October Last

Ever since I can remember and even before that, according to videos of a naked baby eating sand, I have lived the 11 months and 25 days of the rest of the year just for that one October week in the Outer Banks of North Carolina.  Oh, for the wistful days of waking up at 5am to make the zombified walk to the van.  The anticipatory goosebumps that weren't only the result of the early morning chill.  That ordinary pillow which suddenly seemed like a cloud sent straight from the heavens, propped up against the cold window.  Knowing that, when I finally reawoken, we'd be quite a ways into the 12 hour journey and it'd be time to stop for pancakes and corned beef hash.

Apart from our final destination, the beach, the dunes, the kites, the ice cream, the jumping in the surf with all your clothes on, the whining about hurrying up with dumb grown up relaxing stuff so we could get back to the pool again, that car ride was always such a huge part of the trip.  You couldn't have one without the other.  Nothing to bring you closer as a family than 12 hours in a tiny room you can't leave until it's come to a complete stop.

Now, a venture back to the Banks takes hours of scouring Orbitz only to click on a good deal and have a message pop up telling you that it no longer exists and that, for some reason in this fast paced highly technologically advanced world, taking down consumable items that are no longer consumable is just too complicated an algorithm.  It takes coordinating driving 2 hours to the airport and paying 80 bucks just to park your car.  It takes finding out your seats aren't together even though you specifically chose seats together back when you bought your tickets 5 months ago and the entire seating chart was up for grabs.

It now takes paying a ridiculous sum to check bags that will be meticulously tagged and yet somehow become lost between ONE change of flights.  It takes arriving too late to get a seat next to an outlet so you have to decide if the boredom outweighs using up batteries on any number of ennui-reducing gizmos.  It takes  experimentation with special ear plugs so your face doesn't cave in on itself during descent.  It takes getting the window seat in a 3-seater section and watching as each fellow traveler makes his or her way down the center aisle, thinking to yourself, "Keep walking, keep walking. . ."

If it hasn't been made quite clear as of yet. . .I'm not a big fan of flying.  It's just so torpid and boring.  I'm not a control freak in the least, but there is something to be said when you have no option but to stay seated because standing during a 30,000ft free fall is exactly 1,000% the difference between life and death when compared to sitting with your tray table in its upright position.  But I won't go on about that.  You could just watch Jerry Seinfeld.

I also have this irrational fear of using the airplane bathrooms.  It has nothing to do with worrying about being in there if the plane goes out of control.  I'm also not even close to claustrophobic.  I just really hate knowing that everyone else knows what I'm doing in there.  Especially if I take even just a moment longer than is normal for a regular pee.  Or, everyone's fear, that the odoriferous gift left behind by the guy before you will somehow be attributed to you.  There should be some universally recognized sign for, "Seriously, that was not me."  Maybe I should just make it a game and always claim it was.  It's like I want to come back out, raise my hands in supplication, and announce, "That's right, everyone!  I have just relieved myself, it is a true statement.  Just a Code 3 7 4 B, that's all."  Would the Ace Ventura "Do NOT go in there.  WOO!" thing be cool?  Has it been long enough that it's retro?

Then there's that situation where you get up to use the bathroom because you've been eyeing that general area for practically 30 to 35 minutes and you've finally both mustered the courage to rise and ask the aisle guy to awkwardly move his abnormally long legs without actually having to get up AND you've noticed no one has headed there for the last 10 minutes.  Up you go and no sooner you do than someone 8 rows up has got the same idea precisely 4 seconds after you have and, without even knowing it, cuts right in front of you, so you have to stand up there like a dolt feeling uncomfortable yourself because everyone is surely looking at you and wondering how many sodas you've had and most definitely making the person now coming out of the tiny water closet uncomfortable because they're having all the same feelings and is wondering how long they were really in there and how long you've been impatiently waiting.  Not to mention, the guy before them had airport Taco Bell before he boarded and now I'm attributing that smell to Mr. McCutterPants.

All of this is really leading up to all of the impossible trouble I went to in order to visit the Outer Banks as a surprise trip to my mum.  So, I certainly hope she appreciates all my sacrifices in the way of comfort and convenience.  I might even prefer a wagon train so long as we could stop off at 7 Elevens along the way for Reese's Cups and Lays Classic.  Even a dumb bag of circus peanuts would be better than that weird chunk of smelly cheese that came with my $10 boxed assortment of "snacks."  But man, those complimentary Biscoff biscuits are goooood.  Can I get those in bulk for just me?

Last October, Adam and I boarded one of these hellish nightmare sky cabs to Norfolk, Virginia.  Where we rented an enormously expensive car (almost got a Crown Vic but alas) and embarked on a 2 hour trek to Ocean Pines in Duck, NC.  We arrived on Ocean Pines Drive at around 2am.  I'd been calling my sister, who was in on the charade, since our layover earlier that day.  With no response yet.  So, I was getting rather concerned.  We pull up and every light is, of course, extinguished.  I keep calling my sister to no avail.  I think she might be an Animorph with the cat-like tendencies to sleep uninterrupted for nigh on to 16 hours.

I eventually had to resort to banging on the door, worried about frightening my mum and my Mimi half to death.  But I was cold and in fear of having to sleep in the car.  We eventually saw lights turn on and the sound of raised and questioning voices floated down to us.  I could hear my mum.  "Don't open the door!!!"

The door swung inward and there was my sister, not at all surprised to see us.  But, behind her were my mum and Mimi whom, I swear, stood there for minutes in shock and awe.  It was several moments before recognition took the place of fear and surprise.  It was an awesome moment.  One of which I wish I'd gotten a picture or video.  But I was quite fed up with the whole no-contact-for-hours-having-to-knock-on-the-door-in-the-cold-where-are-we-gonna-sleep-tonight thing.  Naturally.  Adam did catch me on one of my many unanswered calls to my cat, read: sister.

But what am I complaining about?  Adam was the real accursed creature on this trip.  The poor man had a lost bag (returned the next day when the airline found it who knows where?), barely survived a torrid 7-day attack by mosquitoes (the barely touched me), and then proceeded to top it all off with a nasty little cold which laid him up for a couple days.

Other than that, in the words of a tiger I once knew rather well, it was great!!!

Fifty Shades of Nay

This is the part where I tell you why I am not, have not, and will not be interested in reading the confusingly popular Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James.

Now I am not a prude.  Neither do I find issue with romantic eroticism in books.  So, stop right there if you think that I'll have anything to do with a stay-away-from-this-unChristian-like-mess-of-smut soapbox.  I get that this kind of. . .literary device. . .is one that many people quite enjoy.

I remember the literacy class I took with Claire Davis at LC many years ago.  What I learned in 4 months is that life boils down to sex and poop.  Eloquent, I know, and it's something that has been reiterated to me each and every time I watch the Scrubs musical episode.  Everything truly does come down to poo.

So, okay. . .lonely housewives and curious teenagers aside. . .what does a book like Fifty Shades have to offer the rest of us?  An intriguing plot?  A bevy of characters whom you learn to care for and long to be among?  People you love?  People you love to hate?  People you hate to love?  Interesting wordplay?  Riveting dialogue?

After having read a few samples of James' no-pictures-porn, the answer, I am afraid, is nay.

When the book first began blowing up and I couldn't even go to Costco without seeing a huge beckoning pile, my interest was piqued if only because it sounded like some sort of awesome 1920's affair that Baz Luhrmann would direct if given the chance.

Then I began to get snippets of what it was really about and, as it's just not my kind of material, I dismissed it.  Not a bad thing.  Just. . .no, not for me.

But now it has become hugely successful.

And I.

Don't.

Get it.

What is so marvelously ridiculous about it is not that people love it but that people will defend it as something that is more than just a sexually charged read-it-alone fest.  I don't buy, for a second, that the majority of readers are interested in the "emotional relationship" over 500 pages of freaky freak.  And I mean. . .FREAKY freak.  This may rival Palahniuk.

When I found out the novel was spawned from a Twilight fan fiction, I nearly choked on my own gag.  I realize that the first thing people like to do when they really love and admire something or someone is write a super raunchy fan fiction involving two unlikely-to-be-in-love characters or photoshop them kissing.  I mean, really. . .that seems about right.  Good way to show favor.

Deviantart, especially, is full of such.  Some of these are downright hilarious but I would advise, for the faint of heart, to refrain from traveling down that horrible, horrible, horrible road.  You can not unsee some of the literary world's most beloved and classic characters in such compromising positions.  Just.  Just don't.  You'll never be the same.

Look, I love Twilight.  It's a fun read.  I think Meyer touches upon some really interesting topics, themes and mores.  She's managed to build up some fascinating characters.  She just somehow missed that mark with her two main personas.  If James' favorite author (or even one of them) is Meyer, then we should have known what was coming.

Prose.  Believable dialogue.  Are these that unattainable?  Is it so much to ask for?  I'm having a very difficult time with understanding how James was on Time Magazine's 100 Most Influential People in the World.  IN THE WORLD.  Only 100 to choose and the author of a sexually disturbing romance novel makes the cut?  Am I missing something?  Does this story of painful adult life choices due to child abuse have some kind of happy and remarkably life-altering ending?  Or did it just help spice up some boring people's lives?  I'm at a complete loss.

I've heard that a few libraries in Florida have taken the book off their shelves and refuse to stock it.  I would hope so.  This is not the kind of book I want to borrow.  Someone else had it?  No thanks.  For some inexplicable reason, I find myself wondering if I'd feel dirty reading it after someone else.  If I do, is it like I've been with every other book they've read?

If you like this book, that's just fine.  But like it for the right reasons.  Do not sing its praises.  Because it is not praiseworthy.  It is mind-numbingly awful if but a guilty pleasure in every sense of the phrase.  And if I have to hear about another first person narrative about a girl faintingly sighing the perfect praises of a broken man, I will have no choice but to. . .not read that book.

A Little Thirty Somethin' Somethin'

Some facts:

I turn 30 this month.
I've got a cold.
I'm not really worried about it.
Adam won't be here.
He'll be away on a work trip.
That kind of worries me.
But that's because he'll be far, far away.
Which would matter whether I was turning 30 or not.

I googled 30 and thought I'd liken my last 3 decades to the top 4 suggestions.  And as it's exactly 10 days from now. . .I did the same with 10.

30 rock

Tina Fey is kind of my doppelganger.  I feel confident saying we'd be best friends in high school and we'd borrow each other's homemade cable knit sweaters and hold fake wedding ceremonies with Teen Beat posters of Joey Lawrence.

30 minutes or less

I've got a torrid love affair thing going on with pizza.  Adam knows and he's super cool with it.

30 seconds to mars

Hello?  Jared Leto?  My So-Called Life?  Only the biggest deal ever in the mid 90's!  Every night, another "very special episode."  Never mind the fact that it was supposed to take place in my home town!!

30 weeks pregnant

This would have been cool if I had something to confess.  Nope.

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10 day weather forecast

When I was about 14, I was vehemently set on becoming a storm chaser.  Obviously, that didn't really pan out as other dreams and aspirations of staying alive and having pocket change and not living in the midwest came into play.  But I am unable to fall asleep at night without my rainstorm sounds.  I am also a human barometer which sounds way cooler than it is.  Pressure headaches and explosive sinuses are not cool.  I assure you.

10 days late

Is this a hint?

10 illegal baby names

Alright, I'm sensing a serious underhanded pattern here.

10 days that unexpectedly changed America

Among nuclear weaponry and the Gold Rush, one of these days was obviously June 27th, 1982.  Seeing as I was not expected at that hour and day.  But when your mum is picking strawberries and that is your most favorite food in the whole wide world, being born sounds like a pretty dang good idea.

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And just for funzies. . .
Glamour's "By 30, you should have/know. . ." list:

1. One old boyfriend you can imagine going back to and one who reminds you of how far you’ve come.

2. A decent piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in your family.

3. Something perfect to wear if the employer or man of your dreams wants to see you in an hour.

4. A purse, a suitcase, and an umbrella you’re not ashamed to be seen carrying.

5. A youth you’re content to move beyond.

6. A past juicy enough that you’re looking forward to retelling it in your old age.

7. The realization that you are actually going to have an old age -- and some money set aside to help fund it.

8. An email address, a voice mailbox, and a bank account -- all of which nobody has access to but you.

9. A résumé that is not even the slightest bit padded.

10. One friend who always makes you laugh and one who lets you cry.

11. A set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra.

12. Something ridiculously expensive that you bought for yourself, just because you deserve it.

13. The belief that you deserve it.

14. A skin-care regimen, an exercise routine, and a plan for dealing with those few other facets of life that don’t get better after 30.

15. A solid start on a satisfying career, a satisfying relationship, and all those other facets of life that do get better.

By 30, you should know ...

1. How to fall in love without losing yourself.

2. How you feel about having kids.

3. How to quit a job, break up with a man, and confront a friend without ruining the friendship.

4. When to try harder and when to walk away.

5. How to kiss in a way that communicates perfectly what you would and wouldn’t like to happen next.

6. The names of the secretary of state, your great-grandmothers, and the best tailor in town.

7. How to live alone, even if you don’t like to.

8. Where to go -- be it your best friend’s kitchen table or a yoga mat -- when your soul needs soothing.

9. That you can’t change the length of your legs, the width of your hips, or the nature of your parents.

10. That your childhood may not have been perfect, but it’s over.

11. What you would and wouldn’t do for money or love.

12. That nobody gets away with smoking, drinking, doing drugs, or not flossing for very long.

13. Who you can trust, who you can’t, and why you shouldn’t take it personally.

14. Not to apologize for something that isn’t your fault.

15. Why they say life begins at 30

May the odds of getting a theatre free of the loud whisperer be ever in your favor

 

I have loved reading The Hunger Games series.  And I'm super excited about the movie adaptation coming out this weekend.  However, I will not be one of those suckers tenting it up outside the theatre to get a good seat on opening night.  Or second night.  Or third.  Or fourth, fifth or sixth for that matter.

I have been to one opening night release in my lifetime and that was quite enough just to say that I've had the experience.  It was Harry Potter 5 and the first movie for which I'd read the book first.  Expectations were guarded.  But it was summer so I figured that if I had to stand outside, waiting in a line longer than Walgreen's during flu shot season, this was the right time to try that hat on.

Had to get tickets early. . .which, if I'm remembering correctly, Adam purchased for my birthday the previous month.  I also had to work that evening and my ol' stomping grounds closed at 10pm with at least 45 minutes to an hour of cleanup.  If showtime was 12am and the line of nerds with their noses in giant blue books started at 1pm earlier that day. . .I was hoping to be lucky enough to get at least an aisle seat in the front row.  On that note. . .why do they even make that front section?  Sure, it's a myth that sitting too close to the television can damage your eyes, but it is a medical surety that it does no good for your neck.

Even the advent of a new Harry Potter movie couldn't make me feel comfortable with standing and sitting that close to strangers smelling like fried chicken and sour milk so I absolutely had to go home and take a shower, put on a shirt that wasn't made out of denim and race to the end of the ever-growing line of bright-eyed humanity.

Turns out they were showing the movie on several screens at once and were staggering the start times.  Poo.  We weren't all going to be in the same theatre.  There was a touch-and-go moment when I was given the opportunity to switch tickets/theatres with someone I knew but did not plan to go with so that more of us could be together.  But. . .here's the deal.  I was in theatre 7.  And if you haven't read the books, you just wouldn't understand that kind of magical significance.  My geek cells refused to allow a trade with that kind of awesome on the line.

Suffice it to say. . .it was worth the experience only because it was a dry, beautiful warm night.  I did NOT have to sit in the front section.  And even had a group of girls I did not know wave their hands and their Gryffindor scarves in welcome to the seats next to them to let me know they were available.  How sad that this was a nice surprise!  People being kind to strangers, all of us reveling in the excitement of this night together. . .as for one evening, we all knew we had at least one thing in common.

Hunger Games comes out tomorrow. . .or rather later tonight, in about 9 hours.  I'm sure all the girls in love with the boy with the bread are lined up already, wearing green jackets and combat boots, their hair braided on the side.  At the ripe age of 29, I've come to realize it's definitely appropriate to get just as excited as I ever did about silly things like this.  I just show my excitement in a different way.  That way being waiting at least a week before I venture on to those sticky floors and fight for elbow room with the Big Gulp of the guy next to me who guffaws at all the worst jokes.

I do, however, wish luck to all those who plan on fighting it out this weekend in procuring entertainment over comfort.  Let's hope there are no bows or berries involved.

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Completely off-topic - I like how the woman being handed the baton in the above image seems somewhat surprised if but a little perturbed.  As if she was just running along on her own when this woman with a baton appeared out of nowhere.  That is a hilarious practical joke and I kind of want to do it.  Just look for people running and race up alongside them to pass a baton.  Looks like there's no need for me to worry about missing out on HG this weekend at all. . .I've got plans.

Danger Gets Stranger

Once upon a time, I was fearless.  I ran along the edge of sheer cliffs just to make my dad nervous.  I splashed in puddles during thunderstorms.  I climbed out onto house roofs to reach the good mulberries at the top of the tree.  I raced my bike down steep fleets of stairs ending in busy streets.  With no spotter.

There's something about getting older that reminds you how much there is to be afraid of.  You would think that, as you learn and grow. . .and survive each day. . .you would have a newfound respect for survival and a confidence in your ability to refrain from peril.  But no.  That's not how it works.  Somehow, you realize how lucky you are.  How endlessly insane it is that you are still alive.  After all that you've done that would suggest the contrary.

When I was locked in my parents' upstairs bathroom, I didn't give it a second's thought that the best way to solve my predicament should be to crawl out the window and use the drainpipe to obtain access to the open window one room over. That's the obvious solution.



While my problem wasn't self-made. . .I did not hesitate to use it as an excuse to do something thrilling and dangerous.  Who did I think I was?  I look back on that and I wonder. . ."[expletive]. . .What would have happened if I had fallen?"

And yet, I did stupid tricks like that all the time. . .and often, I did fall.  But I always got right back up again.  Sure, I was a little worse for wear and lived, like almost everyone, my entire childhood with bumps, bruises and scrapes.  Bandaids and Neosporin were my best friend.  Along with my Johnny Switchblade Adventure Punk and my Bag-O-Glass (see video below.)


I find myself increasingly fearful of 'getting back on the mountain goat' so to speak, however.  When I fall [read: fail] I can't help but kick myself while I'm down and express some bizarre version of post-traumatic stress disorder.

In January of 09, I was on my way to do some laundry at my in-laws' house.  It had been snowy and icy lately but I knew how to handle myself.  I mean. . .nothing had happened to me yet. . .so, obviously nothing COULD happen to me, right?  Things just don't happen to you.  I'm driving up the main thoroughfare. . .the road's rather clear since the sun is out and shining. . .and there is little to no traffic.

Except this one guy.  A honkin' red Ford 350 (Idaho, right?) who's having some difficulty remembering that there are two lanes and one of them is mine.  Sure, the white lines are hard to see under some of the packed snow but really.  You live in this town.  We share the road 'round these parts.  He's making me nervous.  Alright, dude.  If you really feel like purchasing your giant truck gives you entitlement to all of your lane and half of mine, I will be the bigger man (and on that note, please remove those ridiculously undersized truck nutz) and give YOU some room.

Whoever said being kind and compassionate got you anywhere in life except last?  As I slowly move my car towards the side of the road, I hit a patch of ice that unfortunately did not feel the inclination to melt in the glorious yet insufficient sunshine.  Nothing matches that feeling of complete and total loss of control.  My car began to turn into that weird rubber pencil trick.

You could tell me over and over and over and over exactly what you're supposed to do in this situation.  You could remind me time and again not to overcorrect.  You could literally get inside of my brain and write all over my cortex, "Drive INTO the swerve!"  It would not matter.  Split second reaction does not equal the legitimacy of physics.

All I could do was try to steer into NOT THAT RED TRUCK.  I am the nicest person in the world.  As I did everything in my power to keep from turning into him, he drove off into the sunset and probably made millions and bought a whole load of truck nutz for his entire family.

I, on the other hand, realized that braking it wasn't working and that I just needed to get off the road.  It was all a blur but I managed to see an open parking lot.  I did not manage to stop short enough to make use of that empty parking lot.  Instead, I am quickly heading towards a storefront ramp bordered by a beautiful clean parked truck on one side and a gleaming mailbox on the other.

By some miracle upon miracles, I came to a sudden and crunching stop.  Right here:

The truck was fine.  The mailbox. . .untouched.  The building?  Turns out it was an optometrist's office and this wide-eyed guy comes out because everyone inside thought the end of the world had come.  My car was definitely the loser of that fight, though the corner of the office did lose some stucco. The guy catches my eye and I sheepishly wave from behind the wheel with a frightened grin on my face.  His head swivels to the parked vehicle. . .then to the mailbox, then back to me.  He says, "Boy howdy, I'm sure glad you missed my new truck."  So was I.

They invite me inside and call emergency and calm me down while I call Adam (who's stuck down at work because I'd dropped him off earlier since his truck stopped going into gear that very morning - WHY, I ask you, WHY does this always happen to us in twos??)  After I stop shaking and crying, I muster the joke that I thought I was going through a drive-thru.  I was due for a new pair of specs.

No severe damage.  To my physical self or the car.  No real blow to the building itself except for a small aesthetic fix.  No deployment of airbags.  All surface damage and a flat tire.

I keep telling Adam he needs to take me to an empty snowy parking lot one of these days and just let me spin around and play, get comfortable.  I realize that, from my comfy dry snow-and-ice free couch, it's much easier to imagine how much fun and games that would be.  Twelve panic attacks later, I may be wondering why in the world I would ever make such an absurd suggestion.

See Consumer Probe on Dangerous Toys like Bag-O-Glass