's life and self, where I've danced at the edges but hadn't fully understood. It's a nice gift, to me, for my dad's birthday.