It was grand

I've read Wil Wheaton's blog for years now. It's very enjoyable. But the posts that get me right in the heart are ones like this. This movie was such an important part of my childhood. I can't even put it into words.

I first saw Stand By Me in the spring of 1987. I think it was a pay-per-view movie that some girlfriends and I watched. It was love at first sight for me and became a very intense and heartfelt obsession. Evidence of such: my diary, age 12.

Looking back at these diary entries, it seems like my love for this movie was wrapped around crushes on the actors. And it's true; I did have major crushes on them, and my walls were plastered with pictures of them from the latest teen magazines I would buy every Sunday at K&B when we went out for beignets after mass. But it was deeper than that for me. I was twelve; the characters were twelve. I had some true and real friendships at that age; so did they. My life was nowhere as adventurous as the trip they took to see a dead body. But in my mind, life held that potential for adventure. And that was enough.

I remember that this movie made me wish I were a boy. I felt like only boys got to sneak away for the weekend and cross railroad tracks and romp through the woods. I was very aware of this aching feeling all the time. Why couldn't I be a boy? I guess that was just all a part of being confused and twelve years old. I would wonder what would become of us when we graduated from that school and went our separate ways, if we would stay friends forever or if we would come in and out of each others' lives like busboys in a restaurant. I would watch the adult Gordie typing on his computer at the end of the movie and wonder what we would all be when we grew up.

My friends and I loved this movie so, so much. It was a major bond between us, it really was. We all had our favorite characters and defended our stances on those favorites. As noted above, mine was Gordie. Always, always Gordie. I think I fancied myself an observer like he was, as lame as that sounds. And the weird thing is that even though it was a movie about boys, I don't remember sharing the obsession with any of my guy friends back then. It was for us girls only, it seemed. We basically started speaking to each other exclusively in the film's dialogue.

I shared it with my family, and they got it. Somehow the first time I watched it with my parents is still cemented in my memory. I still remember how hard my dad laughed when Ace was giving his lesson on what kind religious background girls should have if the guys wanted to get lucky. And how he rewound the part when Milo told Teddy that his father was crazier than a shithouse rat like 10 times, laughing every time, even though that was an upsetting scene. I think he just liked that expression. And how much he LOVED when Gordie told Ace to suck his fat one. (I also remember how much he wished that Gordie had said, "I want my hat back, you son of a bitch," like when Inigo Montoya says that about his father.) My mom understood that it was really about friendship and understood how much it meant to me and didn't seem to mind the talk of Annette's chest and the f-bombs. My sister and I got the soundtrack on vinyl from our parents for Easter that year. We wore it out, and I still have that record even though I don't have a record player. My friends and sister and I still drop the lines into our casual conversation when appropriate.

This movie made me laugh out loud and broke my heart into a million pieces every time I watched it. My heart broke for real when River Phoenix died my first semester of college, and I imagined him fading out like the shot of Chris Chambers over and over. I am having a hard time explaining this without sounding like a major idiot, I realize this. I haven't watched it in years, even though I own the DVD, but I could watch it today and still recite every word. I just loved it so much.

It makes me really happy that Wil Wheaton grew up to be a writer.

Taking stock

So some things happened 10 years ago this summer.

HOME

In June of 1999, I moved back to my hometown after a year away teaching high school. A crazy, difficult, bizarre, sometimes wonderful and thrilling year. I moved in with two girlfriends in a rent house. We had cats and dogs and fun times. This home was in the same neighborhood where I live now. In fact, other than childhood and the year away and the summers away, I have pretty much always lived in or adjacent to this neighborhood ... from my college apartment to a long housesitting gig to the two rent houses I lived in before buying this one. Anyway. This is my hood. I like it. This weekend, I went on a bike ride around the lakes and hot air balloons appeared over my head, drifting through the sky and reflecting on the water. Bright bursts of color. Runners and bikers going around with their mouths wide open, huge smiles, actual "ooohs" and "ahhhhs!" as the sun rose. It was one of the finest neighborhood moments ever and reminded me of how glad I am that I live here.

DOG

In July of 1999, I got a dog. My first ever very own dog. (Here is a tiny picture of her tiny self the day I brought her home.) I got her at the animal shelter. Someone I knew from grade school had found her and was dropping her off, so I just took her in the driveway of the place before she even brought her in to process her. I just knew right away that I loved her. She was really shy, so I named her Daisy. She was about six months old at the time. She is still here and still kicking. I fell really in love with her, and she is still my favorite. Don't tell the others. 10 years ago, I did not anticipate that a couple of years later I'd have another dog. And then a cat. And then another cat. (Sigh.) I love them all, but she came first, and I cannot believe we have been together 10 years. 10 years! Daisy. Wow.

JOB

Also in July of 1999, I got a job. It sort of came out of the blue. It seemed like a good fit for me, and the people seemed nice. It still is, mostly, and they still are. Sometimes I wonder if 10 years is too long to have the same job. Maybe it is. Maybe I will not have this job forever. But I still mostly quite love working there, especially the people I work with, and feel luckier than ever to do so.

ONLINE JOURNAL

10 years ago today, I posted a journal entry online. I had no idea what I was doing. I wrote an entry about soulmates. This is very embarrassing. But I was 24 years old. And I definitely still believed in soulmates back then. A few major relationships later, I'm not sure I do anymore. I don't mean that in a down on relationships kind of way, just in a "I'm 10 years older and the word 'soulmates' sounds a little too hocus pocus woo-woo love for me" way. And that's okay.

Four years ago, I reminisced about starting my online journal and went through a pretty thorough account of the whole history, so I won't rehash all of that today.

I'm not sure how I feel about this site these days. Every time someone in my life tells me that they've come across it, I feel mortified, like it's a punch in the stomach, and I want to pull the whole thing forever. But then ... I don't know. I also feel sort of ready to tell my family about it. They are my faves, you know? How can I have done this all this time and not told them? That's just kind of weird. My mom and I saw Julie and Julia, so at least now I know she knows what a blog is. Hi, Mom! This is my blog. (I am writing that to encourage myself to tell them.) Mostly I just don't want them to think I'm a big weirdo.

Only 2004-present is currently online. 1999-2002 was a bit too cringeworthy and too focused on long-past relationships to keep drifting about in cyberspace, and most of 2003 feels a bit too raw, looking back. I think I'm comfortable with what's up now. As Kymm told me when I recently considered just pulling the whole thing, "Don't! Stay strong! Own yourself!" She also pointed out that in 2009, it's a lot more common for part of one's life to be aired online than it was back in 1999. And I get that. Still, I feel a bit weird about it, even now. Maybe it is just time to let that go and stop feeling weird or embarrassed about it. I mean, I'm 34 and I've been doing it for 10 years. That's almost a third of my life, for Pete's sake. I like doing it, and I love the people I've met through it, I like having this record of my life that is really easy to access when I want to remember what I was doing on a certain day, or how I spent a certain New Year's Eve, or what my favorite books from a certain year were, or what my birthday was like that year, or what I ate at that restaurant, or how I mended this or that year's broken heart.

TAKING STOCK

I guess that's about it for tonight. 10 years ago this summer, my life changed in a lot of ways. It's changed in plenty of other ways since. Right now, I feel good about where I am. This weekend, I went to the farmers' market, and I went to a movie with my mom, and I got a massage, and I went on a run with Zuko and on a long bike ride, and I went to a movie with my brother and my friend B., and I ate really good shrimp and corn soup. This morning, I went swimming, and then I went to work, and the tree man came to trim my crape myrtles, and it rained, and I made homemade zucchini walnut bread, and now I'm watching a little True Blood. Life is good, and I am content, maybe even happy.

Randomosity

Today's entry will be a string of random thoughts.

It turns out that I have some complex feelings about Michael Jackson. At first when he died, I was immediately annoyed that everything was super positive about him with nary a mention of the fact that he was bananas and possibly did some unspeakable things to small children. But then I started watching clips and remembering. Remembering how much I once loved him, the posters on my bedroom walls, my lapel pin with his face on it, how he predated any other celebrity crush I ever had in later years, the way I adored him before my age even hit the double digits, the whole thing. It's hard for me to articulate my feelings about this so I'll leave it to Linda & Sars, who both said it better than I could.

Apologies to those who have already heard me rant about this: I do not think Chace Crawford is a good enough actor to play Ren McCormack in the Footloose remake, and I wish Zac Efron were going to play him as originally planned. Because I actually think Zac Efron is very talented! Shut up. I also think that Julianne Hough in the Lori Singer role (Ariel) is an abomination. She's supposed to be dark and damaged, and I highly doubt that Hough has that in her. Lori Singer was hardcore. It sort of bothered me when I was very young that she was not your typical teen beauty type like Cindi Mancini in Can't Buy Me Love, but as I've grown up, I realize that she was pretty much perfect for this role. Like, if my dad were super strict and my life were that legitimately dreary and hard, maybe I wouldn't eat either. (Not trying to diss her skinniness, I'm just saying.) Footloose is not all feel-good dancey dancey lighthearted goodness by any stretch. I mean, Ariel's brother died. The reverend is genuinely conflicted. There are some long and sort of boring for children scenes dealing with this, particularly the one set in church and the talks between the reverend and his wife. Bricks are thrown through windows. Books are burned. Ariel's boyfriend beats her up. I'm saying, it's got some heaviness interspersed between chicken races on tractors and Ren teaching Willard how to dance. And the director of the remake directed High School Musical. The more I think about the remake the more annoyed I get, frankly.

I've now made these two weekends in a row. I first made them several summers ago for B.'s birthday, and I've been thinking of them ever since. These past two batches, I've had some trouble dislodging them from the muffin pan without breaking the edges, so they look kind of ugly, but they still taste great. (I use sugar cookie dough instead of peanut butter cookie dough because they are already plenty peanut buttery.)

This was a weekend of nonstop chick-flickery. First: He's Just Not That Into You. Despite my enjoyment of Justin Long in anything he does, this is just not a very good movie. For many reasons. I lack the energy today to get as worked up about this movie as I'd like to, so let me just tell you that I don't recommend it. Second: Confessions of a Shopaholic. I rented this movie solely because of Isla Fisher and Hugh Dancy, and it did not disappoint. I find them both infinitely charming, and this movie is totally cute and entertaining. Third: Marley and Me. Bawled my eyes out at the end, not just cried quiet civilized tears but bawled. I can't say it was a great movie, but Marley sure was cute and reminded me so much of Zuko, that stupid, wild, destructive maniac of a dog I can't help but love.

Went on a 13-mile bike ride this morning. Yesterday I rode to a bike store to get my bike outfitted with new pedals and pedal brackets (baskets? not sure what they're called) -- things to put my feet into. Not clips or anything that would require me to actually fasten my feet in or buy expensive new shoes, but just something to slip my normal sneakers into so I can pedal more efficiently. Other than actually getting both feet inside these without tipping over -- it took me several tries -- I liked this newfangled way of riding and do think it helped me go a little faster.

Today's ride also marked a milestone I've been working up to -- reaching down to grab my water bottle while pedaling. I have never braved this feat because it's really far down, practically below the seat, and takes a really long reach to grab it, which means pedaling one-handed and reaching down and grabbing it and this just seemed too herculean a task to achieve. But today I reached down and touched the bottle a few times without actually grabbing it (tip from Jessie) to practice the reach down. It got to the point that sweat was pouring from my forehead down my nose to my upper lip into my actual mouth and I was so thirsty I started tasting what can only be described as lung juice in the back of my throat and this disgusting sensation propelled me to reach down and grab the tip of the bottle between my knuckles. Triumph! I swigged with abandon and thought I'd just hold the bottle the rest of the ride and drink out of it at my leisure. But then I remembered I needed my hand for, you know, braking. So I had to reach down and return it to its holder. Which was scary in and of itself but I did it. Then I repeated the whole process twice more over the course of the ride. I am very glad I now know how to do this because it's going to be a long, hot summer and I can't ride without drinking water, hello.

The ride was fairly delightful once I got this new routine down. Nature highlight: gorgeous, delicate egret slowly walking across the water. Nature lowpoint: seeing how low the lakes are due to basically zero rainfall in weeks. Musical high points: the harmonies in Cages or Wings and the theme to The Greatest American Hero and hearing The Weepies sing about how you can't steal happiness.

Swimming, eating, remembering

My first sweet treat since Lent started was a long time coming. I waited until the Thursday after Easter, when I could return to my favorite cafe and enjoy one of their magnificent pastries. I chose a cappuccino and an almond croissant. It was truly heaven in my mouth, and I ate every little bit carefully and slowly and deliberately. I told myself, "Self, see? See what a treat this is? It's so wonderful, and it was worth the wait."

Then the weekend rolled around, along with a limo ride with some friends for a birthday to one of the best restaurants in existence. And lots of wine. And this:

That is a damn fine plate of food in a sauce made with a damn lot of butter. But I didn't care. It was awesome. And I ate it with grilled shrimp over a fried grits cake and crab cakes and shrimp in a bread bowl and more wine. And then some starbursts and tootsie rolls from a candy bowl. And a good time was had by all, and I'd run three miles that morning, and I still felt perfectly in balance on Sunday, if a bit hungover.

Then this happened:

Oops! A friend and I went to see an art exhibit downtown and wandered over to Earth Day, where it seemed the only right things to eat were strawberry snowballs and a giant plate of greasy Chinese food that cost $13. We split this, yes. But still. Not exactly the healthiest lunch on the block. But who cares? It was a festival, and it was fun to park myself on a curb with a stack of napkins and an old friend I hadn't seen forever and eat that hot mess together. And I went on a long walk when I got home. Then I went to my parents' house after going to mass with them and ate tons of my mom's perfect tuna salad and about two pounds of shelled pecans. I'm not sure what possessed me to eat all I did this weekend. Maybe I was just hungry.

(Mass was good if a little strange. Lots of youth group type kids apparently go to this mass, which is swell, and I like the modern music a lot, and the musicians are fantastic, but I need at least one 80s-style Glory and Praise hymn per mass. That's something I had an epiphany about at this service. I like the young, hip tunes, but throw in a "Here I Am, Lord" or "Sing a New Song" every now and then, please, and it would be perfect. My little brother recently announced that "We Are Called" should become the standard recessional hymn for every mass because nothing can top it. I think he might have a point. OMG: the composer of "We Are Called" has a Myspace page. And none of those versions sounds very good, I'm afraid. Anyway, I didn't realize he also wrote "You Are Mine," which is another favorite of mine. Random Catholic music tangent: one of my co-workers and I got a little punchy from stress last week and started singing the first lines of Catholic songs we grew up with. It is very strange to think we grew up on opposite ends of the state but grew up singing the same songs in church. "Sing to the Mountains," "Lord of the Dance," "City of God," the list goes on and on.)

My very tenacious friend who might as well go ahead and become my life coach persuaded me to do the swimming leg of a triathlon for a mutual friend who only wants to do the biking and running leg. Fine. I think this event is months off, so why not? My friend said, "Let's go swimming tomorrow night!" Which was tonight. So I said, "Sure! Why not!" I bought some goggles and a swim cap at lunch and we went to a place where I thought we had permission to swim, but we totally didn't. My friend acted like we did, though, so in we went. I hadn't swum actual laps in an actual pool since 2003. We swam 8 lengths in the 50-meter pool and called it a day. I got tuckered out doing freestyle about half-way through (tuckered out = felt I might have heart attack) so I started alternating between that and breast stroke. I seriously could do the latter, I think, for hours at a time. It is so soothing. I threw in one length of backstroke just for good measure. Turns out the triathlon is actually, like, next weekend. Awesome! We'll see how that goes. I'm glad this is an event that can be split into legs, because I think it will be fun to participate, but I don't think I could ride a bike on a road if I couldn't even ride a bike in my friend's class in Hawaii for more than approximately thirty seconds.

I just have to say that I do love swimming. It is strange to think that my brother and sister and I swam every summer, all summer long, every single morning for practice plus meets on Saturdays. I don't remember much about those summers except that I think we'd end up just staying at the pool all day. It's not like this was a super-elite swim team or anything. There were all skill levels, and it was just fun. We all wore red swimsuits. The meets were awesome because we would eat jello straight from the box "for energy." I think my sister and I both did it from ages, like, four or five to twelve, every summer. That boggles my mind! (The little kids and the big kids had separate practices, obviously.) I was never the fastest swimmer, but I did always come out second in breaststroke. Even though it was my best stroke, there was one girl I could never, ever beat.

One time the coach at practice made me swim a lap of butterfly all by myself, making the other kids stand by the pool and watch, because she said my stroke was perfect. I remember that she basically barked at the older kids, "Look at this kid! If she can do it like this, why can't you?!" I was one hundred percent mortified but also one hundred percent proud. I was never a child who was known for athletic prowess, so to have something like that happen to me was astonishing and I have never forgotten it. I remember swimming the butterfly across the pool at that moment and thinking that all of those high school boys were watching me and was it possible the coach was making fun of me or punishing me in some way? But I don't think she would do that. Other major swim team memories: practicing swimming the entire length of the pool without taking a breath, throwing the coach in the pool after the meets, and always, always going to Godfather's pizza after the meets with wet hair.

Anyway, so swimming laps brings back mostly happy childhood memories. I know that cardio with impact is important for joint and bone strength, but I think swimming has to be awesome for you, too. I will try to incorporate it more into my life even if breaking the swim place law made me kind of nervous today. I am just not the criminal type.

Tonight after swimming I made an awesome dinner. Onion, bell pepper, garlic, yellow squash, and celery with fresh rosemary and cayenne pepper mixed with chicken breast and slivered almonds cooked in olive oil and quinoa with a little grated mozzarella cheese on top. It made me feel more in control of myself and was delicious.

I would literally give my right arm for a disc of In Treatment to watch right now. Only three weeks left! I love it so much. Must wait for Netflix, though. This is a busy week of dinner and lunch with friends and a date with Ira Glass. Life is good.

Weird.

It's unfortunate but unavoidable that pretty much the most traumatic time of my life coincided with my birthday, so every time a birthday rolls around, I can't help but feel a little twinge and remember that time. It feels like a lifetime ago, in a way. Entries from that time are offline now, but I can still go back and read them. Which I don't, normally, except that I just did. I'm not sure why. Reading those entries brings back how I was so unspeakably devastated and sad and functioning so minimally. I look back and wonder if people thought I was totally nuts. Apparently all I did was cry and walk around in a fugue state, all day, every day, and all night long. I can't believe I put all of that rawness on the internet, but it felt like the right thing to do at the time. Showing my craziness made me feel healthier. It's a mystery.

More than my shock and sorrow at the time, I remember the faces of my friends, my parents, and my siblings. I remember the flowers and gifts and and books and music people sent me and the notes people wrote me, the prayers they said for me, the walks they took with me. I remember how my loved ones gathered on the night I was supposed to get married and lit sparklers with me. I remember how, even though clearly no one DIED, it was something hard and sad for me, and people recognized that and helped me get through it. I will always be so grateful for that. I hope I can be to them what they were to me in that sadness, should they ever feel so sad.

I look back on the past six years, from that point when my life took a sudden turn from the direction in which I believed with all my heart it was going, and see mostly good things. I still have a job I'm very lucky to have, maybe luckier than ever, considering the sad state of economic affairs. I still have these four animals who drive me berserk but whom I love. I spent four years with someone wonderful. My family and friends are still healthy and with me, babies have been born whom I adore, my sister married someone beyond fantastic, and my best friend is having T*W*I*N*S! I wish I could throw some confetti around those letters to show how spastically overjoyed I am about this development. It feels both like a huge span of time and just a heartbeat between 28 and 34, and I definitely have some clearer visions for what I want out of life than I did then. In another six years, I will be forty. My mom had four kids at the age of forty. Jeez! Can't really process that ... moving on. This entry really has no point. Sometimes I feel a little nostalgic is all I'm saying, even nostalgic for times of heinousness, because those times are so f-ing formative in our lives.

Now I'm going to feed the insistently meowing Marley before before her vocal chords disintegrate forever. And I am going slap down some Patty Griffin lyrics, because lately I'm all about Patty Griffin. Seriously -- where has she been all my life?

May you dream you are dreaming, in a warm soft bed
And may the voices inside you that fill you with dread
Make the sound of thousands of angels instead
Tonight where you might be laying your head

I wish you well
On your way to the wishing well
Swinging off of those gates of hell
But I can tell how hard you're trying

I still have this secret hope
Sometimes all we do is cope
Somewhere on the steepest slope
There's an endless rope
And nobody's crying
Nobody's crying
Nobody's crying

Things I Like

I've been feeling sort of at a loss as to what to write about here. It's weird to think it is now 2009, and I started doing this online diary writing thing in 1999. That boggles the mind. I think about all I wrote that is no longer online, all I've written that still is, and what kind of things I'm still comfortable writing about here. It's all a bit much lately. Lots of things happened in 1999, and it is now 2009. In January of 1999, I was teaching Shakespeare to 9th and 10th graders in Florida. In the summer of 1999, several things happened. I moved back here. I got Daisy. Daisy is 10 years old! I got my current job. I've had this job for almost 10 years! I started an online journal. 10 years, 10 years, 10 years. It's just a weird thought, that's all. It makes my head hurt a little bit.

So today I think I will keep it simple write about some things that I like. (There are plenty of things I don't like, of course, but I'm not focusing on them today.)

I like my new purse. I have it in Rhombus Blue. I coveted my sister's so passionately that she bought me my own. I love it! I love that it's cute, I love that it's sporty, I love that it's big, and I love that it's reversible. (It's a nice mocha brown on the other side.) The only thing I don't love is that it doesn't have a zipper or snap at the top to keep me from dumping its contents out on the floor, which I tend to do constantly with purses, but it's deep enough that sometimes things don't fall out even when it's turned over. Yay, new purse!

I like my new calendar. My friend Grace made this calendar with her own breathtaking photographs and included some lovely quotes. I cannot tell you how much it brightens my day to see it every day. It is such a nice gift to have given to myself to start the new year, and I am grateful to her for creating it.

I like that David Sedaris exists and keeps writing books that make me very happy.

I like that I had the good sense to hire a dependable yard man years ago and that he and his crew just did an excellent job plowing down the backyard jungle.

I like my new washing machine and that my mom recommended a nice plumber who fixed the leaking faucets and that his nice son, when I noted the heinousness of my hated outdoor laundry room, as I always do, said, "Hey, all you do in this room is laundry -- who cares?" And that suddenly all of my anxiety about the laundry room, its rotting walls, and its motley crew of vermin residents lessened significantly. I also like that the plumber took one look at my 27-year-old hot water heater and scolded me in sputtering exasperation for even considering buying a new one, saying they don't make them like that anymore and to use it until it decides one day to empty itself of its contents all over the floor. I decided that's just fine by me.

I like that I've made a little progress in decluttering my life. Small things like cleaning out the kitchen pantry and bagging up a few things for the food bank, pulling a few books off of the overcrowded bookshelves and boxing them up to give away, and pulling out my dresser to wipe the piles of cat hair from the floor underneath it, and even making my bed every day make me feel good and better about the world in general.

I like that we'll have a new president very soon.

I like that the sun has come back out after several very rainy, gloomy days.

I like the fact that my BFF is not only pregnant for the first time but pregnant with twins. There are no words that aptly capture my excitement about this. I am more grateful than ever to have had our visit in Hawaii last fall and to have had such great time together over these holidays ... a nice coffee date with her, our other BFF, and our favorite five-year-old kid in a Peter Pan costume; a night of Rock Band and pizza; a soup and sandwiches lunch; a night of gumbo, etouffee, and jambalaya; her fun wedding reception (party of the century); dinner the night before she left; etc. All of these occasions were mostly built around food, photographs, laughter, and tears. Without getting too much into the story of the twins (because that is her story), all I can say is that this unexpected news reminds me that life is full of surprises, and in the immortal words of Kevin Arnold in the series finale of The Wonder Years, "You go where life takes you." I think it is a beautiful thing.

And now, some random photos from the holidays that I like.

Things Worth Doing, 51-75

51. Standing in the room where Keats died.
52. Holding my grandmother's hand when she died.
53. Eating the mashed up frozen red kool-aid snow-cones my other grandmother would make for us.
54. Riding the gondola across the river at the '84 World's Fair and thinking the gondola shadows on the water were giant turtles.
55. Singing songs in the camp dining hall before a meal.
56. The way Dove dishwashing soap still smells like the bubbles on the camp slide.
57. Walking around Lake Derwentwater in the rain with my sister.
58. Finding the Singing Machine hidden in the closet right before Christmas.
59. Walking along the Chesapeake Bay beach looking for shark's teeth.
60. Going to a concert at Red Rocks.
61. Hearing our voices echo by candlelight at Christmas choral concerts in the cathedral.
62. Sitting around the piano belting out showtunes with the siblings.
63. Standing in the Sistene Chapel first thing in the morning and realizing it's both a lot smaller and a lot more awesome than anticipated.
64. Riding the funiculare up to the overlook over Lake Como.
65. Staring out at the Pacific Ocean from the California cliffs with my family.
66. Staining our fingers with red Jell-o powder at swim meets.
67. Doing my first 5K in Cambridge on a drizzly morning.
68. Finding out that the sellers accepted my offer on the house.
69. That one time I got up on water skis.
70. Visiting Boston's Public Gardens and feeling the presence of Cynthia & Tom Terrific.
71. Ice skating at Rockefeller Center.
72. Hearing my 30-something older brother speak baby talk to his cocker spaniel.
73. Seeing the Indigo Girls and Mary Chapin Carpenter at Chastain Park.
74. Hearing the Avett Brothers sing "Murder in the City" live with my little brother by my side.
75. Falling in love with B.

(1-25, 26-50.)

Monday update

Another weekend, another Monday.

On Friday evening, we went out for pad Thai and spring rolls and frozen yogurt. On Saturday, I have no idea what I did. Seriously. How can I forget so quickly? I stopped by an estate sale and browsed. I went to the bookstore and bought a textbook. I went to the dog park with Zuko, who might be dumb and a pain in the butt a lot of the time but is a great dog park dog. He doesn't bother anyone, he doesn't scare the nervous dogs, he doesn't participate in the big group scuffles, and he just runs around a pees on everything he passes. I visited with the fiancée of one of B.'s school friends. I like both of them a lot, I like their dogs, and I'd like to get to know them better. I met B. later that afternoon for a quick lemonade at the coffee shop.

I spent much of the rest of the afternoon shopping for and preparing this salad. Don't bother making this salad if you don't have a strong affinity for chopping. There is lots of chopping involved. I didn't make anywhere near the whole recipe and it still made about a million servings. I am already sort of sick of it, but we will be eating it for many days to come. The best things about this salad are (a) the dressing and (b) the fact that it's really pretty to look at. It tastes great, but it might not be balanced in the effort/enjoyment ratio (at least for me, but then I'm sort of lazy). If you can get someone to make it FOR you, that's the way to go. I followed the recipe pretty closely as far as ingredients except I didn't use nuts (B. doesn't like cashews and I forgot to get a substitute) or bean sprouts (they were rotting in their container at the store, gross) and I used whole wheat linguine. Overall: thumbs up but kind of a PITA to make.

On Sunday, it rained the entire day, and I spent much of the day lying around. I attempted to go running on the treadmill, but that didn't go well, so I took to the couch and watched hours upon hours of one of my all-time favorite TV shows, the first two seasons of which have been placed on YouTube in their entirety by various people who must have coordinated their efforts somehow. How happy this makes me I can't even really tell you. I am loath to post the links because I think the longer they are shrouded in secrecy the longer they will remain online before being pulled. Here's a hint: this show ran for four seasons. A lot of people loved it, but a lot of people hated it. It hasn't been released on DVD. It has seven core characters. It rhymes with "dirtysomething."

It's still so, so, so good. Now that I am actually the characters' ages instead of half that (as I was when it was on the air), I see it with whole new eyes, and I don't know that I ever saw myself as the Melissa or the Ellyn of the group even though that's who I am. In the pilot, Melissa is 31. 31! Stop, I can't even think about it. Sometimes I don't enjoy some of the fantasy stuff, but it turns out that I still adore the episode about the couple who used to live in Hope and Michael's house and the WWII scenes about their life. I first heard of "Stardust," of course, in Taking Care of Terrific when Hawk plays it during the secret midnight Swan Boat ride, but I never heard it until seeing this episode all those years ago. And it has remained one of my favorite songs in life ever since, especially when sung by Harry Connick, Jr. or Nat King Cole. Anyway. Just like I always have, I cried during this episode.

I also cried when Michael walked in, face crumpling when he saw that Melissa had brought the menorah. (Their fight during that episode = still awesome. Another awesome fight = Michael and Elliot in the office after they lose the business.) I cried when Melissa and Gary talked about how together, they brought up a couple of kids. I cried when Elliot sat at Ethan's bedside, post-rocket accident, apologizing. I cried when Nancy said, "It's just something about the way his mind works." As hard as I try, I still cannot like Susannah. It was great to watch the very beginning of the Miles Drentell saga, knowing now just how long it will last. I've cried so much just watching these episodes that I don't think I'm fully prepared for what comes next. Everyone remembers seasons three and four -- the cancer and the death and the major stuff, with "Second Look" in season four as the sort of emotional climax of the entire series. But seasons one and two are also really good. I don't know what to say except that I love this show and apparently always will. I am going to look back and find my 30-page paper on the evolution of Nancy Krieger Weston. I remain oddly proud of that paper.

Also this weekend: I finished Pilgrims by Elizabeth Gilbert, which I really liked. I liked every single story. I feel like people roll their eyes at Eat, Pray, Love now, but I loved that book, and I think she's a really good fiction writer. I also started Watchmen, a gift from B. As usual with this sort of graphic novel, I have no idea what's going on as I start it, but I'm hoping all will become clear.

In searching through files which contain my high school and college papers for that damn Nancy paper, I just found a "pre-test" I wrote for English III on August 20, 1991. The assignment was to write about a book we read over the summer. Mine was called "Meg's Brave Fight" and was all about the life-or-death decisions Meg Powers had to make in Ellen Emerson White's Long Live the Queen. A book I just re-read last week at age 33. I had no memory of writing this paper almost 17 years ago to the day, but reading it again makes me unspeakably happy. Being a packrat is not always a bad thing. And now I am awash in memories. I just spent the past few hours looking through old floppy discs -- is that what you call them? the little square ones? -- on my old desktop for papers saved during college on my parents' computer, and I found a ton of old papers, but not the Nancy one. I DID find the notebook in which I wrote pages and pages of notes while watching the Nancy-centric episodes which I analyzed in my paper. And an analysis for yet another English class on how James Joyce's "The Dead" was the inspiration for an episode of this show. Which it was. The professor wrote in her margin comments, "I remember that episode!" It's the tie that binds, apparently.

I spotted files in my filing cabinet with the following labels: First Apartment Mementos, Mail Received at Camp, Ally McBeal, River Phoenix, 20th Birthday Cards, Chicago Hope, and Homicide: Life on the Streets Drinking Game. It might be time to cull some of these files. GOOD LORD.

In other thoughts, I really enjoyed reading this columm, namely because its author is smart enough to know that Tiger Eyes is the best book Judy Blume ever wrote.

Things Worth Doing, 26-50

26. Watching my older brother shoot free throws.
27. Tubing down Boulder Creek.
28. Canoeing down Green River in North Carolina.
29. Lying on the new Pier One throw rug in the living room of my first apartment on the first night.
30. Walking the dogs after work around my neighborhood with my mom.
31. Sparklers and toasts to new beginnings with friends in the backyard.
32. Sneaking out to Sliding Rock at night to bid a new friend farewell.
33. Riding on the back of a motorcycle through New Orleans City Park.
34. Moonlight canoe trips in the swamp.
35. The first time I saw the Indigo Girls in concert, skipping school with friends one Jazz Fest afternoon in 1993.
36. Floating on rafts in the Gulf of Mexico with friends one spring break, counting the fish.
37. Going to Thursday gumbo lunches at Piccadilly with my grandfather.
38. Riding home with Daisy on a towel in my lap after deciding on the spot that she was the dog I was taking home.
39. Seeing the egrets on the trees at sunset while running around the lakes.
40. Watching a flock of big white pelicans take flight.
41. Drinking sazeracs on the porch of the Columns Hotel in New Orleans.
42. Seeing my little brother take second place on ESPN 2.
43. Reading what my students wrote in my yearbook.
44. Hearing my sister sing to me from an iPod on speakers from across the country at my karaoke birthday party.
45. Watching my friend's four-year-old daughter belt out "Tomorrow," arms flung wide, while standing on top of her backyard slide.
46. Hearing Better Things in the middle of the night in a sweaty French Quarter Bar at the last "secret" Counting Crows Shim Sham show and feeling like it was being sung directly to me.
47. Putting my head down on my desk and laughing when one of my favorite students called out, "Stick a fork in him! He's done," when Romeo killed himself.
48. Sitting in the booth with my dad.
49. Replanting my front flower bed with my mom.
50. Driving down River Road at night in high school with cigarettes, friends, and songs.

(Inspired by Maggie of Mighty Girl.)

100 Things Worth Doing: 1-25

This entry and others like it to come = 100% inspired by Maggie of Mighty Girl. I loved her idea of making a list of some of life's most special and memorable moments, and I like the idea of holding onto these memories when life seems mundane, hard, or sad. Andrea wrote recently that she heard Elizabeth Gilbert tell a story whose moral was not the message we usually hear -- that we should live in the moment -- but that "the key to a happy life is about having great memories to look back on and great things to look forward to. So take lots of pictures and make lots of plans!" I loved reading that, and it tied into the idea of making this list. So thanks and all credit to Maggie & Andrea for the inspiration.

1. Sledding down a wildflower-covered hill on the Sound of Music tour in Austria.
2. Wandering around Boboli Gardens in Florence.
3. Seeing Paris at night from the top of the Eiffel Tower with my sister.
4. Running the last mile of the half-marathon knowing I would make it to the finish.
5. Walking along the Seine all by myself eating a pain au chocolat on my first day in Paris.
6. Hiking up to the top of Black Balsam and seeing the cloudshadows floating over the hilltops.
7. Hiking through Rocky Mountain National Park.
8. Walking a golden retriever through Chatauqua Park in Boulder.
9. Seeing the view of the snow-covered Alps from the fortress in Salzburg.
10. Walking along the pastel rainbow-colored buildings in Campeche.
11. Braving the bumpy roads to Monteverde.
12. Sitting a hot springs mineral pool in Arenal.
13. Walking through the butterfly garden at the Peace Lodge in Costa Rica.
14. Stirring the makings of peanut butter fudge under my grandmother's watchful eye.
15. Spending the night on a freezing sidewalk in New York and seeing Rent in its first year from the front row.
16. Piling on the bed for a nighttime song with the girls in my cabin at summer camp in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
17. Attending national championship college football games and being a part of a joyful crowd upon winning.
18. Dipping beignet fingers in mugs of half hot chocolate / half cafe au lait.
19. Riding a horse around the base of a volcano in the rainforest.
20. Hearing Anne Lamott speak at a Baptist church on St. Charles Avenue.
21. Driving an empty Friendship Boat across Epcot's World Showcase Lagoon at midnight.
22. Singing with my high school choir in Carnegie Hall.
23. Seeing the protesters lining the sidewalk in front of the White House during the first Gulf War.
24. Building drip sand castles on the beach.
25. Watching my friend's babies being born.

One year

One year ago today, my godchild was born. I met her a few minutes after that:

And what a year it has been! It is fun to be a godmother.

Here are some things I will remember about her first year: her baptism, carrying her in her sling through Whole Foods when she was still tiny, the day we went to the fair and sat in the grass, pushing her in her stroller on a walk around the block, seeing her clap, seeing her wave, watching her try to crawl, holding her hands as she took steps, and pushing her in her swing.

If you look to the sky

There's a man all alone
Telling me his friends are gone
That they've died and flown away
So I told him he was wrong
That your friends are never gone
If you look to the sky and pray

--"Cannonball"

Giant beds of flowers are being planted all over town. Signs of spring are everywhere and mean everything.

I love Brandi Carlile so much that is starting to become ridiculous. I just had to turn off the hairdryer because I was listening to "Cannonball" really loud and I had to take a moment to cry. Brandi Carlile's music makes me fill up with feeling until it overflows while I am trying to dry my goddamn hair.

Pizza and wine with a school pal tonight. New pals, old pals. Pals are important.

Marley is watching a mosquito bounce on the ceiling with crazily good eyesight.

Not sure what else to say. Trying to drown out worries about work and homework and the flies that seem to be swarming from our drains and the fact that my front yard and sidewalk have been destroyed by a sewer line repair, and sure, it's only grass, but I was quite fond of that grass, and pull in towards me only what is important and what matters. I'm frozen in my bed till the day comes around, how I'm lost, how I'm found. I miss my sister. I miss my friend in Hawaii! I am depressed about knowing that as of next week, barring some emergency, I will not be able to take a single day, hour, or minute off of work until July and then July is going to turn around and be crazy at work in a whole different way so Lord knows when vacation can occur??? I am emotional. My sweatshirt that I've had since senior year of high school and is in remarkably great shape smells like marinara sauce, like my clothes used to smell when I would come home from the restaurant I where I worked in college. It's very weird how many memories can be dredged up by the smell of marinara sauce mixed with clothes. WEIRD. I'm feeling groggy and wondering how my friend is functioning having not gotten a full night's sleep in basically a year. I just don't know how she does it and I think she must be fueled by the blue eyes and smile of her nocturnal baby and the hilariousness of her four-year-old. I wonder how people function in general. Truly? How does the world keep spinning? Jim Sturgess is in a new movie with an American accent, and the trailer startled me because I expected him to sound like Jude and start singing in the aisles of a bowling alley.

I think I'm going to bed to read Dreams from My Father. Clearly I'm in no shape for coherence.

Boys & girls

Last night, B. and I watched Friday Night Lights, and Smash's little sister was receiving obscene phone calls from the complete jerks who were harassing her at the movies in last week's episode. And it made me remember something that I hadn't thought about in a long time.

I'm not sure how old I was ... I think it was sometime in 6th, 7th, or 8th grade. I woke up one morning and there was an envelope with my name written on it taped to the outside of my bedroom window. I opened it, and it had some rude, foul things written in it. The main thing I remember is that it asked me to circle my lingerie size and leave the note out for the sender to retrieve. I remember that it freaked me out, and I threw it away. Some time later -- not sure how long -- I got another note. For this one, I remember that my parents were out of town and the older sister of my older brother's friend was staying with us. She was a really nice woman, and we loved her. I remember she always smelled really good. Anyway, I got another note and this one had something about wanting to do something that rhymes with top my ferry. And I was SO completely mortified and horrified and I don't even remember if I knew what that meant. I don't think I did, actually. At least not in those terms. I remember sobbing and sobbing and the babysitter holding me and telling me it was okay and not to be scared. I remember saying through bawling hiccups that it was probably just some stupid boys from the bus, several of whom lived in my neighborhood and would have been in walking distance or biking distance from my window.

I know that it was probably one or more of them, and I knew that then, and that the notes were harmless, but I still remember being so upset and so scared by them. I did not like the idea of someone talking to me like that, thinking of me like that, even if they were just being stupid and playing a joke. Maybe to them it was funny, but to me it was so mean. And though we had our afterschool arguments and dramas on the bus, I thought that we were all friends at heart and that it was mean to do something like that to a friend. Maybe somewhere deep down I worried that it wasn't one of them and that it was some grown-up weirdo, but I don't think I allowed myself to entertain that possibility. After all, only the boys on the bus would know my house and know which window was mine and all that jazz, right?

Anyway, the minute I remembered these notes last night while watching Smash's sister cry over those mean phone calls, I started crying, too. And I cried for Smash's sister and for me and for all the little girls who are taunted, harassed, bothered, and scared by mean little boys or big boys who might think they're being funny but who are really just being awful. I've been thinking about it all day, and it just makes me so angry, thinking about how in 2008 we still live in a society where boys being lewd and disgusting to girls is something that happens and makes girls cry. And it makes me feel frustrated that the way this makes girls feel is something that men will never be able to understand, even the best men.

I never found out who left those notes on my window. I ended up going out later in life with one of the neighborhood boys, and I wish I'd thought to ask him if he knew anything about it. I remember knowing then that the notes weren't in his handwriting and trusting that he was my friend and would not treat me that way. I remember not recognizing the handwriting at all. Again, I know they were just jokes, and I know they were put there by kids, but they were still gross and made me feel so heartbroken and terrified inside. I don't know if I can explain it, really.

I don't really have anything else to say about it. Except that I understand why Smash wanted to smash those boys' faces in. I hope my brother wanted to do the same thing for me.

Make Lemonade

The bookcases in my room are mostly stocked with children's and young adult books I've read a million times. Paul Zindel, Lois Lowry, Jean Little, Judy Blume, Madeleine L'Engle, and so forth. Mixed in with the multiples by those authors are a few singles. One I hadn't picked up in years is Make Lemonade by Virginia Euwer Wolff.

I couldn't sleep last night and could not get into the new book I was reading, so I pulled this one off the shelf and read for more than an hour past my bedtime. I just took a long bath and finished it and cried my eyeballs out. It is a beautiful and powerful little book, and I loved it a decade ago, and I love it still.

I first read this book in a multicultural adolescent literature class my first summer of graduate school. It was taught by the professor whose other class in adolescent literature I'd taken with my sister as an undergrad. That class had three sets of sisters in it, weirdly. My sister and I discovered a long lost cousin in that class as well. I could go on and on about how special that class was to me, but I won't right now. I'll just say that the fact that the same professor headed up the graduate program I entered promptly upon graduating from college was pretty much the reason I did it. I loved her. She taught me so much about teaching and about books. I was never the teacher I think she wanted me to be or half the teacher she was, but I still cherish all that she taught me, and it's books like this one that I'm so grateful to her for sharing with me.

OKAY, I JUST LOOKED THIS BOOK UP ON AMAZON IN ORDER TO LINK TO IT IN THIS ENTRY, AND I SEE THAT IT IS PART OF A TRILOGY. OH MY SWEET LORD.

And excuse me, but the second book won the freaking fracking National Book Award? And was a Printz Honor Book? Oh Jesus Pete, where have I been? Now I am crying with happiness! I do not see a third book, so I'm not sure why they're calling it a trilogy. Maybe the third book is still unwritten.

I just ordered True Believer. I am so happy. I love everyone and everything.

I've got issues

1989



1990



1991



1992



1993

Sassy retrospective

I've been putting my hands on my old Sassy issues. They've been moved in a giant stack from house to house since I first moved out of my parents' house at age 18. I haven't looked at them in a long time because they're always in a closet.

It turns out that I have exactly zero issues from 1988. Which bums me out. But I do have all of 1989 (except for June ... what was I doing in June of 1989? I had just graduated from the 8th grade and was most likely headed to summer camp ... maybe I brought that issue with me and it never made it home) and all of 1990, 1991, and 1992. Can you say "treasure"? I can. Treasure. I only have January through August of 1993 (except for April ... maybe it got tossed as a soiled contagion while I was in the throes of mono misery that month). In August of 1993, I started college. Maybe I decided I'd outgrown Sassy once that happened because I don't have another issue after that.

Inexplicably, I have two copies of February of 1991 (the month I turned sixteen) and three copies of March of 1991 (the month after that). Also two of November of 1992, which featured Mayim Bialik on the cover. (On one of them, I drew make-up on her face with multi-colored paint markers.) I have the covers with Johnny Depp, Juliana Hatfield, Robert Downey, Jr., and Courtney Love/Kurt Cobain. October of 1990's cover was ripped off at some time. Apparently that was the Christian Slater cover. I do vaguely recall making a Christian Slater collage on my bedroom wall after Pump Up the Volume, which came out in 1990, which explains that the cover was most likely collage fodder.

I am looking at these covers and they are so familiar to me even though I have not glimpsed them for years. Decades even, maybe. All told, including the few duplicates, I have 56 issues. Is that excessive?

I did a lot of doodling in these magazines, which is kind of dumb but also kind of funny. Lots of doodles about the love of teen boyfriends and one guy friend quoted as saying "no more tampon talk!" with an arrow drawn from a Tampax ad.

My boyfriend was at one of the Sassiest Colleges in America in 1989, when that article was written. He knew someone named in the article. That just made me jump up and down in my hall.

Also in November of 1989, I circles and drew arrows around a poem that started like this: "They wait to die / You wait to dine / You think it natural / They await a painful death ..." (about animals) -- I guess I was embracing vegetarianism at the beginning of 9th grade.

I really ... just cannot even begin to say how much I loved this magazine. I don't even know what to say. I think I'm going to try to take some pictures, but not tonight.

The love of my young life, River Phoenix, talked about veganism in October of 1989. The cover says, "River Phoenix wants to tell you something." I wish I could have told River Phoenix something, such as "I love you. Please don't die four years from now this month."