Danger Takes a Lifetime

Friday night was fun. I met up with several friends at Dirty Jacks and slowly the night turned into a pub crawl that included an a Capella group singing to Emily, a hilariously awkward run-in and the worst game of pool I’ve ever played. I left downtown earlier than I would normally; I haven’t been sleeping well for several months and knew I needed the rest. Jane was out of town so I’d have the house to myself for some necessary quiet.

I pulled into my driveway to see the lights on in the house. I was confused. I hadn’t left lights on. Through the kitchen window I could see the refrigerator door moving, meaning someone was getting something out of it. I was still confused. I walked up to our glass French doors and looked inside. The couch cushions were upturned; the drawers in the kitchen were wide open. I unlocked the door before what was really happening hit me. I dialed 911 and slowly backed out of the house. I had to tell the operator what I was wearing so they wouldn’t arrest me.

There is something so incredibly odd about being the victim of a crime; I’ve heard that it takes a long time for the reality of a situation to catch up with a victim’s thought process, simply because it is so far out of the realm of what their subconscious deems possible. Danger takes a lifetime to register. My realm of possibility didn’t include coming back to a man in my house or seeing cops with guns drawn running through my home while I stood in the driveway alone, not sure if I should be hiding. I wondered what I was supposed to do if I heard a shot. I was almost too confused to be scared.

The cops told me I was lucky the man wasn’t armed; they said I’d probably have been “in trouble” which I don’t want to fully address. Emily picked me up on a very different Friday night than the one we’d been living an hour earlier. I called her after the cops went through the house but before forensics showed up. I stayed at the barn. I had nightmares.

I’m doing better. I still have moments. I’ve developed a fear of the dark; I hope its temporary. The house is almost back together.

Dual Citizenship

I have ten cousins and five siblings.
My mother is one of four; father is one of five.
So far this sounds like the beginning of an SAT word problem.
Ten cousins. That's it. My siblings and I double their cousin numbers.

I'm not close to cousins on either side. I didn't grow up near cousins; I saw them on holidays or random weekends or not at all. I have cousins I don't recall ever meeting; cousins I couldn't pick out of a line up, cousins I haven't seen in over five years. I don't know my extended family past a perfunctory point. And there are only ten of them.

But Facebook has done its best to bridge all distances.
My final sibling joined FB the other day. The five of us are now like Captain Planet & the Planeteers; I'm making my brother be Ma-Ti, the stupid kid with the power of heart. That kid was lammme.

With this fun coming togetherness crap the inevitable reunion banter begins. A cousin (one of the ones I don't quiiiite remember meeting) sent out an email to the rest of us, enthusiastically declaring we should have a big ol' family reunion because look at us, we are all on FB and it's high time we hung out. I don't think our parents have even attempted a family reunion since 1984. I saw my aunt for the first time in 20 years at my grandfather's funeral.

I understand the idea, I really do.
Family is family; blood is thicker than water, and on.
Sorry to be Debbie Downer here, but I don't know you. What we have in common is our parents are siblings; you know less than nothing about me and I can't say I know a thing about you. If you can't tell, I'm hyper negative about the idea of getting to know my cousins and I've been racking my brain as to the why. I usually thoroughly enjoy meeting people and making connections but to this I have a visceral heel-digging reaction. This is my theory as to the why.
When my parents divorced, my mother's family rallied around the flag of the country YourExIsABigFatBastard-ilvania while my father and his family choose the smaller country of NoGoodCrazyChristianBitch-instein. While two very worthy countries on their own, those who were born holding both those passports were unfortunately stuck like Tom Hanks in that equally unfortunate movie, “The Terminal.” But the viewers of that movie had to suffer for two hours; my siblings and I suffered...well...I think I still do. My aunts and uncles and grandparents fought bravely for their respective countries, and so family visits consisted mainly of listing to my family load cannons of hate and fire them, aiming them to destroy one who was half of my genetic material. I was eight years old. Didn't make me like my extended family much. I felt like I was evidence of a past mistake made by my parents; “look there's that reminder of that marriage implosion to the spouse we never thought was good enough for our kid/sibling. Maybe she'd like a popsicle.” With the exception of one fabulous uncle & aunt, not a single one of my parents’ siblings has ever tried to know a thing about me and that tastes a bit like bile. So, strange cousins, why now? What is so great about our genetic material that we should come together to see the ways in which it manifests itself? There were years and years when I needed family so badly and it wasn't anywhere to be found; why the hell should I give it audience now?
I'm happy with my siblings; our personalities and dramas and personal universes make five seem all the larger. Though the five of us have never lived together under one roof, we still manage to make weather systems whenever we gather. That is enough. I've seen their two passports; that's all the family I need.

This is not meant to knock any cousins. I'm reflecting on my reaction to the invite, not to the people themselves. I'm sure the ones I do not know are very nice.

The Flu

I feel like I'm writing this blog just because I need to; because I haven't posted in a while and I'm getting out of the habit. What can I say? The flu is traveling around from person to person and for some reason when I watch someone come down with it I think of zombies. As if zobieism were as contagious as the common flu, which, in my book, it probably would be. I mean if it wasn't then we wouldn't have to worry too much about catching the zombie flu. If it spread like herpes then you'd just have to have unprotected sex with a zombie to get it and of course the conservative Christians would be like, “NO FUNDING FOR ZOMBIE PROTECTION RESEARCH” like they did with AIDS and then where would we be. And have you ever seen a zombie? Somehow I don't think they are getting laid all too often. They may have looked like Matt Damon before the Zombie-disease took control but after that they all sort of look like a mildly sea-sick Bea Arthur. Oh snap. All that to be said: Zombie herpes would be right out. Which brings me back to my initial point of people with the flu reminding me of zombies. I could never be a nurse.

Send in the Robots

I can't really post the whole story behind this photo, but really it is a story you should hear and I'll email it to you if you ask but...this is what a robot mask looks like.
And a bit of what my holiday home with the fam entailed...

My god.

Notes on the Week

I manged to close my own hand in my freezer one morning while getting the coffee out. Actually happened. Have cut on hand to prove it. No more coffee in freezer; too dangerous.

We got a perfect 11 out of 11 on the potpourri round at Quizzo on Monday because the 10 of the 11 answers were taken directly from the lyrics to "It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)" and when I was 8 or so I decided to learn all the lyrics to said song. And I remember them. So that talent finally paid off. After 20 years.

I finally moved the fridge all by myself on Wednesday to tile under it, then got too excited about putting the fridge back to finish that last little spot that I managed to crack a tile in half. That was the second time in one week I've let out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. When I was a kid my mom washed my mouth out with soap. It only happened once, I learned my lesson. I may need to have that happen again, or just get a better thesaurus of cursing. (The best string of curses I've ever uttered was when I got shot in the leg with a paint ball gun by a drunk man hiding in the woods. Same night my steering wheel fell apart in my lap and got duct-taped back together while a cop stared at me. True story.)

Matt Sloan has informed me that I pronounce the word "both" weird. I apparently pronounce it "bolth" while the Southern way to say it is "Bowth" or something weird like that. Now it's my "Yankee" word. Whatever I've lived in "bolth" the north and the south; I'm just an east coaster.

Leslie and I got very excited about pulling out her CD book from the days of high school and college and I have this observation: She defended everything she owned. I mean from "The Other Sister" soundtrack to the SINGLE of Cher's "Believe". Seriously. No shame. It was great. But she also has the whole army of old-school REM so that just brought joy. Fun night. She did also have Sugar Ray.

Doug and I are starting a charity for children with toes growing on their asses. We don't know if this is actually a problem, but we feel the best prevention for Ass Toe Syndrome (ATS) is education and understanding. Won't you donate and help children with ATS? Make checks payable to me.

If you catch me listening to a lot of Ani, Tori Amos, old Liz Phair or Fiona Apple, chances are I want to hit someone or yell. If I'm listening to a lot of Patty Griffin or Innocence Mission then I probably need a hug (like my friend Kristen can attest). Lots of Dar Williams then I'm probably up for anything but may need to play a serious amount of guitar. All of them at once: Probably just went to a Lilith Fair reunion. Or just re-read The Red Tent. FYI.

Can't Stop the Hipster

I went to an indie rock show last night.
You know the kind--the tiny bar is filled to capacity and that's 30 people, the smoke hovers like fireworks have been lit in a confined space--that kind of show. The girls all have haircuts that look as if students at dog grooming school were given a chainsaw and some uppers, the boys' jeans are probably girls jeans and they all have floppy hair and t-shirts with nonsensical phrases across them, selling product that hasn't actually been produced since 1986.
I, of course, was in J.Crew and a pair of Rainbows.
Strike one, yuppie.
But I do have plastic framed glasses. Real ones. With a prescription. That I wear.
Ooooh cool.
And so there I was. The Hipsters all chain-smoked and drank PBR tall boys. Why is PBR the new beer for Hipsters? Must they really rebel against the audacious oppression that is Really Kickass Microbrews? Did their parents one day say, "Son! You must drink this hand-crafted Pale Ale made just down the street!' and the son said, "FU dad I'm going to drink this shitty midwest beer! In a can!" and then dad cried.
Way to rebel.
And then there was the music. The first band was, of course, people I know (score a point) who played very loud instruments and jumped around and sang earnestly songs in which I could only understand one out of ever six words. Translating Hipster songs is like trying to understand Telemundo. Now I suffer from a grave affliction called No Seriously Stop Dancing and it flares up mightily in the presence of Hipsters, what with their European looking shoes and really interesting names and all. They all dance as if they are getting repeatedly shocked by a low-voltage taser and though this looks relatively easy, I still can't do it. So I have to restrain my urge to snap (why snap? Lose a point) and just sort of bounce to the screaming guitars and angst pouring out over the crowd. Of 30 people.
The show didn't start til 11:30, which is usually when I'm climbing under the covers, not waiting to see the opening band. But I stayed awake and only yawned once, which I guess is a mortal sin from the looks I got. Can't help it. Work night. I came home smelling like Natural American Spirit cigarettes and the bizarre hipness of national beer and may have pulled a muscle in my leg not dancing but all in all it was a fun night.
If you can be hip enough for it.

What Do People Do All Day, Part II

So um, we had a rush this morning of people, and after they all left we were cleaning up and found this:I'm sorry, but did someone leave their jar of moonshine on the table in the men's section? Is that actually a jar of the 'shine?

Some questions:

#1 Who thinks, "Shopping at J.Crew? Better bring my 'shine!"

#2 Who is shopping at 2:52pm on a Monday who is also drinking 'shine? This is mom's from Biltmore Village time.

#3 Why didn't they bring me any?

#4 Are they going to come back and say, "Excuse me, I was in earlier and I left my 'shine, did someone turn it in?

#5 Moonshine? Really? Couldn't do the civil thing and drink gin and tonic out of a Sprite bottle?

(the title of these posts are taken from a favorite children's book of mine by Richard Scarry)

Just Read

For your enjoyment/bafflement, go read Doug's blog, then think about your day and say, "Well at least THAT didn't happen to me today."
Thanks for that one, Doug.

An Open Letter to Zippers

Oh zippers. When you were invented you were revolutionary; you created a whole new way to, say, put on a ladies boot. You stole time back from the sticky hands of incessant buttoning. You changed the world; you were a uniter. Look at the footie pajamas I wore as a child—all would be lost without the trusty zipper to guide me. Remember those candy-cane striped ones with the butt flap? Those were good times, zipper. My extensive denim jean collection owes its fitting to you my friend. To you.

So why do you get cocky, zippers? Why do you get cheap? You were once so reliable, so straightforward—a haberdashery workhorse. Why do you simply give up on the life you have with a garment at inopportune times? At, say, a wedding? Look at all those teeth you use and if you lose a one of them then you, zipper, you give up on any sort of functionality. And not only do you stop functioning, you let all of your previous zipping go to pot. That's shoddy, zipper. Stand by your work. Stay strong in the face of injury.

And don't blame me for this, zipper. We've worked fine together in the past. Is this your passive-aggressive way of saying you think I've gained weight? Is that it, zipper? That now I'm “too big” for you to hold me all together? That's a lie, zipper and you know it. I won't be manipulated by you; I won't play your games.

And so, zipper, I wish I could quit you but I can't. I'd like to tell you that I forgive you for the spectacular wardrobe malfunction you caused me this past Sunday at David and Alana's wedding but it's still a little raw; you spoiled a perfectly good looking outfit with your breaking all the way down my back, causing me to flee with my butt virtually hanging out the back of my dress. You cut me deep, zipper. You let me down. I'm going back to buttons. It may take time to build our relationship but buttons don't hurt me like you did, zippers. Buttons stick around.

(And thank you to Leslie for this little gem:
“Run, Spooner. Run to your car, go home and change, there is no hope for this dress. Meet us at the reception, just run.”)

Fill a Cup

So I had to go take a drug test today for the potential J.Crew job. "Pee in a cup? Sure. No problem." Right?
Wrong.
So I go to the drug place on McDowell/Asheland around noon. I didn't have coffee this morning because I knew I had a drug test and didn't want to taint it. So I get there and...
I can't pee.
Can't. Nothin' going.
And I can't drink a ton of water or I will dilute it.
So I sit there for about 20 minutes, trying to talk myself into having to alleviate some bladder pressure and I think I'm ready to go.
I try.
Not enough.
Back to the waiting room.
FOR ALMOST TWO HOURS.
I read Consumer Reports, Star, two different US News and World Reports and part of a Ladies Home Journal. And I talked to the nice nurse about college pricing and she told me I wouldn't have this problem if I had kids. So THAT's what I need to do next time I need to take a drug test. Have a kid first. Super, that's good advice. Why didn't they have that in Ladies Home Journal? Coulda saved me a ton of time.

What!?

So Sean Taylor, one of my favorite Redskins players, died this morning after sustaining a gunshot wound to his thigh during an attempted robbery at his home yesterday. Taylor was the anchor of the defense, the guy that would alter offensive schemes because he was in the game. It's a surprise and a crushing blow--I mean the guy just got engaged and had a 1-year-old daughter...he just got his life together, it seemed to just be starting. He was sort of the face of the franchise. So senseless. It does feel like I've lost a friend of sorts, someone I cheered for every week for the past 4 years. So weird to take it hard.

Go Skins

So my dear friend Brandt got drunk in a bar last night in Ashburn, VA. Ashburn is where most of the Redskins players live, so you see them around fairly often. I got a voice mail from Brandt telling me the Skins were in the bar with him and he was playing darts with Andre Carter...big #99 and was winning. Then this morning I get a message that Brandt gave my phone number to Jason Campbell, our star quarterback, and tried to set us up. He thinks we would be a great match.
I am perfectly ok with that.

Oldies and Irish Drinking Songs

I woke up this morning with "Charlie on the MTA" by the Kingston Trio in my head. I haven't heard the song in at least a year, so it was a surprise to find its barres running across my brain, but all day it was a still quiet voice singing "...but will he ever return? No he never return and his fate is still unlearned...."
What?
I am bat shit insane.
"Charlie on the MTA" is one of those songs where I know all the words to it and have no idea why. It's like oldies songs, where you know all the words to these really odd songs and you have absolutely no idea why you know them. It's not like you seek out the oldies. You don't scan the stations hoping to catch that classic hit by Jan and Dean. You don't say, "Oh boy! It's the Beach Boys!" But when they come on, you just sing along like a little kid. Are we born knowing the basic words to "Leader of the Pack" or "Rockin' Robin"? Is it part of our duty as Americans? Can we find a way to use this brain power for something else?

And then there's my weird Irish thing, where I subconsciously turn songs into Irish drinking tunes, like "Charlie on the MTA" which is, let's face it, not an Irish song. At all. And then Bob Dylan's "Times They Are A-Changin'" makes me want to hold a frosty pint and swing my arm, singing it like, "Da tiiiiiimmmeees dey arrrr a chaaaaannngin'" for no apparent reason.

Apparently the only way I've found to communicate lately is through music. Seriously. It's a very strange place to be.

Life Goes On, Bra!

I realized I'm getting older when I heard "Ob-La-Dee, Ob-La-Da" the other day and, when hearing how Desmond buys Molly a 20-carat golden ring, my thought was, "Who does he think they are, Bennifer?"