And the fun begins.
I feel as if I am stuck in that moment just before the rollercoaster careens down the hill, that moment of weightlessness where you realize there's nothing you can do and, for better or worse, you're about to have the ride of your life.
I find myself wishing I had just a few more days until my family arrives, so I could at least get my house clean. But my parents roll in tonight, and tomorrow will bring the rest of the relatives who are coming to celebrate this occasion.
Last night, I brought my wedding dress home. I had actually gone to pick it up on Tuesday, but the owner of the shop saw me walk in and got a panicky look on her face.
"I'm doing a bridal show this weekend, and I've been so busy getting ready for that that I completely forgot to press your dress!" she said. "Could you come back tomorrow?"
When I returned last night, my dress was ready, and to make up for my troubles, the shop owner gave me a free garter. We're not really doing the garter thing, but hey, I ought to do something bridal, right? Actually, I might have a lot more bridal in my future than I originally thought.
The dress shop owner asked me yesterday if I'm leaving for my honeymoon right away, or if I have Sunday free. Actually, the wedding is Sunday, so I'm kinda busy, but the long and short of it is, she wanted me to model for her bridal show. I'm tall, and I wear my size; my wedding dress didn't need any alterations at all, so she thinks I'd be a perfect model. In fact, she wanted to know if she could keep my name on file for the next show, sometime in May.
Well, all of that anti-bride stuff went right out the window at that comment. Of course I'd model! How fun would that be, walking the runway, looking beautiful. Yeah, I think I could handle that.
I won't lie -- I feel a bit like Marcia Brady right now. And three days before my wedding, that's not too bad.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Making Sense of Tragedy, An Impossible Task
I've been debating for the past few days whether to write anything about the Virginia Tech tragedy -- I thought it might seem out of place on a fun, silly blog like this -- but it's been so much on my mind that I just can't ignore it.
The summer after I graduated high school, 16 students and their five chaperones from my school were killed in a plane crash. At the time, I thought I had experienced some of the worst pain a young person ever could experience. I'd been told all my life, "you're young, but you're not invincible, so make good decisions." But at 17 years old, I learned in a very horrible way just how fragile life really is and that you don't have to be doing anything dangerous or stupid to have yours taken away.
In 1999, when the Columbine shootings occurred, I found out that I had been wrong before -- I hadn't experienced the worst pain. However traumatic it was for me to have lost my classmates, it had to have been unimaginably more horrible for the surviving Columbine students. To not only have lost classmates but to have lost them at the hands of people they knew, right in front of their eyes, had to have been so awful that I don't think there's even a word for it. I learned that lesson again on Monday.
All day, I stayed glued to news outlets, watching events unfold on the Virginia Tech campus. Who could have done such a terrible thing? And what could have driven him to become so desperate? The more we learn about Cho Seung Hui, the sadder the story becomes. His professors had recommended him for counseling, his classmates had called him "mean," joking about the possibility that someday he would "become a school shooter," and the police had investigated him as a stalking suspect, yet this obviously disturbed young man somehow slipped through everyone's fingers.
It's too soon to say whether we can really assign blame to anyone. To hear it told by the people who knew Cho Seung Hui, it was only a matter of time until he did something, but I think most of us could name at least one person we've met who seems unstable enough to hurt someone, someday. Disturbed does not always equal dangerous, and without explicit threats, no one could do much.
But whatever anyone knew or thought, the past can't be changed, and the name of Cho Seung Hui will go into the history books with the story of the tragedy for which he was responsible. The only thing anyone can do now is pray for the victims and their families, and hope for a quick recovery for those who were injured.
The emotional wounds will not heal easily. Those who were there, or knew someone there, might never find answers to all of their questions or any sense of peace about what's happened. And the rest of us will never have any idea what they're feeling, however much we want to show support by sharing the burden of their grief. But I think we will all hold our loved ones just a little bit closer.
The summer after I graduated high school, 16 students and their five chaperones from my school were killed in a plane crash. At the time, I thought I had experienced some of the worst pain a young person ever could experience. I'd been told all my life, "you're young, but you're not invincible, so make good decisions." But at 17 years old, I learned in a very horrible way just how fragile life really is and that you don't have to be doing anything dangerous or stupid to have yours taken away.
In 1999, when the Columbine shootings occurred, I found out that I had been wrong before -- I hadn't experienced the worst pain. However traumatic it was for me to have lost my classmates, it had to have been unimaginably more horrible for the surviving Columbine students. To not only have lost classmates but to have lost them at the hands of people they knew, right in front of their eyes, had to have been so awful that I don't think there's even a word for it. I learned that lesson again on Monday.
All day, I stayed glued to news outlets, watching events unfold on the Virginia Tech campus. Who could have done such a terrible thing? And what could have driven him to become so desperate? The more we learn about Cho Seung Hui, the sadder the story becomes. His professors had recommended him for counseling, his classmates had called him "mean," joking about the possibility that someday he would "become a school shooter," and the police had investigated him as a stalking suspect, yet this obviously disturbed young man somehow slipped through everyone's fingers.
It's too soon to say whether we can really assign blame to anyone. To hear it told by the people who knew Cho Seung Hui, it was only a matter of time until he did something, but I think most of us could name at least one person we've met who seems unstable enough to hurt someone, someday. Disturbed does not always equal dangerous, and without explicit threats, no one could do much.
But whatever anyone knew or thought, the past can't be changed, and the name of Cho Seung Hui will go into the history books with the story of the tragedy for which he was responsible. The only thing anyone can do now is pray for the victims and their families, and hope for a quick recovery for those who were injured.
The emotional wounds will not heal easily. Those who were there, or knew someone there, might never find answers to all of their questions or any sense of peace about what's happened. And the rest of us will never have any idea what they're feeling, however much we want to show support by sharing the burden of their grief. But I think we will all hold our loved ones just a little bit closer.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
No Wonder They Call My Parents The Fun Couple
With five days till my wedding, but nothing all that interesting to say about it, I find myself wanting to share a story about someone else. My mother.
This is my favorite Mom story of all time, and it's not even really about her but a friend of hers. I'm not sure if I like it so much because it's funny or if I feel that the friends she had back then prepared her for having such a goofy daughter (and I ain't talkin' about my sister).
My parents got married in 1968, when my mom was 20 and therefore not legally allowed to drink yet. My Aunt Nancy, however, was a few years older, so she, my mom and a couple of friends parked their convertible outside a bar, my aunt ran in and grabbed some beer for all of them, and they went out cruising around.
What a wild child my mom was. (Though not nearly as wild as my dad, who, on that same night, crossed a bridge standing on one foot on top of a van...or something like that, anyway. I've never quite understood that story, but I'm sure my sister will post the correct version.)
Anyway, at some point in the evening, my mom and company came across a bum walking on the sidewalk. He was absolutely filthy and eating a sandwich.
"Hey!" yelled one of my mom's friends out of the car. "What kind of sandwich is that?"
The bum replied, "hot ham."
"Hot ham!" my mom's friend exclaimed. "I love hot ham!" She jumped out of the car, grabbed the sandwich, took a bite, handed the sandwich back and went running back to the car.
I only hope my last night as a single girl is half as exciting.
Did that sound sarcastic? It wasn't supposed to.
This is my favorite Mom story of all time, and it's not even really about her but a friend of hers. I'm not sure if I like it so much because it's funny or if I feel that the friends she had back then prepared her for having such a goofy daughter (and I ain't talkin' about my sister).
My parents got married in 1968, when my mom was 20 and therefore not legally allowed to drink yet. My Aunt Nancy, however, was a few years older, so she, my mom and a couple of friends parked their convertible outside a bar, my aunt ran in and grabbed some beer for all of them, and they went out cruising around.
What a wild child my mom was. (Though not nearly as wild as my dad, who, on that same night, crossed a bridge standing on one foot on top of a van...or something like that, anyway. I've never quite understood that story, but I'm sure my sister will post the correct version.)
Anyway, at some point in the evening, my mom and company came across a bum walking on the sidewalk. He was absolutely filthy and eating a sandwich.
"Hey!" yelled one of my mom's friends out of the car. "What kind of sandwich is that?"
The bum replied, "hot ham."
"Hot ham!" my mom's friend exclaimed. "I love hot ham!" She jumped out of the car, grabbed the sandwich, took a bite, handed the sandwich back and went running back to the car.
I only hope my last night as a single girl is half as exciting.
Did that sound sarcastic? It wasn't supposed to.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Strangers With Comments
On Thursday evening, I was shopping for jewelry for my bridesmaids and got stuck trying to decide between two pairs of earrings. While I was taking some time to mull over my decision, I wandered into the sunglasses section to see if I could find something stylish for my upcoming honeymoon. I had just put on a pair and was admiring my reflection when from next to me came, "those are cute."
I looked over, and there was a woman standing a few feet away. I thought maybe she'd been complimenting my choice, but she wasn't looking at me, didn't seem to be talking to me. She didn't seem to be talking to anyone, actually. I did a mental shrug and went back to my business, and a minute later, she did it again.
"Oh, those are really cute." This time, I was sure she was talking to me, but when I glanced at her again, again, she was facing the other direction.
To whom was this lady speaking? I had no idea. There were other people milling around, so I thought maybe one of them was a friend of hers, but eventually, they dispersed and she and I were the only people in the area, and the comments continued.
"I've got to go find a dressing room. Where are the dressing rooms?" I thought about answering her, just on the off chance she really had been talking to me this whole time, but it just seemed weird. It was like she was talking to a pal, but the pal wasn't there. And she didn't seem to be on a cell phone or anything; if she had, the person on the other end must have been unbelievably perceptive to know what she was talking about.
Eventually, the woman walked away, and I returned to the jewelry, but this woman's one-sided conversation left me with a creepy feeling. Did she not realize she was alone? Was she, perhaps, shopping with a ghost friend no one else could see? I guess I'll never know.
I looked over, and there was a woman standing a few feet away. I thought maybe she'd been complimenting my choice, but she wasn't looking at me, didn't seem to be talking to me. She didn't seem to be talking to anyone, actually. I did a mental shrug and went back to my business, and a minute later, she did it again.
"Oh, those are really cute." This time, I was sure she was talking to me, but when I glanced at her again, again, she was facing the other direction.
To whom was this lady speaking? I had no idea. There were other people milling around, so I thought maybe one of them was a friend of hers, but eventually, they dispersed and she and I were the only people in the area, and the comments continued.
"I've got to go find a dressing room. Where are the dressing rooms?" I thought about answering her, just on the off chance she really had been talking to me this whole time, but it just seemed weird. It was like she was talking to a pal, but the pal wasn't there. And she didn't seem to be on a cell phone or anything; if she had, the person on the other end must have been unbelievably perceptive to know what she was talking about.
Eventually, the woman walked away, and I returned to the jewelry, but this woman's one-sided conversation left me with a creepy feeling. Did she not realize she was alone? Was she, perhaps, shopping with a ghost friend no one else could see? I guess I'll never know.
Friday, April 13, 2007
When It's Time To Change, Then It's Time To Change
The Stapling Jello crew took a vote, and the result was a unanimous 1-0 (since I am the only one on said crew): It's time for a new look.
Hope you like it. And if you don't, I really don't care: It's not as if I get paid to do this.
But if anyone would like to pay me to do this, I'll make this blog any darn color you want.
Hope you like it. And if you don't, I really don't care: It's not as if I get paid to do this.
But if anyone would like to pay me to do this, I'll make this blog any darn color you want.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
What Happened To Miss Independent?
A few years ago, a friend who was engaged commented to me that she was happy she'd found a man who would take care of her, because "all women want men who will take care of them."
I was quite taken aback by those words. I had thought the "knight in shining armor" bit had been driven out of woman consciousness long ago. Hadn't this girl ever heard of Rosie the Riveter? I'd certainly never gone looking for a man who would take care of me. I had a job, I had friends, and while a good relationship could -- and eventually did -- add wonderful things to my life, my happiness wasn't out of relief that I finally found a man who would dedicate his life to the sole purpose of making me happy. One of the things I love most about my fiance is that he hasn't done that; he considers us equal partners, and in my opinion, that's how it should be.
We all lean on others at times. Our friends, our family members. And we're there for them when they need us. It's not just our significant others, and it's certainly not just women; it's just the nature of humanity. But during those occasions when I need to lean on my fiance, I remember what my friend said and realize that, while I didn't go looking for a man to take care of me, I'm lucky that I found one who is willing.
Yesterday, one of the tires on my car looked pretty low. I didn't have a tire gauge (I'd had one at one time, but it was cheaply made, didn't work properly and subsequently fell apart), so I stopped at an auto parts store on the way home from work and picked up a new one. I went over to a gas station with free air and checked the pressure. Very low.
I'd never put air into my tires at this gas station, or any gas station, but it didn't look that hard. You just put the air nozzle thingy squarely on the tire nozzle thingy and it inflates, right? It's just like any other kind of air pump, right? Apparently not, because the only thing I succeeded in doing was taking more air out of the tire. So I called my fiance.
"What am I doing wrong?" I asked him. "I can't get this thing to work." He gave me a few instructions, and I tried again, and this time, I couldn't even get it to take air out of the tire, probably because there was so little left. I couldn't drive home or go looking for another place to get air with my tire near completely flat, so my sweetheart drove over to where I was to see what he could do.
He got the tire to inflate right away. I'd been trying for 10 minutes, and he had it ready to go in about 45 seconds. (I watched him do it; he did the exact same thing I'd done, although I think I just didn't shove the nozzle thingy on the other nozzle thingy far enough. But hey, it was only my first try, and I'm sure I'll have many more chances.)
It was just a little favor, and I'm sure that if I'd gone into the gas station looking for help, or stood there long enough looking pathetic, someone would have given me a hand. But it was great to know that help was just a phone call away.
I still can't say I agree with that statement my friend made back then. We shouldn't go looking for men who will take care of us, unless we know we can take care of them, too, when they need us. I don't want a knight in shining armor; I want a partner. And it's good to know I've got one who can work the free air hose at the gas station.
I was quite taken aback by those words. I had thought the "knight in shining armor" bit had been driven out of woman consciousness long ago. Hadn't this girl ever heard of Rosie the Riveter? I'd certainly never gone looking for a man who would take care of me. I had a job, I had friends, and while a good relationship could -- and eventually did -- add wonderful things to my life, my happiness wasn't out of relief that I finally found a man who would dedicate his life to the sole purpose of making me happy. One of the things I love most about my fiance is that he hasn't done that; he considers us equal partners, and in my opinion, that's how it should be.
We all lean on others at times. Our friends, our family members. And we're there for them when they need us. It's not just our significant others, and it's certainly not just women; it's just the nature of humanity. But during those occasions when I need to lean on my fiance, I remember what my friend said and realize that, while I didn't go looking for a man to take care of me, I'm lucky that I found one who is willing.
Yesterday, one of the tires on my car looked pretty low. I didn't have a tire gauge (I'd had one at one time, but it was cheaply made, didn't work properly and subsequently fell apart), so I stopped at an auto parts store on the way home from work and picked up a new one. I went over to a gas station with free air and checked the pressure. Very low.
I'd never put air into my tires at this gas station, or any gas station, but it didn't look that hard. You just put the air nozzle thingy squarely on the tire nozzle thingy and it inflates, right? It's just like any other kind of air pump, right? Apparently not, because the only thing I succeeded in doing was taking more air out of the tire. So I called my fiance.
"What am I doing wrong?" I asked him. "I can't get this thing to work." He gave me a few instructions, and I tried again, and this time, I couldn't even get it to take air out of the tire, probably because there was so little left. I couldn't drive home or go looking for another place to get air with my tire near completely flat, so my sweetheart drove over to where I was to see what he could do.
He got the tire to inflate right away. I'd been trying for 10 minutes, and he had it ready to go in about 45 seconds. (I watched him do it; he did the exact same thing I'd done, although I think I just didn't shove the nozzle thingy on the other nozzle thingy far enough. But hey, it was only my first try, and I'm sure I'll have many more chances.)
It was just a little favor, and I'm sure that if I'd gone into the gas station looking for help, or stood there long enough looking pathetic, someone would have given me a hand. But it was great to know that help was just a phone call away.
I still can't say I agree with that statement my friend made back then. We shouldn't go looking for men who will take care of us, unless we know we can take care of them, too, when they need us. I don't want a knight in shining armor; I want a partner. And it's good to know I've got one who can work the free air hose at the gas station.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Songs I Will Leap Over Things To Turn Off
"Big Yellow Taxi" I hate this song, no matter who sings it, although I hate the Amy Grant version the most because of all the "ooh, bop bop bop bop." If you really "don't know what you've got till it's gone," I'd love to find out exactly what I've got in this song.
"How To Save A Life" by The Fray. I used to think this song was nice (even after I found out it was featured on Grey's Anatomy), but after hearing it approximately 50 times within a one-week time span, I was over it, and now, just a few notes of that piano at the beginning is more than enough.
Any song with talking in it. For example, "You're Still The One" by Shania Twain. If I catch it in the middle, it's not that bad, but that intro talking she does is just annoying. Same with Kelly Clarkson's "Walk Away." I actually kind of like the song, but near the end, she screams "just leave!" and I want to.
"Bring Me To Life" by Evanescence. Not only do I not like Amy What's-her-name's voice, there's the shouting again. "Wake me up! Can't wake up!"
"New Shoes" by Paolo Nutini. I love shoes, but I find the song kind of stupid. I don't hate it as much as the others I've mentioned here, but also, the name Nutini reminds me of Nutella.
And garnering an honorable mention, even though it is not a song, per se...
"Hi, I'm here for Verizon Wireless..." Whenever I hear these words, I change the radio station, because I know that in about half a second, that annoying background music will kick in.
"How To Save A Life" by The Fray. I used to think this song was nice (even after I found out it was featured on Grey's Anatomy), but after hearing it approximately 50 times within a one-week time span, I was over it, and now, just a few notes of that piano at the beginning is more than enough.
Any song with talking in it. For example, "You're Still The One" by Shania Twain. If I catch it in the middle, it's not that bad, but that intro talking she does is just annoying. Same with Kelly Clarkson's "Walk Away." I actually kind of like the song, but near the end, she screams "just leave!" and I want to.
"Bring Me To Life" by Evanescence. Not only do I not like Amy What's-her-name's voice, there's the shouting again. "Wake me up! Can't wake up!"
"New Shoes" by Paolo Nutini. I love shoes, but I find the song kind of stupid. I don't hate it as much as the others I've mentioned here, but also, the name Nutini reminds me of Nutella.
And garnering an honorable mention, even though it is not a song, per se...
"Hi, I'm here for Verizon Wireless..." Whenever I hear these words, I change the radio station, because I know that in about half a second, that annoying background music will kick in.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Good Friday
Today was one of those days.
No, not one of those days. The other kind. The kind of day when everything goes well, when the good karma you've put out into the world comes back to you. Those days are rare, but when they happen, it's always a wonderful surprise.
I had big errand plans today. Haircut, wedding odds and ends, car wash, cake at my fiance's office to celebrate our upcoming wedding. Not a terribly exciting day, although I do love cake.
I went to get my hair cut at a spa and salon that has several locations throughout the metro area. I'd been to the location in downtown Chicago (four of my six future sisters-in-law get their hair done by someone there; they recommended her to me, and I loved what she did), but I didn't want to spend half the day driving into the city, parking, getting my hair cut and driving home, so I figured I'd try the one near me.
I ended up having a great time. The woman who ended up cutting my hair was fun (although not quite as fun as the one downtown -- but maybe I just think that because that one told me over and over that my fiance's sisters love me), and I'm very happy with what she did to my hair. Then, when I was leaving, on my way to pay, she said, "would you like a complimentary makeup application?"
Uh, yeah I would!
So she handed me off to a makeup person, and I got a new look for my afternoon. It was a fantastic surprise to be pampered like that, especially for free, although I did tip the girl. When she was done, she gave me a coupon for another free makeup application!
I left feeling wonderful (and too pretty for the rest of my errands, but they had to get done). I went to grab a bite for lunch, and serendipitously, I ran into a friend from my old office, picking up lunch for the crew.
"Everyone usually sits together in the cafeteria and eats now," she said. "You should come over." So I did. And I got to have lunch with some pals instead of alone.
But the fun wasn't over yet.
The big wedding chore on my list was to order cookies for the reception (we're not cake people; we're big cookie people). I chatted with the lady, and as I was leaving, told her I wanted to buy a few cookies to take with me. She put a few into a bag and said, "it's on me."
Free makeup, lunch with friends and free cookies...and all of this happened before the cake and gift card we received from my fiance's coworkers.
Sometimes you just have a good day.
No, not one of those days. The other kind. The kind of day when everything goes well, when the good karma you've put out into the world comes back to you. Those days are rare, but when they happen, it's always a wonderful surprise.
I had big errand plans today. Haircut, wedding odds and ends, car wash, cake at my fiance's office to celebrate our upcoming wedding. Not a terribly exciting day, although I do love cake.
I went to get my hair cut at a spa and salon that has several locations throughout the metro area. I'd been to the location in downtown Chicago (four of my six future sisters-in-law get their hair done by someone there; they recommended her to me, and I loved what she did), but I didn't want to spend half the day driving into the city, parking, getting my hair cut and driving home, so I figured I'd try the one near me.
I ended up having a great time. The woman who ended up cutting my hair was fun (although not quite as fun as the one downtown -- but maybe I just think that because that one told me over and over that my fiance's sisters love me), and I'm very happy with what she did to my hair. Then, when I was leaving, on my way to pay, she said, "would you like a complimentary makeup application?"
Uh, yeah I would!
So she handed me off to a makeup person, and I got a new look for my afternoon. It was a fantastic surprise to be pampered like that, especially for free, although I did tip the girl. When she was done, she gave me a coupon for another free makeup application!
I left feeling wonderful (and too pretty for the rest of my errands, but they had to get done). I went to grab a bite for lunch, and serendipitously, I ran into a friend from my old office, picking up lunch for the crew.
"Everyone usually sits together in the cafeteria and eats now," she said. "You should come over." So I did. And I got to have lunch with some pals instead of alone.
But the fun wasn't over yet.
The big wedding chore on my list was to order cookies for the reception (we're not cake people; we're big cookie people). I chatted with the lady, and as I was leaving, told her I wanted to buy a few cookies to take with me. She put a few into a bag and said, "it's on me."
Free makeup, lunch with friends and free cookies...and all of this happened before the cake and gift card we received from my fiance's coworkers.
Sometimes you just have a good day.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
An Open Letter To Punxsutawney Phil...Again
Dear Punxsutawney Phil,
It is with great regret that I write to you today; I've been resisting for awhile, but I simply cannot ignore this issue any longer.
It is 29 degrees outside today, and we had snow flurries! In April! Early spring my ass!
"But Erika," you're wood-chuck-chucking in your little rodenty voice, "you live in Chicago, not in Punxsutawney, so you can't blame me for your weather."
Well, it's only 37 where you are, smart guy, and it's supposed to snow tomorrow. What else you got?
I'm sure you're all comfy in your posh little burrow on Gobbler's Knob (or, if there is justice in the world, some cage in a research lab), but I think you'd better recant your prediction and apologize. Or the next shadow you'll see is an angry mob coming to get you.
Sincerely,
Erika
It is with great regret that I write to you today; I've been resisting for awhile, but I simply cannot ignore this issue any longer.
It is 29 degrees outside today, and we had snow flurries! In April! Early spring my ass!
"But Erika," you're wood-chuck-chucking in your little rodenty voice, "you live in Chicago, not in Punxsutawney, so you can't blame me for your weather."
Well, it's only 37 where you are, smart guy, and it's supposed to snow tomorrow. What else you got?
I'm sure you're all comfy in your posh little burrow on Gobbler's Knob (or, if there is justice in the world, some cage in a research lab), but I think you'd better recant your prediction and apologize. Or the next shadow you'll see is an angry mob coming to get you.
Sincerely,
Erika
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Mall Madness
I've done it again, and I'm not sure if I'll recover this time.
Yesterday, I went shopping at the mall. And as usual, I came up pretty much empty.
Funny the things that make you realize you're advancing in years.
When I was a kid, I loved the mall. Looking back, I'm not sure why. Maybe it was the lure of new stuff. Shopping was always special when I was younger; my sister and I didn't have the kind of mom who bought us new things every other week. When we went to the mall with a real shopping agenda, it was a very big occasion, at least in my mind.
The mall was also one of the first places I was allowed to strike out on my own. There weren't too many kids my age who lived in our neighborhood, and we lived in a semi-rural area that wasn't really conducive to running around or riding bikes freely without supervision, so the mall was a place I could go with my parents and then go off with a friend and spend a couple of hours out from under the nose of authority. This usually meant shopping at the dollar store or getting sundaes from McDonald's, because that was about all we could afford. Later, when I had a job and more than a dollar at a time, but no bills to speak of yet, the mall was a fun place to buy new shoes or clothes or books.
I'm not quite sure when the mall turned into a place I avoid at all costs unless I absolutely have to go there, but I think it was about the time that I realized I'm not the mall's target market anymore. When I go into a mall, I feel like all the teenagers are looking at me and wondering what I'm doing there. And why wouldn't they? Not only do I not bare my midriff (or upper thighs) when I shop, I'm one of the few people there who has driven myself but not driven a carload of kids as well.
And it's not just the other patrons who look at me as a mall anomaly. It's the employees too. Being one of the very few shoppers with an annual income of more than $6,000 per year, I am considered a gold mine or something. I walk past the cell phone kiosks and 19-year-old guys accost me, telling me I must switch my service immediately. I go into a department store and am doused with perfume. And God forbid I actually purchase something, lest I be forced to answer a 10-minute questionnaire.
Employee: Will this be on your store charge card today?
Me: No.
Employee: Would you like to apply for a store charge card and save 15 percent?
Me: No thank you.
Employee: There's no paperwork to fill out; it'll only take a minute. And today, everyone who applies gets a free pair of socks, whether you're approved or not.
Me: No, that's really alright, thank you. I have all the credit cards I need.
Employee: You'll get coupons in the mail every month and flyers about our upcoming sales.
Me: No, really, I don't need it.
Employee: It's up to you, of course, but this purchase could have cost you only (quick tally) fifty cents if you were to apply today and use our scratch off coupon to get up to 75 percent off your total purchase.
I find myself either lying that I already have that store's card or promising that I'll apply next time I come in. Luckily, they don't make me sign a sworn statement on that.
Don't get me wrong; the mall does have its merits. It's nice not having to drive from place to place if I don't find what I want in the first store I visit (plus stores I couldn't visit anywhere but the mall), and sometimes there's no better treat than an Orange Julius.
But I wish going to the mall still held the same magic wonder of my youth, still was the land of opportunity I saw when I was a kid. Maybe next time, I'll have my mom drive me.
Yesterday, I went shopping at the mall. And as usual, I came up pretty much empty.
Funny the things that make you realize you're advancing in years.
When I was a kid, I loved the mall. Looking back, I'm not sure why. Maybe it was the lure of new stuff. Shopping was always special when I was younger; my sister and I didn't have the kind of mom who bought us new things every other week. When we went to the mall with a real shopping agenda, it was a very big occasion, at least in my mind.
The mall was also one of the first places I was allowed to strike out on my own. There weren't too many kids my age who lived in our neighborhood, and we lived in a semi-rural area that wasn't really conducive to running around or riding bikes freely without supervision, so the mall was a place I could go with my parents and then go off with a friend and spend a couple of hours out from under the nose of authority. This usually meant shopping at the dollar store or getting sundaes from McDonald's, because that was about all we could afford. Later, when I had a job and more than a dollar at a time, but no bills to speak of yet, the mall was a fun place to buy new shoes or clothes or books.
I'm not quite sure when the mall turned into a place I avoid at all costs unless I absolutely have to go there, but I think it was about the time that I realized I'm not the mall's target market anymore. When I go into a mall, I feel like all the teenagers are looking at me and wondering what I'm doing there. And why wouldn't they? Not only do I not bare my midriff (or upper thighs) when I shop, I'm one of the few people there who has driven myself but not driven a carload of kids as well.
And it's not just the other patrons who look at me as a mall anomaly. It's the employees too. Being one of the very few shoppers with an annual income of more than $6,000 per year, I am considered a gold mine or something. I walk past the cell phone kiosks and 19-year-old guys accost me, telling me I must switch my service immediately. I go into a department store and am doused with perfume. And God forbid I actually purchase something, lest I be forced to answer a 10-minute questionnaire.
Employee: Will this be on your store charge card today?
Me: No.
Employee: Would you like to apply for a store charge card and save 15 percent?
Me: No thank you.
Employee: There's no paperwork to fill out; it'll only take a minute. And today, everyone who applies gets a free pair of socks, whether you're approved or not.
Me: No, that's really alright, thank you. I have all the credit cards I need.
Employee: You'll get coupons in the mail every month and flyers about our upcoming sales.
Me: No, really, I don't need it.
Employee: It's up to you, of course, but this purchase could have cost you only (quick tally) fifty cents if you were to apply today and use our scratch off coupon to get up to 75 percent off your total purchase.
I find myself either lying that I already have that store's card or promising that I'll apply next time I come in. Luckily, they don't make me sign a sworn statement on that.
Don't get me wrong; the mall does have its merits. It's nice not having to drive from place to place if I don't find what I want in the first store I visit (plus stores I couldn't visit anywhere but the mall), and sometimes there's no better treat than an Orange Julius.
But I wish going to the mall still held the same magic wonder of my youth, still was the land of opportunity I saw when I was a kid. Maybe next time, I'll have my mom drive me.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Courthouse of Love, Part II
Yesterday, I wrote about visiting the courthouse to get a marriage license, musing that I was as good as married.
Today, I found a comment from my lovely sister, Jennifer, that in the eyes of the law, I might be better than "as good." I might actually be married.
What? When did that happen?
I questioned her, and she told me that in Pennsylvania -- where we grew up and she still lives -- marriage is officially a contractual agreement. The only thing needed to make a marriage legal are the bride's and groom's signatures on a marriage license; a ceremony is more sentimental than official. Both the priest who performed her marriage and the woman who helped her husband and her at the courthouse told her this when she got married.
I tried to confirm what she'd told me online but couldn't find any official information on the commonwealth's Web pages. I was only able to find this article, which says that it is possible to obtain a "self-uniting" marriage license, but couples need to ask for one specifically before beginning the application process. Furthermore, there is a three-day waiting period attached to marriage licenses in Pennsylvania, so I don't believe my sister got the entire truth.
Nevertheless, I was intrigued. I looked up marriage licensing information for my state, Illinois, wondering if I might actually have gotten myself married without knowing. As it turns out, no.
A legal marriage in Illinois requires that the license not only be signed by the bride and groom but completed by an officiant, who must be a current or retired judge from a court of record, a judge from the Court of Claims, a county clerk in a county with 2 million or more inhabitants, a public official whose duties include solemnizing marriages or a religious or tribal officiant.
So I guess I can't settle into married life just yet. I guess that's for the best. It would have been cool to be able to say we were married already, but at least now I don't have to miss my bachelorette party.
Today, I found a comment from my lovely sister, Jennifer, that in the eyes of the law, I might be better than "as good." I might actually be married.
What? When did that happen?
I questioned her, and she told me that in Pennsylvania -- where we grew up and she still lives -- marriage is officially a contractual agreement. The only thing needed to make a marriage legal are the bride's and groom's signatures on a marriage license; a ceremony is more sentimental than official. Both the priest who performed her marriage and the woman who helped her husband and her at the courthouse told her this when she got married.
I tried to confirm what she'd told me online but couldn't find any official information on the commonwealth's Web pages. I was only able to find this article, which says that it is possible to obtain a "self-uniting" marriage license, but couples need to ask for one specifically before beginning the application process. Furthermore, there is a three-day waiting period attached to marriage licenses in Pennsylvania, so I don't believe my sister got the entire truth.
Nevertheless, I was intrigued. I looked up marriage licensing information for my state, Illinois, wondering if I might actually have gotten myself married without knowing. As it turns out, no.
A legal marriage in Illinois requires that the license not only be signed by the bride and groom but completed by an officiant, who must be a current or retired judge from a court of record, a judge from the Court of Claims, a county clerk in a county with 2 million or more inhabitants, a public official whose duties include solemnizing marriages or a religious or tribal officiant.
So I guess I can't settle into married life just yet. I guess that's for the best. It would have been cool to be able to say we were married already, but at least now I don't have to miss my bachelorette party.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Courthouse of Love
Last night, my fiance and I got licensed.
To marry, that is.
I had never gotten a license to do anything except drive; thank goodness there was no test for this one, just a short questionnaire with questions like "are you already married," and "are you related." Ugh.
On the way to the courthouse, we were listening to the oldies radio station and heard the song "Chapel of Love." It was cute, in a completely cheesy way, and a nice moment in a time when we are stressed out over final details.
Later in the evening, we bickered about seating arrangements for the wedding reception and both ended up grumpy. We still have a ton of work left to do before the actual wedding day, and thinking about it probably didn't do much to make either of us feel better in that moment.
But hey, if it doesn't get done, it doesn't get done. We're licensed; we're set. All the rest of that stuff exists only so we can feel we've been hospitable. We could take our guests out to McDonald's and it wouldn't matter, because at the end of the day, we'd still be married. That's all either of us really wanted out of that day.
That is the whole point, after all.
To marry, that is.
I had never gotten a license to do anything except drive; thank goodness there was no test for this one, just a short questionnaire with questions like "are you already married," and "are you related." Ugh.
On the way to the courthouse, we were listening to the oldies radio station and heard the song "Chapel of Love." It was cute, in a completely cheesy way, and a nice moment in a time when we are stressed out over final details.
Later in the evening, we bickered about seating arrangements for the wedding reception and both ended up grumpy. We still have a ton of work left to do before the actual wedding day, and thinking about it probably didn't do much to make either of us feel better in that moment.
But hey, if it doesn't get done, it doesn't get done. We're licensed; we're set. All the rest of that stuff exists only so we can feel we've been hospitable. We could take our guests out to McDonald's and it wouldn't matter, because at the end of the day, we'd still be married. That's all either of us really wanted out of that day.
That is the whole point, after all.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Snap!
Two people have commented that I made grammatical errors in my Saturday post about being sick, and I feel I have to comment back.
I had been sick for two days when I wrote that entry. For the previous 48 hours, nothing had gone into my body except clear liquids, Pepto Bismol and crackers, but a host of nasty things had been coming out. Forgive me if I wasn't at my best, grammatically.
Way to kick me when I'm down, people. Thanks for the love.
I had been sick for two days when I wrote that entry. For the previous 48 hours, nothing had gone into my body except clear liquids, Pepto Bismol and crackers, but a host of nasty things had been coming out. Forgive me if I wasn't at my best, grammatically.
Way to kick me when I'm down, people. Thanks for the love.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
The Quickest Way I've Ever Lost Five Pounds (Not Recommended)
Wednesday night, my fiance and I made pizza for dinner.
Midday Thursday, we both started feeling sick.
I'm not saying the two things are connected, but it's going to be awhile before I eat pizza again. Once you feel last night's dinner come out of your nose, you know it's pretty much over.
The short version (and believe me, you do not want the long version of this story) is, we have spent the past two days inside, lying on the couch, alternately watching bad TV and running for the bathroom. (Thank God we have two).
It was sort of a relationship growth exercise; we have never been sick at the same time before, and we're both big babies when we're sick, but this time, there wasn't one clear patient and one clear caretaker. Whenever one of us needed something, it was pretty much up to whoever was able to stand up at that moment to get it. And even that got tricky, because after 16 hours lying on the couch and the futon, we were both suffering from sore backs.
Yesterday, thinking it might help me to get out into civilization for awhile, I showered, put on some clean sweats and went out to get more supplies -- ginger ale, saltines and Pepto Bismol. I'm sure I looked miserable, too, so there was no doubt as to what I'd been through in recent hours.
As I was paying, I noticed a pin on the cashier's smock -- it was shaped like a dog bone and said "I love my Soft-coated Wheaten Terrier." My mom has two Wheatens and adores them (I could probably start a whole blog about her dogs -- but I won't, because I am bitter that she loves them more than she loves me. She says it's because they never ask her for money, but come on, I never poop in the yard and ask her to clean it up; who's giving her a better deal here? And I'm pretty sure she wouldn't look favorably on me pooping in the yard, but when her dogs do it, they get cheese). I struck up a brief conversation with the lady about her dogs, and she sent me off with a compassionate "take care, honey." It was kind of like the universe sent me a sympathetic Mom-type person to make me feel better in my time of need.
Today, the fiance and I are feeling almost human again. I was even able to get dressed in real clothes. I don't look so hot though, because since Thursday morning, I have lost 5 1/2 pounds, which is enough to loosen my pants to the point where I don't have to unbutton them to take them off. Under other circumstances, I'd be celebrating; even now, I want to go bathing suit shopping while it lasts.
I did run a few errands; I finalized the wedding flowers (one less thing to worry about later, plus if they end up looking bad I can just tell people that I was sick with dysentery when I chose them) and went to the grocery store, where the sight and smell of food did not make me want to vomit, so I think that's a good sign.
I was on my way to the toilet paper aisle (we've used quite a bit this weekend) and noticed a woman handing out free samples. I wasn't really in a try-something-new mood anyway, but I had to laugh when I saw what her samples were -- All Bran. No, thank you. Certainly don't need that today.
I'm not sure if sharing a weekend of food poisoning brought my fiance and I closer together or not, but I hope it did, because that 5 1/2 pound loss is so not worth how I lost it. Well, unless my thighs look smaller. I'll get back to you on that.
Midday Thursday, we both started feeling sick.
I'm not saying the two things are connected, but it's going to be awhile before I eat pizza again. Once you feel last night's dinner come out of your nose, you know it's pretty much over.
The short version (and believe me, you do not want the long version of this story) is, we have spent the past two days inside, lying on the couch, alternately watching bad TV and running for the bathroom. (Thank God we have two).
It was sort of a relationship growth exercise; we have never been sick at the same time before, and we're both big babies when we're sick, but this time, there wasn't one clear patient and one clear caretaker. Whenever one of us needed something, it was pretty much up to whoever was able to stand up at that moment to get it. And even that got tricky, because after 16 hours lying on the couch and the futon, we were both suffering from sore backs.
Yesterday, thinking it might help me to get out into civilization for awhile, I showered, put on some clean sweats and went out to get more supplies -- ginger ale, saltines and Pepto Bismol. I'm sure I looked miserable, too, so there was no doubt as to what I'd been through in recent hours.
As I was paying, I noticed a pin on the cashier's smock -- it was shaped like a dog bone and said "I love my Soft-coated Wheaten Terrier." My mom has two Wheatens and adores them (I could probably start a whole blog about her dogs -- but I won't, because I am bitter that she loves them more than she loves me. She says it's because they never ask her for money, but come on, I never poop in the yard and ask her to clean it up; who's giving her a better deal here? And I'm pretty sure she wouldn't look favorably on me pooping in the yard, but when her dogs do it, they get cheese). I struck up a brief conversation with the lady about her dogs, and she sent me off with a compassionate "take care, honey." It was kind of like the universe sent me a sympathetic Mom-type person to make me feel better in my time of need.
Today, the fiance and I are feeling almost human again. I was even able to get dressed in real clothes. I don't look so hot though, because since Thursday morning, I have lost 5 1/2 pounds, which is enough to loosen my pants to the point where I don't have to unbutton them to take them off. Under other circumstances, I'd be celebrating; even now, I want to go bathing suit shopping while it lasts.
I did run a few errands; I finalized the wedding flowers (one less thing to worry about later, plus if they end up looking bad I can just tell people that I was sick with dysentery when I chose them) and went to the grocery store, where the sight and smell of food did not make me want to vomit, so I think that's a good sign.
I was on my way to the toilet paper aisle (we've used quite a bit this weekend) and noticed a woman handing out free samples. I wasn't really in a try-something-new mood anyway, but I had to laugh when I saw what her samples were -- All Bran. No, thank you. Certainly don't need that today.
I'm not sure if sharing a weekend of food poisoning brought my fiance and I closer together or not, but I hope it did, because that 5 1/2 pound loss is so not worth how I lost it. Well, unless my thighs look smaller. I'll get back to you on that.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Big Airport of Horrors, Or, I Used The Word "Apocalypse" More Times In This Entry Than I Have Ever Used The Rest of My Life, Cumulatively
O'Hare Airport is, to me, a living battleground.
I've been there several times, as a passenger and meeting passengers, and hardly ever do things go completely smoothly. I don't know if any Hollywood film directors read my blog, but I think a good post-apocalyptic science fiction movie would be about the few surviving humans taking shelter at O'Hare as the big bomb destroys civilization, then trying to leave and start a new civilization, but the airport won't let them out. It would be plausible, because, as I have learned even pre-apocalypse, it is nearly impossible to leave O'Hare Airport. It's like Hotel California, without the metaphor.
Yesterday, my friend English Kari (so-called because her name is Kari and she lives in England, and I need a way to distinguish her from my friend Carrie from high school) arrived at O'Hare for a stopover between Manchester and Atlanta. I was at work all day and couldn't make it up to the airport to see her during her mid-afternoon stay, but I gave her my cell phone number and told her that if she got stuck for any reason to let me know. We had some storms yesterday, and I heard there were delays, so I left my phone on. I didn't recieve a call, so I assumed that English Kari had made it to her destination.
I should mention at this point that I have never actually met Kari in person. I know her through an online forum, which is, ironically enough, for people who are afraid to fly. I "met" the guy who started the site while doing research for a story for my former newspaper, and he and his cohorts were so nice that I've stuck around for four years. The site has been instrumental in helping me overcome my own fear of flying, and the people on it are great. Many of them get together regularly, but I've yet to meet any of them in person.
Anyway, about 10 p.m., I logged on and found a message from Mark, the site administrator, who lives in Tennessee and had spoken to Kari. She'd told him she was stuck at O'Hare for the night; she'd tried to call me but couldn't get through. Immediately, I began trying to reach her. I tried her cell phone (some automated lady with a British accent told me that my call could not be completed); I tried paging her through the airline (no answer); I tried calling the airline's first class lounges, to see if they could get me through to the paging system (closed); I tried speaking to someone at the airport's main number, twice (the first time they transferred me to the airline's ticket reservation line, and the second time they gave me the two numbers I'd already tried and said they had no other ones). Finally, I gave up and went to bed, and I'm still not sure whether Kari got out.
Getting stuck at any airport is a bummer, but getting stuck at O'Hare seems almost inevitable. When I was 13, I was stranded there for an entire day. I'd been visiting my aunt in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and my flight to Chicago got in late, so I missed my connection. I'd never flown by myself before, so my aunt had paid to have someone escort me, and when they came to get me for the next flight I could take, the woman took me to the wrong gate. Since this was well before 9-11, and the gate agents didn't seem to know what was going on, so if I had been more bold, I might have been able to weasel my way onto the plane at that gate -- it was headed for Paris, so I was tempted to try -- but by the time I got the attention of a gate agent, my actual flight -- headed for Washington, D.C. -- had already taken off. Another employee (an old man named Floyd, who had a mole on his face and was really nice to me as I cried during the whole walk) escorted me to another gate for the last flight of the day, and finally I made it out.
But others I know have not escaped spending the night. A year ago, my mom was flying to Iowa (to see that same aunt -- for awhile I blamed her for the O'Hare phenomenon, but I think she's off the hook now) and ended up stuck for the night. She really didn't have to be stuck, though, having a daughter who lives 40 miles away and was driving to the aunt's house the next day; she ended up arriving only a short time before I did.
And it's not just passengers who have trouble. Just before my mom's incident, I made plans to meet up with a friend who had a layover at O'Hare. Hailing from Germany, she was an exchange student who stayed with my family when I was in high school, and this time, she was passing through Chicago on her way home from a visit to Kansas, where she'd spent some time in graduate school. I headed up to the airport to see her, and just as I reached our designated meeting spot, my cell phone rang. It was her, telling me she was stuck on the plane in Kansas City with no idea when she'd be taking off. I went home, although not before paying for the 10 minutes I was parked, because in the city of Chicago, nothing is ever free. One could argue that her story was about being stuck in Kansas City, not Chicago, but the point is, every time anyone I know has made O'Hare part of their travel plans, something weird happens.
I have plans to meet up with English Kari on Sunday (we plan to line dance -- she has a rule that whenever folks from the forum get together, they have to line dance, and I like that rule), when she stops at O'Hare on her way home from Atlanta, but part of me wonders if I should even bother. That airport has been no friend to me, and given past experience, I have doubts as to whether we'll actually be able to make it happen.
But really, that makes me all the more determined to go. It's not just about visiting with Kari; it's about conquering O'Hare Airport. Chicago mayor Richard Daley has been fighting to expand the already-gargantuan O'Hare, and if he succeeds, I fear the airport will just start growing on its own and take over the entire city, "feed me, Seymour" style. We must fight back before it's too late, or O'Hare won't just be the threat of the post-apocalypse; it will bring about the apocalypse itself.
So bring on your best, O'Hare Airport. Come Sunday, English Kari and I will be line dancing on your face!
I've been there several times, as a passenger and meeting passengers, and hardly ever do things go completely smoothly. I don't know if any Hollywood film directors read my blog, but I think a good post-apocalyptic science fiction movie would be about the few surviving humans taking shelter at O'Hare as the big bomb destroys civilization, then trying to leave and start a new civilization, but the airport won't let them out. It would be plausible, because, as I have learned even pre-apocalypse, it is nearly impossible to leave O'Hare Airport. It's like Hotel California, without the metaphor.
Yesterday, my friend English Kari (so-called because her name is Kari and she lives in England, and I need a way to distinguish her from my friend Carrie from high school) arrived at O'Hare for a stopover between Manchester and Atlanta. I was at work all day and couldn't make it up to the airport to see her during her mid-afternoon stay, but I gave her my cell phone number and told her that if she got stuck for any reason to let me know. We had some storms yesterday, and I heard there were delays, so I left my phone on. I didn't recieve a call, so I assumed that English Kari had made it to her destination.
I should mention at this point that I have never actually met Kari in person. I know her through an online forum, which is, ironically enough, for people who are afraid to fly. I "met" the guy who started the site while doing research for a story for my former newspaper, and he and his cohorts were so nice that I've stuck around for four years. The site has been instrumental in helping me overcome my own fear of flying, and the people on it are great. Many of them get together regularly, but I've yet to meet any of them in person.
Anyway, about 10 p.m., I logged on and found a message from Mark, the site administrator, who lives in Tennessee and had spoken to Kari. She'd told him she was stuck at O'Hare for the night; she'd tried to call me but couldn't get through. Immediately, I began trying to reach her. I tried her cell phone (some automated lady with a British accent told me that my call could not be completed); I tried paging her through the airline (no answer); I tried calling the airline's first class lounges, to see if they could get me through to the paging system (closed); I tried speaking to someone at the airport's main number, twice (the first time they transferred me to the airline's ticket reservation line, and the second time they gave me the two numbers I'd already tried and said they had no other ones). Finally, I gave up and went to bed, and I'm still not sure whether Kari got out.
Getting stuck at any airport is a bummer, but getting stuck at O'Hare seems almost inevitable. When I was 13, I was stranded there for an entire day. I'd been visiting my aunt in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and my flight to Chicago got in late, so I missed my connection. I'd never flown by myself before, so my aunt had paid to have someone escort me, and when they came to get me for the next flight I could take, the woman took me to the wrong gate. Since this was well before 9-11, and the gate agents didn't seem to know what was going on, so if I had been more bold, I might have been able to weasel my way onto the plane at that gate -- it was headed for Paris, so I was tempted to try -- but by the time I got the attention of a gate agent, my actual flight -- headed for Washington, D.C. -- had already taken off. Another employee (an old man named Floyd, who had a mole on his face and was really nice to me as I cried during the whole walk) escorted me to another gate for the last flight of the day, and finally I made it out.
But others I know have not escaped spending the night. A year ago, my mom was flying to Iowa (to see that same aunt -- for awhile I blamed her for the O'Hare phenomenon, but I think she's off the hook now) and ended up stuck for the night. She really didn't have to be stuck, though, having a daughter who lives 40 miles away and was driving to the aunt's house the next day; she ended up arriving only a short time before I did.
And it's not just passengers who have trouble. Just before my mom's incident, I made plans to meet up with a friend who had a layover at O'Hare. Hailing from Germany, she was an exchange student who stayed with my family when I was in high school, and this time, she was passing through Chicago on her way home from a visit to Kansas, where she'd spent some time in graduate school. I headed up to the airport to see her, and just as I reached our designated meeting spot, my cell phone rang. It was her, telling me she was stuck on the plane in Kansas City with no idea when she'd be taking off. I went home, although not before paying for the 10 minutes I was parked, because in the city of Chicago, nothing is ever free. One could argue that her story was about being stuck in Kansas City, not Chicago, but the point is, every time anyone I know has made O'Hare part of their travel plans, something weird happens.
I have plans to meet up with English Kari on Sunday (we plan to line dance -- she has a rule that whenever folks from the forum get together, they have to line dance, and I like that rule), when she stops at O'Hare on her way home from Atlanta, but part of me wonders if I should even bother. That airport has been no friend to me, and given past experience, I have doubts as to whether we'll actually be able to make it happen.
But really, that makes me all the more determined to go. It's not just about visiting with Kari; it's about conquering O'Hare Airport. Chicago mayor Richard Daley has been fighting to expand the already-gargantuan O'Hare, and if he succeeds, I fear the airport will just start growing on its own and take over the entire city, "feed me, Seymour" style. We must fight back before it's too late, or O'Hare won't just be the threat of the post-apocalypse; it will bring about the apocalypse itself.
So bring on your best, O'Hare Airport. Come Sunday, English Kari and I will be line dancing on your face!
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Notes From My Corner, Or, Nothing All That Interesting Has Happened To Me Lately, But Something Important Did Happen Two Years Ago Today
Two years ago today, my fiance and I went out on our first date. The items below really have nothing to do with that, but I thought it was worth mentioning, especially considering I find things like the below items interesting enough to blog about.
* I bought a new microwave oven on Saturday. I wanted to get the one that had a pizza oven built into it, but it cost $100 more. Marla admonished me for even considering the pizza oven microwave, but the truth is, I make pizza often enough to find it handy. Well, I would if I had a pizza oven anyway. Plus there was a fun little handle and a tray you can take right out.
* Keebler now makes a "Right Bites" (their version of the 100 Calorie Pack) of Grasshopper Cookies. Man are they tasty.
* Didn't-Bother-To-Brush-Her-Hair-But-Did-Take-
The-Time-To-Put-On-Tights-Yes, Tights Lady from my gym must be a Stapling Jello reader, because she's started brushing her hair. Mind you, that makes it pretty frizzy and actually look worse than it did before, but I do have to give her a thumbs-up for her effort. She looks like she's gotten some highlights, too, which astounds me. Why spend the money on highlights on hair that looks like that? I know I'm being mean, but come on lady, let's be just a little practical here.
* I've resumed my practice of buying only pants that are sized "long," even if they are too long when I put them on in the store. High water pants do not look good, especially on someone who has big feet.
* I had a dream one night last week that I walked out of my office and my car had been stolen from the parking lot. The next day, I went shopping, and when I walked out of the store, it took me awhile to find my car because there was a big van parked next to it. Eerie, huh?
* I bought a new microwave oven on Saturday. I wanted to get the one that had a pizza oven built into it, but it cost $100 more. Marla admonished me for even considering the pizza oven microwave, but the truth is, I make pizza often enough to find it handy. Well, I would if I had a pizza oven anyway. Plus there was a fun little handle and a tray you can take right out.
* Keebler now makes a "Right Bites" (their version of the 100 Calorie Pack) of Grasshopper Cookies. Man are they tasty.
* Didn't-Bother-To-Brush-Her-Hair-But-Did-Take-
The-Time-To-Put-On-Tights-Yes, Tights Lady from my gym must be a Stapling Jello reader, because she's started brushing her hair. Mind you, that makes it pretty frizzy and actually look worse than it did before, but I do have to give her a thumbs-up for her effort. She looks like she's gotten some highlights, too, which astounds me. Why spend the money on highlights on hair that looks like that? I know I'm being mean, but come on lady, let's be just a little practical here.
* I've resumed my practice of buying only pants that are sized "long," even if they are too long when I put them on in the store. High water pants do not look good, especially on someone who has big feet.
* I had a dream one night last week that I walked out of my office and my car had been stolen from the parking lot. The next day, I went shopping, and when I walked out of the store, it took me awhile to find my car because there was a big van parked next to it. Eerie, huh?
Monday, March 12, 2007
Springing Ahead, In The World's Largest Way
The clocks have changed, and all of a sudden, my time is no longer my own.
This past weekend was my last free one before the wedding. From now till after my name changes, I have something going on every single (pun intended) weekend.
As fate would have it, my last free weekend as a free woman coincided with a professional conference my fiance attends every year. It was also a three-day weekend for me. I didn't want to spend the whole weekend alone, and I had a free frequent flyer trip due me, so I decided to get out of town.
I called up my old college roommate, Miranda, in Fayetteville, NC, and invited myself down to her neck of the woods. She eagerly accepted my self-invitation, and I booked a flight. It was the perfect thing to do.
Miranda has always been one of my favorite people to hang out with -- she's fun, quirky and gets amused by the same random things that amuse me. In the good old days, we laughed constantly, usually about nothing at all. For the two years we were roommates, hardly a day went by that we didn't come up with some new silly inside joke. It was pretty annoying to the people around us, but we had a blast.
I hadn't seen my pal in more than a year, and both that visit and one before it had been at weddings (one of them hers, to a man I am happy to say shares her goofy sense of humor), so we didn't get a chance to just hang out. It makes me kind of sad sometimes that our friendship has evolved in this way; we used to be so close, and now we never see each other. She hasn't even met my fiance yet. It's just so hard to find the time and money to get together. It's just how life goes, I guess, and I think we would be pretty pathetic figures today, had we not gone on to find lives and friends beyond college.
But I still really appreciate it when we are able to hang out and laugh like we used to, and I'm glad I took this weekend to do just that.
During my stay in Fayetteville, Miranda and her husband, Jeremy, showed me some of their favorite North Carolina hot spots -- the nature trail they like to walk, the Mexican restaurant they patronize for great chips and salsa, their favorite dollar store, the theatres they volunteer in and the area's best place for some tasty North Carolina barbecue. They even took me on a little side trip to a winery an hour or so away in Rose Hill, NC, so I could taste how the South does grapes.
But the most exciting destination was not on the agenda -- a fact I can prove, because I took a picture of the agenda. As we approached the winery, we passed a bright red and white pavillion. When I read the sign on it, I couldn't believe my luck. What a wonderful unexpected discovery! I suddenly understood how the first Texan to strike oil must have felt.
It was hard to believe, but there I was, within spitting distance of the World's Largest Frying Pan.
Being a lover of all things quirky, I had always wanted to see the world's largest something. I had been to the World's Largest Truck Stop before, and according to Jeremy and Miranda, Fayetteville is actually home to the World's Largest Wal-Mart, but this was different. Those places were made large to make large amounts of money. The World's Largest Frying Pan -- although most likely built as part of a publicity stunt that I'm sure brought money to some cause or business (I was too excited to read any of the information while I was there) -- now exists simply for the sake of being large.
Oddly enough, it was the perfect thing to see while visiting Miranda -- a silly, random, goofy thing that we just happened upon. We could never in a million years have thought to look for something as weird as the world's largest frying pan, and if we had, we'd never have found it. We'd have had better luck searching for a cat in a cup full of nails*.
I suppose it is also strangely appropriate that my last weekend as a single gal was the weekend we changed our clocks and were hurled an hour into the future. With six weeks till the wedding, things seem to be moving faster and faster each day. Before I know it, the big day will be here.
Before this big leap into tomorrow, though, it was nice to take a trip down Memory Lane. It was even nicer to know that the good times don't have to stay there. Over the weekend,we did a good bit of laughing about the old times, but we had quite a few new laughs as well**. We'll probably never again live in the same state, and I'm sure that as the years pass, we'll have more and more going on in our own lives that has nothing to do with each other. But I hope we'll still make an effort to see each other.
We'll just have to take the time.
___________
*See what I mean about the inside jokes? That cup full of nails thing made no sense to you, did it?
**More laughs than a cup full of nails. See? Annoying as crap, isn't it?
This past weekend was my last free one before the wedding. From now till after my name changes, I have something going on every single (pun intended) weekend.
As fate would have it, my last free weekend as a free woman coincided with a professional conference my fiance attends every year. It was also a three-day weekend for me. I didn't want to spend the whole weekend alone, and I had a free frequent flyer trip due me, so I decided to get out of town.
I called up my old college roommate, Miranda, in Fayetteville, NC, and invited myself down to her neck of the woods. She eagerly accepted my self-invitation, and I booked a flight. It was the perfect thing to do.
Miranda has always been one of my favorite people to hang out with -- she's fun, quirky and gets amused by the same random things that amuse me. In the good old days, we laughed constantly, usually about nothing at all. For the two years we were roommates, hardly a day went by that we didn't come up with some new silly inside joke. It was pretty annoying to the people around us, but we had a blast.
I hadn't seen my pal in more than a year, and both that visit and one before it had been at weddings (one of them hers, to a man I am happy to say shares her goofy sense of humor), so we didn't get a chance to just hang out. It makes me kind of sad sometimes that our friendship has evolved in this way; we used to be so close, and now we never see each other. She hasn't even met my fiance yet. It's just so hard to find the time and money to get together. It's just how life goes, I guess, and I think we would be pretty pathetic figures today, had we not gone on to find lives and friends beyond college.
But I still really appreciate it when we are able to hang out and laugh like we used to, and I'm glad I took this weekend to do just that.
During my stay in Fayetteville, Miranda and her husband, Jeremy, showed me some of their favorite North Carolina hot spots -- the nature trail they like to walk, the Mexican restaurant they patronize for great chips and salsa, their favorite dollar store, the theatres they volunteer in and the area's best place for some tasty North Carolina barbecue. They even took me on a little side trip to a winery an hour or so away in Rose Hill, NC, so I could taste how the South does grapes.
But the most exciting destination was not on the agenda -- a fact I can prove, because I took a picture of the agenda. As we approached the winery, we passed a bright red and white pavillion. When I read the sign on it, I couldn't believe my luck. What a wonderful unexpected discovery! I suddenly understood how the first Texan to strike oil must have felt.
It was hard to believe, but there I was, within spitting distance of the World's Largest Frying Pan.
Being a lover of all things quirky, I had always wanted to see the world's largest something. I had been to the World's Largest Truck Stop before, and according to Jeremy and Miranda, Fayetteville is actually home to the World's Largest Wal-Mart, but this was different. Those places were made large to make large amounts of money. The World's Largest Frying Pan -- although most likely built as part of a publicity stunt that I'm sure brought money to some cause or business (I was too excited to read any of the information while I was there) -- now exists simply for the sake of being large.
Oddly enough, it was the perfect thing to see while visiting Miranda -- a silly, random, goofy thing that we just happened upon. We could never in a million years have thought to look for something as weird as the world's largest frying pan, and if we had, we'd never have found it. We'd have had better luck searching for a cat in a cup full of nails*.
I suppose it is also strangely appropriate that my last weekend as a single gal was the weekend we changed our clocks and were hurled an hour into the future. With six weeks till the wedding, things seem to be moving faster and faster each day. Before I know it, the big day will be here.
Before this big leap into tomorrow, though, it was nice to take a trip down Memory Lane. It was even nicer to know that the good times don't have to stay there. Over the weekend,we did a good bit of laughing about the old times, but we had quite a few new laughs as well**. We'll probably never again live in the same state, and I'm sure that as the years pass, we'll have more and more going on in our own lives that has nothing to do with each other. But I hope we'll still make an effort to see each other.
We'll just have to take the time.
___________
*See what I mean about the inside jokes? That cup full of nails thing made no sense to you, did it?
**More laughs than a cup full of nails. See? Annoying as crap, isn't it?
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
As The Countdown Continues, Each Day Has Its Due
Countdown: 46 days.
If you have been paying attention, you know that the event for which I am counting the days is my wedding. In 46 days, I will walk down the aisle, take the hand of my sweetheart and become a missus. I've been counting down pretty much since we set the date, and I keep track by marking the number of months and weeks on my home calendar, and months, weeks and days on my pocket calendar.
You know, in case I forget.
Honestly, though, I highly doubt I will forget, also having written on the big day, "get married, 4 p.m." and the name of the church.
It's not really that I'm excited (although I am) or impatient (I am that, too). I just like to keep track of dates. I journal pretty regularly, and I have for half my life, so I have records of many significant dates that, otherwise, I might have forgotten. Because of my habit of writing things down, my memory for dates is freakishly good. So I don't even have to look to know that today is the four-year anniversary of the day my fiance and I first met, on assignment together for the newspaper where I used to work and he still works. We didn't start dating for two years after that, so I probably wouldn't have remembered that had I not written about the assignment (and yes, I did write about the assignment, not the person with whom I had the assignment).
But even the insignificant dates become significant when they are centered around a big event, and by marking them off, in my journal, in my head or on the calendar, I feel I give them their due. Fifty-four days ago, I sat eating dinner in a Greek restaurant with my fiance, telling him this, as he laughed at me for being excited that it was exactly 100 days until our wedding.
"You may not think it's a big deal now," I told him, "but just wait until our wedding day. We'll be sitting at our reception, eating dinner, and I'm going to say to you, 'do you remember what we had for dinner 100 days ago?' You'll say 'no,' but I'll know that we ate here, and you had chicken kebabs, and I had a vegetarian plate." I went on to say that I would tell him this at the wedding, recount all the events of this day and of the party we were headed to that evening.
"I will even tell you about this conversation," I said, "and I will remind you that you didn't believe I could remember all of those details. But I will."
And as the date for the wedding gets closer, I find myself noticing something significant in every single day. Last Thursday, March 1, I realized that for the first time I could officially say "I'm getting married next month." This past Monday, when I saw the mid-season cliffhanger for NBC's Heroes, and the voice-over guy announced that the show would return on April 23, I turned to my fiance and said, "that was the last episode until after we're married." I do that with work projects, too, thinking, oh, the next time I'll talk to this client, I'll be married, or, I'd better not copy too many of these fax cover sheets, because I'll have to change the name on them in a few months.
I've begun to see my life lately in terms of "before the wedding" and "after the wedding." It's not that I feel my life will be all that different; it's just a way I'm framing events these days. It's sort of like leaving work on December 31 and realizing that you won't be back until the new year.
The fact of the matter is, when I walk down that aisle in 46 days, I probably won't care much about what I did today. I won't care what the weather was (cloudy and drizzly) what I wore (jeans and a black sweater), what I ate for lunch (Trader Joe's three-bean chili). But whether it matters or not in the long run, it's nice to know that this day was given its due.
If you have been paying attention, you know that the event for which I am counting the days is my wedding. In 46 days, I will walk down the aisle, take the hand of my sweetheart and become a missus. I've been counting down pretty much since we set the date, and I keep track by marking the number of months and weeks on my home calendar, and months, weeks and days on my pocket calendar.
You know, in case I forget.
Honestly, though, I highly doubt I will forget, also having written on the big day, "get married, 4 p.m." and the name of the church.
It's not really that I'm excited (although I am) or impatient (I am that, too). I just like to keep track of dates. I journal pretty regularly, and I have for half my life, so I have records of many significant dates that, otherwise, I might have forgotten. Because of my habit of writing things down, my memory for dates is freakishly good. So I don't even have to look to know that today is the four-year anniversary of the day my fiance and I first met, on assignment together for the newspaper where I used to work and he still works. We didn't start dating for two years after that, so I probably wouldn't have remembered that had I not written about the assignment (and yes, I did write about the assignment, not the person with whom I had the assignment).
But even the insignificant dates become significant when they are centered around a big event, and by marking them off, in my journal, in my head or on the calendar, I feel I give them their due. Fifty-four days ago, I sat eating dinner in a Greek restaurant with my fiance, telling him this, as he laughed at me for being excited that it was exactly 100 days until our wedding.
"You may not think it's a big deal now," I told him, "but just wait until our wedding day. We'll be sitting at our reception, eating dinner, and I'm going to say to you, 'do you remember what we had for dinner 100 days ago?' You'll say 'no,' but I'll know that we ate here, and you had chicken kebabs, and I had a vegetarian plate." I went on to say that I would tell him this at the wedding, recount all the events of this day and of the party we were headed to that evening.
"I will even tell you about this conversation," I said, "and I will remind you that you didn't believe I could remember all of those details. But I will."
And as the date for the wedding gets closer, I find myself noticing something significant in every single day. Last Thursday, March 1, I realized that for the first time I could officially say "I'm getting married next month." This past Monday, when I saw the mid-season cliffhanger for NBC's Heroes, and the voice-over guy announced that the show would return on April 23, I turned to my fiance and said, "that was the last episode until after we're married." I do that with work projects, too, thinking, oh, the next time I'll talk to this client, I'll be married, or, I'd better not copy too many of these fax cover sheets, because I'll have to change the name on them in a few months.
I've begun to see my life lately in terms of "before the wedding" and "after the wedding." It's not that I feel my life will be all that different; it's just a way I'm framing events these days. It's sort of like leaving work on December 31 and realizing that you won't be back until the new year.
The fact of the matter is, when I walk down that aisle in 46 days, I probably won't care much about what I did today. I won't care what the weather was (cloudy and drizzly) what I wore (jeans and a black sweater), what I ate for lunch (Trader Joe's three-bean chili). But whether it matters or not in the long run, it's nice to know that this day was given its due.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Where Fashion Sits
Some nights are just meant to be bad.
My sister is having a bridal shower for me this Saturday, and I realized the other day that I don't really have anything suitable to wear. I have some skirts and dresses, but the bulk of them are summery, and the others are black. I like black; I look good in it, but it's not really very wedding shower bride-like.
Besides, as spring prepares to reveal itself, I want to wear clothes in varying colors and sleeve-lengths. I am so tired of brown and black sweaters.
So last night, I set out to buy a dress for the shower. I'd seen a dress I liked in black at one store, so I stopped somewhere else to see if I could find something similar in a better color. The first place had nothing that looked good on me, and the second place had no better selection. I tried on a blouse, but as usual, the button-down top failed not-flat-chested me. My choice was either walking around with the front of my shirt gaping open or wearing a shirt that was way too big.
I really wish clothing manufacturers would take chest size (and waist-to-hip ratio) into account when making tops and dresses. I'm tired of wearing things that are made for girls who are shaped like boys.
At this point, I should have just gone home. It was obviously not in the cards for me to find anything new to wear to the shower, and I have a skirt and top at home that are fine. But I'd been shopping long enough -- and seen enough of the colorful spring selections -- that I was even more determined to buy something that wasn't black.
So I did something unthinkable. I went to the mall.
Straight off, I found the perfect skirt. I couldn't believe my luck. It was flouncy enough for a bridal shower but not too summery for a February event. It was perfect. But, of course, the store had no tops to match the skirt that fit me (buttons, again, and a large petite selection, which doesn't work for me, since I'm 5'9" and appropriately proportioned as such). I was tempted to buy the skirt and look for a top somewhere else, but the colors were tough to match, so I left without it and kept looking.
And looking.
And looking.
The only other promising thing I found was a skirt in the same colors as the first one, yet again with no tops to match it. And this time, they didn't even have matching tops that didn't fit; they really had nothing that matched.
What is up with these stores?
The highlight of my experience in this place, however, was the dressing room. First off, it took a full five minutes to find someone to unlock one for me. Then while I was in there, an employee came around to open a room for another customer, knocked on the door of the room I was in, and although I called out to her, then reached out to hold the door shut, still protesting that the room was, in fact, occupied, unlocked and opened the door while I was changing.
The bonus came a few minutes later, when some children who had been waiting nearby for their mom while she was in a dressing room began discussing the incident, and one whispered, "I saw the lady's underwear."
I guess I should just be happy that he didn't say, "I saw the lady's underwear and big fat thighs."
I went home annoyed and empty-handed -- oh, except for one item I got on clearance.
It's a black sweater.
My sister is having a bridal shower for me this Saturday, and I realized the other day that I don't really have anything suitable to wear. I have some skirts and dresses, but the bulk of them are summery, and the others are black. I like black; I look good in it, but it's not really very wedding shower bride-like.
Besides, as spring prepares to reveal itself, I want to wear clothes in varying colors and sleeve-lengths. I am so tired of brown and black sweaters.
So last night, I set out to buy a dress for the shower. I'd seen a dress I liked in black at one store, so I stopped somewhere else to see if I could find something similar in a better color. The first place had nothing that looked good on me, and the second place had no better selection. I tried on a blouse, but as usual, the button-down top failed not-flat-chested me. My choice was either walking around with the front of my shirt gaping open or wearing a shirt that was way too big.
I really wish clothing manufacturers would take chest size (and waist-to-hip ratio) into account when making tops and dresses. I'm tired of wearing things that are made for girls who are shaped like boys.
At this point, I should have just gone home. It was obviously not in the cards for me to find anything new to wear to the shower, and I have a skirt and top at home that are fine. But I'd been shopping long enough -- and seen enough of the colorful spring selections -- that I was even more determined to buy something that wasn't black.
So I did something unthinkable. I went to the mall.
Straight off, I found the perfect skirt. I couldn't believe my luck. It was flouncy enough for a bridal shower but not too summery for a February event. It was perfect. But, of course, the store had no tops to match the skirt that fit me (buttons, again, and a large petite selection, which doesn't work for me, since I'm 5'9" and appropriately proportioned as such). I was tempted to buy the skirt and look for a top somewhere else, but the colors were tough to match, so I left without it and kept looking.
And looking.
And looking.
The only other promising thing I found was a skirt in the same colors as the first one, yet again with no tops to match it. And this time, they didn't even have matching tops that didn't fit; they really had nothing that matched.
What is up with these stores?
The highlight of my experience in this place, however, was the dressing room. First off, it took a full five minutes to find someone to unlock one for me. Then while I was in there, an employee came around to open a room for another customer, knocked on the door of the room I was in, and although I called out to her, then reached out to hold the door shut, still protesting that the room was, in fact, occupied, unlocked and opened the door while I was changing.
The bonus came a few minutes later, when some children who had been waiting nearby for their mom while she was in a dressing room began discussing the incident, and one whispered, "I saw the lady's underwear."
I guess I should just be happy that he didn't say, "I saw the lady's underwear and big fat thighs."
I went home annoyed and empty-handed -- oh, except for one item I got on clearance.
It's a black sweater.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Show Me That Smile Again
Last night as I got ready for bed, I was hit with a fierce stomach ache.
I tried to ignore it and go to sleep anyway, but the pain was terrible, and lying flat made it worse, so I went into the living room and turned on the TV, figuring that if I had to be awake, I might as well be entertained for awhile.
I hit the jackpot. Nick at Nite was having a marathon of my absolute favorite TV show from the 80s, Growing Pains. It was exactly the comfort I needed.
When I was a kid, the Seavers were my TV dream family. What could be better -- the journalist mom, the psychiatrist dad, the wild boy, the brainy girl and the kid who loved to eat. I wanted to live in their house (15 Robinhood Lane, thank you very much) and be friends with their friends (who didn't love Boner?). I wanted to have wacky adventures like the ones they had.
Even now, I think I would have fit in pretty well.
Growing Pains was my favorite show back then. I loved it. New episodes were appointment viewing, and when reruns started playing in syndication, I would watch them every weekday afternoon at 4. It was a welcome respite from my tumultuous middle school life. Whatever adolescent drama I was suffering, I could find escape on Growing Pains.
The episodes airing last night were the very early ones, and when I turned on the TV, I was instantly taken back to 1986, to my parents' basement, with its tree wallpaper, barn board and furniture with scratchy upholstery. I could almost see my sister, Jennifer, age 13, swooning over Mike Seaver.
Jen had a fierce crush on the dashing Kirk Cameron back in those days. She had his pictures -- ripped out of Superteen, Tiger Beat and other 80s teen staples -- all over her bedroom wall. She had pictures of other teen heart throbs as well, but I think Kirk was her favorite. She once wrote him a fan letter and enclosed a cookie recipe for his mom, who she had read liked to bake.
Surprisingly, she failed to win his affections.
I had a celebrity crush on that show, too, and I'm not ashamed to say it. Kirk Cameron -- dreamy though he was -- was too old for me, so I went for his TV brother, Jeremy Miller.
It's true. I had it bad for Ben Seaver.
I still don't know why I liked him so much. Maybe I wanted to follow the lead of my big sister and her TV crush. Maybe I liked that Ben was always eating; I remember one scene in which he was putting Nestle Quik into a glass of milk, not being satisfied with the chocolate content, so instead pouring the milk into the Quik box and drinking it that way -- I think I might have actually tried that once. Maybe I figured a fake TV boyfriend would never let me down, unlike my second grade crush Kurt (who, inexplicably, failed to be impressed when I told him I'd lost a tooth) or my fourth grade crush Dana (who bit me). Or maybe I really thought he was cute. Who knows?
Whatever the reason, I was crazy in love.
I am a little embarrassed to admit, my Jeremy Miller crush lasted well into the late years of the series. Sure, he was in that dorky teenage phase, but I was too, so really, we were perfect for each other. My affections weren't even swayed during the Leonardo DiCaprio episodes, so it must have been true love.
Alas, things never worked out between ole Jeremy and me. My crush ended pretty much when the series did. But watching last night reminded me of the good old days, when Ben Seaver was my one and only, and when just 30 minutes could mean the difference between the end of the world and a happy new beginning.
And what do you know -- after just one episode, my stomach ache was gone.
I tried to ignore it and go to sleep anyway, but the pain was terrible, and lying flat made it worse, so I went into the living room and turned on the TV, figuring that if I had to be awake, I might as well be entertained for awhile.
I hit the jackpot. Nick at Nite was having a marathon of my absolute favorite TV show from the 80s, Growing Pains. It was exactly the comfort I needed.
When I was a kid, the Seavers were my TV dream family. What could be better -- the journalist mom, the psychiatrist dad, the wild boy, the brainy girl and the kid who loved to eat. I wanted to live in their house (15 Robinhood Lane, thank you very much) and be friends with their friends (who didn't love Boner?). I wanted to have wacky adventures like the ones they had.
Even now, I think I would have fit in pretty well.
Growing Pains was my favorite show back then. I loved it. New episodes were appointment viewing, and when reruns started playing in syndication, I would watch them every weekday afternoon at 4. It was a welcome respite from my tumultuous middle school life. Whatever adolescent drama I was suffering, I could find escape on Growing Pains.
The episodes airing last night were the very early ones, and when I turned on the TV, I was instantly taken back to 1986, to my parents' basement, with its tree wallpaper, barn board and furniture with scratchy upholstery. I could almost see my sister, Jennifer, age 13, swooning over Mike Seaver.
Jen had a fierce crush on the dashing Kirk Cameron back in those days. She had his pictures -- ripped out of Superteen, Tiger Beat and other 80s teen staples -- all over her bedroom wall. She had pictures of other teen heart throbs as well, but I think Kirk was her favorite. She once wrote him a fan letter and enclosed a cookie recipe for his mom, who she had read liked to bake.
Surprisingly, she failed to win his affections.
I had a celebrity crush on that show, too, and I'm not ashamed to say it. Kirk Cameron -- dreamy though he was -- was too old for me, so I went for his TV brother, Jeremy Miller.
It's true. I had it bad for Ben Seaver.
I still don't know why I liked him so much. Maybe I wanted to follow the lead of my big sister and her TV crush. Maybe I liked that Ben was always eating; I remember one scene in which he was putting Nestle Quik into a glass of milk, not being satisfied with the chocolate content, so instead pouring the milk into the Quik box and drinking it that way -- I think I might have actually tried that once. Maybe I figured a fake TV boyfriend would never let me down, unlike my second grade crush Kurt (who, inexplicably, failed to be impressed when I told him I'd lost a tooth) or my fourth grade crush Dana (who bit me). Or maybe I really thought he was cute. Who knows?
Whatever the reason, I was crazy in love.
I am a little embarrassed to admit, my Jeremy Miller crush lasted well into the late years of the series. Sure, he was in that dorky teenage phase, but I was too, so really, we were perfect for each other. My affections weren't even swayed during the Leonardo DiCaprio episodes, so it must have been true love.
Alas, things never worked out between ole Jeremy and me. My crush ended pretty much when the series did. But watching last night reminded me of the good old days, when Ben Seaver was my one and only, and when just 30 minutes could mean the difference between the end of the world and a happy new beginning.
And what do you know -- after just one episode, my stomach ache was gone.
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