Pass the Nog

Some people choose Hallmark to provide warm Christmas greetings to friends and loved ones. I, however, choose Steve Carell.



A big thanks to JMT for passing this gem along.

Exhaling

You know the musical montage scenes in cheesy movies, when the characters do all sorts of crazy, kooky things while mugging for the camera, dancing around, and laughing for no apparent reason? That’s how my life has felt since school ended Monday night. I feel ten years younger and six inches taller. Suddenly my life is set to fun, happy music. It’s as though the Spin Doctors follow me wherever I go.

I have FREE TIME. Sure, there’s that full-time job, but that’s it. I can spend my lunch hours doing whatever I want, and with the weather all week hovering near 80 degrees, they’re often spent at Freedom Park or walking to errands instead of being the ugly American who drives the half mile to the grocery store. I don’t have to wake up early to write papers, but sometimes do anyway just so I can be awake in the morning and NOT writing a paper. The novelty!

My evenings are wide open. Wednesday night, I went to trivia at Murphy’s with friends and our crack team won every round but one, racking up $55 in gift certificates. Did you know that the second sequel to the Flintstones movie was called “Viva Rock Vegas”? We did. Thursday night, my hockey game dreams came true. While at a Charlotte Checkers game, Jimmy caught a t-shirt from the air gun, and in the coolest part of all, we got on the “Kiss Cam” on the jumbotron. During countless Caps games, I’d lament that no one in the 400 section ever got on the Kiss Cam, and those lucky 100 section people who did never provided enough gusto for the crowd. But there we were, two rows from the ice, suckin’ face in front of Bobcats Arena. (When we realized the camera was on us, Jimmy attacked me with lovin’ and then afterwards said loudly, “Sorry, Sis!” much to the crowd’s amusement.)

AND I can read whatever book I choose! Utterly liberating! My favorite part of ending the semester is walking into Joseph-Beth bookstore (my happy place) and finding a fun book, one that won’t have to be read with a pen ready to underline and take notes on applicable literary theory. My current picks: The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox (a new release! I’m reading a book by an author still living!), The World Without Us (NONFICTION! I get to read nonfiction!), and a book that’s a Christmas present for Jimmy that I became unexpectedly caught up in and have to finish so I can wrap it. As I ended the semester, many well-meaning people told me that I’d have a month-long break when I wouldn’t have to read a single word. Meanwhile, every night I’d salivate while telling Jimmy about a book I was planning on cracking the minute the semester ended; it was like literary foreplay. I’m not alone in this: this week I received an email from a classmate, whom I’d never seen use an exclamation point, and it read, “I’m DONE! I’m going book shopping tonight!!!” I hear ya, sister.

The transition has been a little rough. I can’t help but think of paper topics as I read my “fun” books, and even considered writing a “fun” essay just for the hell of it. I know this is sick and wrong, so I stopped myself. Hopefully within a week or two I’ll read with half my brain shut off, drooling onto my lap as I go. And then it’ll be just in time for the new semester to begin.

The funny part is that before I was in school, I’d always complain about not having time enough to do anything. I'd sit, watching reruns of The Daily Show, lamenting the little spare time I had. But there’s nothing like a busy schedule to make me realize how many minutes are packed into a day. And during the next three weeks, I’m going to enjoy every one of them.

Can't... Go... On...

Can anyone tell I was listening to Amy Winehouse while I procrastinated writing my final paper today? To the tune of "Rehab":

They try to make me write my paper
I say No, No, No.
My brain’s gone hazy
And when I go crazy
You’ll know, know, know.

JSTOR makes me sad.
I should’ve stuck with undergrad.
They try to make me write my paper
But I say No, No, No.

I’m hostage at my computer screen
With no society but Mikhail Bakhtin.
I’m gonna, I’m gonna lose my patience
But I buckle down and increase my caffeine.

I didn’t learn much from Melville.
Only that to finish Moby Dick takes all my self will.

They try to make me write my paper
I say No, No, No.
My brain’s gone hazy
And when I go crazy
You’ll know, know, know.

JSTOR makes me sad.
I should’ve stuck with undergrad.
They try to make me write my paper
But I say No, No, No.

Beards BeCAUSE

We’ve been together for twelve years and were tight friends for years before that, but Jimmy still finds ways to surprise and impress me. Moments still arise when I stop and think, “I chose very, very well.”

One such moment was Jimmy’s recent idea to join Beards BeCAUSE, a fundraiser for the Charlotte Battered Women’s Shelter. It’s a hilarious way to raise money for a very serious cause—spending two months growing a beard while collecting donations from all those people asking, “Whoa, what’s up with the beard?” It’s an idea so very suited to Jimmy: willing to provide laughs while poking fun of himself, but very serious about helping people who need it. He’s already approaching his goal of $500 for the shelter, and he’s only on three weeks of growth.

People have asked him what his wife thinks about his evolution into Grizzly Adams by Christmas. C'mon, I've got a husband raising money for a battered women's shelter. I'm swooning! I can deal with scratchy kisses for this.

Dogs in Danger

If you or anyone you know is looking for a new dog, please remember this site: Dogs in Danger. It tracks down the dogs in shelters nearest you who are scheduled to be euthanized within days. So if you know anyone about to pay big bucks on a designer dog, tell them to put their money away and and adopt one of these cute little guys instead. They need homes so much more.

Blackie, pictured, came up in my search. See who comes up in yours.

Bill, I love you so, I always will...

Things I learned while shaking Bill Clinton's hand at a Hillary rally today:

1. The man can work a room. He exudes charm.

2. He totally gave me a second look.

3. He smells so good I could lick him. While he shook the hands of people behind me, I was pressed into him for a blissful thirty seconds or so. Any thought of saying something intelligent about Iraq or the environment faded to, "Is it improper to ask a former president what he's wearing that smells so good?"

People are strange, when you’re a stranger

As someone who frequents coffeeshops, I’ve developed very strict rules about proper coffeeshop etiquette. Hyper children do not belong in coffeeshops. People in ties do not belong in coffeeshops (they have an air of tension about them; it’s unnerving). For the love of all things holy, couples meeting with wedding coordinators do not belong in coffeeshops. Several times, I’ve been on the verge of literary greatness only to be distracted by an exclamation of, “I just LOVE calla lilles!” And most of all, Bluetooth headsets do not belong in coffeeshops. Unless someone is in the Secret Service or driving a car, that level of accessibility borders on obsessive compulsive.

In short, I’m an antsy coffeeshop customer. And thus begins my story…

Having hit a wall during my research at home today, I headed to Caribou Coffee with my books. My problem wasn’t lack of concentration, I justified; it was lack of a cinnamon latte. I settled into the perfect corner at the ‘Bou with a nice protective buffer from any people and got to work. Soon after, an elderly woman with a giant cup of coffee came shuffling towards me, making odd sounds.

At first, I thought she was humming. But as she settled into the table next to mine, I realized she was singing. It was the kind of singing that sounds like mumbling to everyone but the singer. In the mind of the singer, it’s accompanied by an inner soundtrack and self-delusion, making it sound like the greatest song ever sung. This woman’s song sounded like a 40s love ballad, a sweet, bluesy song, in which her mumbles were intertwined with dah daah daaaah's. Great. In the midst of Caribou Coffee, I had freakin’ Dinah Shore sitting next to me.

Right away I associated her quirkiness with mental illness. When the woman’s song only gave way to another, when she didn’t even care that people were most likely mocking her, I peeked down at her shoes and got all the confirmation I needed: tan and blue sneakers. Crazy people always wear weird-colored sneakers. This woman was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Not only did I grow more frustrated with the interruption, but I'm ashamed to say that I began to dismiss her as a person. There I was trying to work and do something important, and a crazy old lady had to come and sit next to me and derail my train of thought, sluggish as it was.

Then I saw her smile.

I peered over to get a full view of the crazy lady, and my cynicism immediately melted into sentiment. With an unselfconscious smile, she propped her elbows on the table, hands gently cupping her cheeks. She watched the rain outside while gently swaying to her music. Her short legs allowed her feet to just barely hit the floor, and occasionally, her toes would reach down to tap to her song. She showed no signs of being alone, and I got the feeling that she wasn’t. Was she dreaming of a long-ago dance with a great love? Was she humming a song she once sang to her children? It was obvious that while she sat alone, she nonetheless kept the company of someone. Judging by the sadness in her eyes, it seemed a person who was unable—for one reason or another—to be with her anymore. When I heard the first break in her music, I caught her patting her eye with a napkin. She wasn’t pitiful, though; if anything, she was enviable. She was fully living in her moment, unaware of those of us around her. In my lap was a book on transcendentalism, and at the table next to me was a woman living Emerson’s words: “It is easy in the world to live after the world’s opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.” Perfect sweetness is the only way to describe the look on her face. Whether or not people judged her didn’t seem to matter.

Maybe we’re quick to notice the craziness in others because we don’t want to see it in ourselves. I’m an introvert who loves dogs and books – it doesn’t take a specialist to see my potential as a crazy old lady. I have all the makings. Maybe that’s why I was a little harsh on this woman. Perhaps we most estrange those people who address our own fears. They have something we have, too, but rather than notice that, it’s easier to dismiss them and go about our delusion of being the coolest kid in town.

Happy people seem to be the first ones pegged as nutters. When I moved to Charlotte, I spent the first week thinking I had moved to a town of simpletons. People I didn’t know kept waving and asking how I was, telling me to have a blessed day. I’d smile back while reaching for my pepper spray. I soon learned, however, that it’s not being crazy; it’s being Southern. I absolutely love it now. Errands are so much more enjoyable when in the company (and not just presence) of strangers. For so long I’ve associated intelligence with cynicism – surely, anyone who has a brain cell realizes how screwed the world is and how horrible people can be toward each other. But there’s something to be said about knowing how screwed the world is, but believing in people anyway, in accepting those who seem different or odd. The latter is much more courageous. (And as I’m learning, is much more difficult.)

I prolonged my visit to the coffeeshop because I felt such peace coming from that woman. She was teaching me just as much as the book before me. We settled into a rhythm, my note-taking set to her soft serenade. If I was the one who was normal—the one who bustled into a coffeeshop dismissing someone for being different—and she was the one who was crazy, perhaps I’m not as smart as I think I am.

Hail to the Nachos

I’ve gotten into football this year more than any past year. Years were spent faking it, through cheering on the Redskins and the Hokies while merely staking out the chili and nacho options. I might’ve shown up to the game, but I was there for the food. Football fans know their food: they know that a cheese dip just isn’t a dip unless it includes sausage, or that the only way to improve on good food is to deep fry it. While I show great self-restraint during the week, it melts like Velveeta at the sound of John Madden.

For years, sports enthusiasts freaked me out: people who spurt facts and figures of teams long gone, who analyze plays past the point of making it ten yards for a first down. In the past, I believed this to be a character flaw, a mismanaged use of a great memory and critical thinking skills. It made me uncomfortable when such people used mysterious words and phrases like “special teams” and “blitz.” I used phrases like “extra cheese” and “does anyone know if I can find some jalepenos around here?”

The more seasons passed the more I learned to appreciate football, although initially not as a show of athleticism. I enjoyed football for its ability to bring people together. Some people I otherwise had nothing in common with could be my big ally in the Monday night game. Any other day of the week, we might struggle through forced conversation, but during a game, we’d yell and cheer and high five (or moan and whine and commiserate). Noticing its ability to bring people together, I started to ask my football guru friends to give me one analysis of a big game for me to memorize and pass off as personal opinion, repeated ad nauseum through the week. At the coffeemaker at work, I’d nonchalantly recite my rehearsed opinion of a team’s running game, secretly fearing that someone might ask me to define running game, exposing me as the fraud I was. No worries. People would launch into a diatribe on the subject as I stirred my coffee and nodded. A friendship was formed. They’d see me around the halls and I suddenly was more than just that web developer who sat in the corner. I was a football fan. I was one of them.

The most dramatic example of the power of football came a few years ago during a conversation with my father. At the time, he and I weren’t the closest pair and found little in common. During one quiet family dinner, he casually mentioned the Steelers game that evening. He hails from western Pennsylvania, where the Steelers rank with God as entities one must have faith in. Coincidentally my memorized quote of the week, courtesy of my coworker Rich, was about the Steelers. I hid my smile behind my pizza and said, “You know, it might’ve been a long run, but sticking with Cower really paid off.” I had no idea who or what a Cower was (a coach, apparently), but I knew my father would. His mouth dropped open, his pizza fell from his hands, as he looked at me with a combination of awe and admiration. More than any other time, more than the ballet recitals or the graduations, I impressed the hell out of my dad. Football can do crazy things like that.

Football is capable of all sorts of miracles. While sitting in stands, I lose my taste for a nice dry cabernet sauvignon and crave a light beer. A light beer. Even in DC, where people can’t agree about anything but the traffic, a touchdown has us all on our feet and singing "Hail to the Redskins," suddenly a group of 90,000 friends. Nothing makes me smile like two strangers high-fiving. What else could provoke such unrestrained signs of enthusiasm? I have a theory that football allows some men to break down their barriers, to reach out to new friends. That theory earns me a lot of eye rolling for turning a sport into a sociological study, but next time a game is on in a bar, watch the men. While otherwise most would sit within their own surly bubble, football gives them a shared interest. It sparks friendship between men who otherwise fear that initiating conversation with a man they don’t know renders them ineligible for any military service but the Navy.

This year, I’ve enjoyed football for football’s sake. Occasionally, my take on the game is quickly echoed by the commentator, telling me I’m getting things right. I know what a running game is, I know a crap call when I hear one. I’m still not getting everything right, though. Even when the opposing team wins, I still say things like, “But just imagine how happy their families are right now. Doesn’t that make it OK?” Apparently, it doesn’t. Other than this sense of compassion (to all but Terrell Owens), I’m beginning to understand the strategy, to know that these aren’t a bunch of big oafs running into each other, but part of a well-calculated system of plays.

Still, however, my favorite part of football isn’t what happens on the field, but in the stands, at the watercooler, or in my home. My favorite part comes when my couch is full of friends, laughing and cheering together, or when people who have a hard time opening up to others can do so because football provides a common interest. My favorite part of football is the sense of camaraderie it creates.

Well, that and the nachos.

Jury Duty

I finally got nabbed: a letter came in the mail a month ago notifying me that I was up for jury duty. While this letter is opened with a groan by normal people, for me, it was greeted with cheers. Illustrating my current level of job satisfaction, the only thing I saw was a ticket out of work for a few days, no matter how boring the alternative.

Things like this bring out the grandiose dreamer in me. It’s like buying a lottery ticket; I rarely do so because it emotionally exhausts me. Before the drawing even occurs, I’ve not only determined how I’ll use the money, but also who's not getting a penny of it. My planning continues until I’ve become stingy with hypothetical money! Who does that? I do; I see the warped potential in every possibility and plan accordingly. My jury duty letter evoked similar grandiose visions. I could see it: sitting in a trial involving a constitutional crisis while I call for order and reason in the jury room, shouting, “Now let’s everyone just settle down here!” (Doesn’t everyone dream of yelling something like that?) Law and Order would make an episode based upon my skills as a juror. September 17 was to be my day for legal greatness. (dun-dun)

I arrived, curious to see what a jury of my peers looked like. Apparently, my peer is a sixty-something white woman who dresses in colors otherwise only seen in sherbet, and totes one of those overpriced quilted bags. It was like walking into Stepford, forty years after the fact. Of the 68 of us, 64 were white; I counted one Indian woman, one black man, and two black women. Soon, I deduced that I was the lone liberal in the room. We five pariahs sat near each other in the same corner, with an unspoken pact that when the time came, we'd go down fighting.

The man sitting in front of me chatted with the man to his left, sharing his aborted plan to wear his most offensive t-shirt so he’d get dismissed. He asked his new friend if his “Kill All The Gays And Democrats” t-shirt would do the trick. The other man supposed it would, and they enjoyed a good-natured chuckle. Good times.

Then there was that guy. He had thick, silver, neatly parted hair and a voice that naturally (and unfortunately) bounced off the walls. He was a DJ and suffered from the egomania that accompanies local fame present in a person who rarely escapes the metro area. He bragged of his appearances in parades, his casual friendship with Larry Sprinkle, the chief meteorologist of the NBC affiliate. Beside him sat a gaggle of women who craved to be charmed as much as he craved to charm them. I telepathically begged them to stop; they were only encouraging him. To pass the time, he asked the gaggle to hand over their purses so he could go through them and announce what was in each. Apparently not accustomed to saying No, they complied. They handed over their purses and allowed him to reveal their contents. Things got a little awkward when he asked, “So what do you need the prescription medication for?” Suddenly we all found a reason to examine our shoes.

This was the kind of guy to supply answers to questions never posed to him. During one of the brief, blessed silences, the man loudly asked the gaggle, “Do you know why your husbands never listen to you?” No, I silently begged them, don’t bite, ignore him, just don’t ask, “No, why?” Yet this was precisely what they did. He proceeded with a rehearsed monologue of sexist stereotypes (women as emotionally unhinged talkers who don’t understand the logic of men), and the women couldn’t get enough. Unbelievably they’d prod him with, “That’s so true! That’s just like my husband!” He ate it up and sat back in his chair, folded his arms, no doubt dreaming of the story he’d have for Larry Sprinkle during their next parade.

My immediate neighbors provided no relief. The man to my left was absorbed in a book by Newt Gingrich. Surpassing his questionable taste was the man to my right, who spent most of the seven hours with his fingers in his mouth. Biting, sucking, removing them to evaluate, then shoving them in again. I’m slightly germaphobic as it is; this KILLED me.

Proving that this was shaping up to be a laughably horrible day, beside me on the wall hung a picture of George W. Bush, smirking at me. It was a knowing smirk, it was a “Who’s your daddy now?” smirk. I wanted to say, I’m not here for you! I’m here to get out of work! But alas, the smirking continued; I was in his house now. Then that guy turned on the television, which held such promise as a tool of distraction. No such luck. The consensus of the room was that FOX News would be the perfect background noise for my hell. All they reported was the OJ scandal and the possibility of a Britney Spears custody battle. Later I learned that during this time, Bush tapped his new AG and Clinton unveiled her healthcare plan. Both went unmentioned, but I did watch a 7-second clip of OJ standing up then sitting down in a courtroom at least 82 times.

As always, I had a book with me, ready to escape my surroundings and hide in the pages. It was Walden, the ultimate in escape books. Yet there is not a less suitable environment in which to read Walden than a boxy room packed with chairs and right-wingers, with Dubya lurking over my shoulder. When I read Thoreau’s line, “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation,” I cried a little.

At the end of the seven hours, the judge summoned us to the courtroom, where he told us that the defendants had just pleaded guilty and our service as jurors would not be needed. He also told us our seven hours sitting in a waiting room made us model Americans but I can’t remember exactly how. All I knew was that I was able to go home and return to the comparably pleasant experience of work the following day.

Peace, Happiness, and Maps for All.

Presenting the third runner up in this year’s Miss Teen USA.

From my blog, 12.22.06: ... Miss Teen USA brings tears to my eyes. If you’ve never seen Miss Teen USA, I beg of you to tune in for the question and answer round. They might be talking, but they’re not saying a damn thing -- yet the audience goes wild as if the secret for Israeli-Palestinian peace had just been revealed.

Told you.

Becoming Jaded

A disclaimer: I have not seen Becoming Jane, nor do I plan to. I know this puts my critique on very shaky ground, but I’ll stand on it. I’ve read many of the letters the following movie is based on, and they put the premise on far shakier ground than this.

From what we know about Jane Austen, she was not especially attractive nor was she lucky in love. She was, merely, a brilliant woman with a cunning wit and keen insight into the human psyche. Becoming Jane seeks to overcome this handicap.

The movie casts the beautiful Anne Hathaway as Jane and gives her a handsome leading man to introduce her to the world of books and her own introspection. Blech. In so doing, the movie credits her success to The Man Who Showed Her The Way; a man who, in reality, knew Jane all of a month. His character is the pseudo-bad boy who seemingly eschews societal norms while putting Jane in her proper role as the wide-eyed female under the instruction of a wise man. (Ohh, the romance of submissiveness! Swoon!) We are so uncomfortable with a woman choosing a life not built around a man! Why do we have to take Jane Austen, a woman who chose not to marry, and find a way to center her life on romance and to credit her inspiration to a guy? Miramax would portray her actual life as a tragedy, as Jane grips her Ben and Jerry’s in one hand while stroking her cats with the other, tears dripping down onto all that she’s got left in life: manuscripts that will become among the most beloved novels for centuries to come. ‘Tis pity.

I adore Jane Austen as a hilariously brilliant and cynical writer with a keen ability to write characters. I adore that she was much more a smart ass than a romantic fool, using romance mostly as fodder for cynicism. What I do not adore is Miramax having Austen come into her own under the instruction of a man. I also do not adore that people find women more accessible when their lives are defined by relationships (romance is sweet; independent success, just sad and somewhat unnerving). The woman saw with her brain – we can’t owe that ability to a dreamy man in town for a month. Here are some quotes from Austen’s personal letters that show the snarky Austen I love, as represented by herself and not by Miramax.

“I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal."

[On the birth of a son to one of their sisters-in-law:]
"I give you joy of our new nephew, and hope if he ever comes to be hanged it will not be till we are too old to care about it."

[On another of their nephews, then about three years old:]
"I shall think with tenderness and delight on his beautiful and smiling countenance and interesting manner, until a few years have turned him into an ungovernable, ungracious fellow."

"I could no more write a [historical] romance than an epic poem. I could not sit seriously down to write a serious romance under any other motive than to save my life; and if it were indispensable for me to keep it up and never relax into laughing at myself or other people, I am sure I should be hung before I had finished the first chapter."

The Houseguest

She found us. My friends and family might not believe this, but she found us. We are not keeping her, we have no room for her, we will not name her (and I shall repeat that to myself as many times as is necessary). But I’m getting ahead of myself…

While helping his sister move Saturday morning, Jimmy noticed a puppy wandering towards him with no tags (purple collar, no tags). He took her to houses in the area, but no one recognized her. He took her to a vet, but she was not microchipped. Having to return to the business of moving, Jimmy left the puppy home with me. (Imagine my glee.)

Envisioning a child inconsolable over the loss of the family pet, I pushed my research paper aside to help these poor people who were surely hunting down their puppy. The Humane Society suggested I call animal control, who told me they would pick her up shortly. I hung up with a nagging feeling. I called again to ask what exactly they do with found dogs, and the answer was none too reassuring: “We wait 72 hours, then we do something with them.” After I asked if that “something” involved eternal sleep, the man sounded amused at my naivete: “We do it all the time, ma’am.” The pick-up request was promptly cancelled and I placed a found report instead.

Repulsed by animal control, I began a mission to track down the owners. I put an ad in the local paper and on Craigslist. Jimmy and I posted flyers around the neighborhood, and drove around looking for "LOST DOG" ones. We walked her, asking all dog-walking passers-by if they recognized the dog (we dog types tend to know our neighbors’ dogs’ names more than our neighbors’). No luck.

It’s been two days, and no one seems to be looking for her very hard. I imagine what I’d do if Murph or Scout went missing: the posters, the ads, the skywriting, the sandwich boards I'd wear on busy street corners while screaming their names and throwing Snausages. I often hail the difference of dog people versus the general population, and these owners aren’t helping me make my case.

As I type, the puppy’s sleeping across my feet. She’s a precious dog and deserves to be missed by whoever put that purple collar around her neck. Where are they?

“In the meantime” is a phrase that we use frequently to describe this little dog. In the meantime, we’ll give her Murph’s old crate. In the meantime, we’ll get supplies for her from PetSmart. In the meantime, we’ll call her Darcy.

Dammit.

I hate Ann Coulter.

When I was little, Mom never let me use the word “hate” in reference to anyone. It was alright if I didn’t like someone, even a whole whole lot, but I could never hate them. But Mom, my thirty years have taught me the true definition of hate, and I have found a worthy exception. I hate Ann Coulter.

I try not to hate her. I try to not think about her and when her name arises in conversation, I try to change the subject. My theory is that if people stay silent about the bony hussy then maybe she’ll fade away into her own irrelevance. But alas, no luck. Network news reports her views, morning news shows check in with her, cable news lives so far up her rear that they’re staring out her throat. And the only thing I can do is change the channel while hating Ann Coulter.

I know it’s the media I should hate, the media that provide her with a microphone, the media that run her column. But each time she speaks, that hatred just goes right back to Evil Barbie herself. How has she gotten to the position of “pundit”? What experience does she have? What knowledge of hers do we seek? She merely spouts malicious and juvenile attacks toward anyone veering left of fascist, enjoying the reaction as does a toddler who just learned his first cuss word. She flaunts skirts too short, hair too long, and desperation far too apparent (no matter how much cleavage or leg you show, Ann, you’re not hiding your age from anyone, honey). She “attacks” people by calling them gay. Ann, a little head’s up – this generation doesn’t see “gay” as a slur. Anyone walking upright on the evolutionary scale doesn’t see “gay” as a slur. Then again, the people Ann courts don’t buy into that evolution business anyhow.

I wish, I really wish, I could let it all go. She’s ridiculous, she’s irrelevant, she needs to be ignored. But again and again, Ann Coulter finds her way into the news and into my seething angst. Luckily, someone far classier than I answered her attacks this week: Elizabeth Edwards. She called during Coulter’s Hardball appearance (the day after Coulter said she wished John Edwards died in a terrorist attack). Elizabeth calmly asked for an end to personal attacks that only interrupt the political process, citing the time Coulter “joked” that John Edwards had the bumpersticker, “Ask me about my dead son.” Coulter just flung her hair around and asked why Elizabeth called instead of her husband. Elizabeth again cited the need for true political debate in this election and then said, “I am the mother of that boy who died.” Even that didn’t wipe Coulter’s smug grin off that long, horsey face of hers.

Perhaps one day, people will stop caring what Ann Coulter thinks and she will fade into her own irrelevance and I can let this grudge go. But until then, I’m afraid… I hate Ann Coulter.

However, I love David Letterman:

When you wish upon a star, ladies, pick a dull one.

A letter from 1938 found by a man when his grandmother passed away (click for full text):

Ohhh, Disney, home of freakishly contrived happiness and authoritarian creative control. I wonder what kind of films result from such discrimination in the creative departments? Oh yeah...

Zakaria in '08

Fareed Zakaria does it again. His recent article in Newsweek, Beyond Bush, knocked it out of the park. He does what few of us are capable of doing: moving past the whining and the doomsday scenarios, and onto the, "OK, so what next?"

[I]t is time to stop bashing George W. Bush. We must begin to think about life after Bush—a cheering prospect for his foes, a dismaying one for his fans (however few there may be at the moment). In 19 months he will be a private citizen, giving speeches to insurance executives. America, however, will have to move on and restore its place in the world. Read article.

I saw London, I saw France.

During my final months as a twenty-something, I was mostly cool with turning thirty. I began to greet most changes with a “ehh, so whattayagonnado?” attitude: the little lines forming beside my eyes; not caring which channel to find MTV (but finding NPR in my sleep); lamenting the state of MySpace-addicted, overspending kids today. The aspect of turning thirty that nagged me, however, was realizing I didn’t travel in my twenties as I hoped. I hadn’t gone to the Eiffel Tower, as listed on my “must do before thirty” checklist.

I checked that baby off with days to spare.

With only a few weeks' planning, Jimmy and I took an eight-day trip to London and Paris. We saw things we never imagined we’d see: the Rosetta Stone, a good chunk of the Parthenon, and ancient Egyptian relics at the British Museum (imperialism has its privileges); Shakespeare’s first folio, Jane Austen’s writing desk, and the Magna Carta at the British Library; a performance of Othello at The Globe (Wow. Wow wow wow.); Degas, Monet, Renoir, and Van Gogh at Musee d’Orsay; millions of centuries-old skeletons (shiver) in the catacombs; the beauty of Notre Dame and Sacre Cour; and, of course, the Eiffel Tower.

Even though London offered so much, something about London and I did not click. On paper, we’re pure chemistry. In reality, something's off. Everything I saw was incredible, but in-between stops it seemed like another big city. I imagined more of a pip-pip kind of vibe (perhaps I’ve seen My Fair Lady too many times), but its role as an international center seems to prevent it from having a distinctly local flavor, which is exactly what I travel for. (Although I enjoyed the irony that a country that spent centuries conquering a quarter of the globe now finds its capital under the influence of its former subjects; when we asked for a good British restaurant, the concierge directed us to a fantastic curry place.)

Paris, however, was instant infatuation. The cafés! The parks! The fashion! The cheese! It’s a big city that takes time to smell the chocolate crepes; even in a hurry, one can make time to add the perfect scarf to an outfit and then saunter off in gorgeous heels. So much of it seemed a beautiful dichotomy of young and old, refined and nonchalant. And did I mention the chocolate crepes?

We stayed in a 19th century apartment in Montmarte, impressionism’s birthplace (19th century rents were cheap, wine not taxed; for struggling Parisian artists, parfait!) and mere blocks from Sacre Cour. (If you’ve seen Amelie, you’ve seen the apartment: it’s directly across from the market.) We explored the narrow cobblestone streets, always finding a café in which to drink wine or espresso and to people watch; we dined on cheese, bread and wine for many a meal (and I could do so for every meal of my life); we entertained Parisians with our attempts at the language (the R will always be beyond me). Despite the big stops on our itinerary, some of my favorite moments were spent wandering the streets and stopping at cafés or shops, in the Latin Quarter and Montmarte, especially. We even scrapped our last day of sightseeing in Versailles to spend a leisurely day of exploring and café-hopping, practicing my well-rehearsed Je voudrais carafe de vin rouge, s'il vous plait.

My favorite moment in Paris came atop the Eiffel Tower. I was almost embarrassed about wanting to go, considering my years mocking tourists who wait hours to go up the Washington Monument (ascending 555 feet to gaze at a city with 110-foot building restrictions and largely uninspired architecture). The Eiffel Tower is no Washington Monument. We went to the very top just in time to watch the sun set. There aren’t words to describe the view. Then we descended to the second tier to watch as the city lights came on, one by one, slowly illuminating the city as darkness enveloped it. As the time grew later, the crowd thinned, and I was able to sit in a corner against the railing and gaze up at the tower, which is a perfect place to feel very small. Then the sparkly lights started their ten-minute dance. I sat with Jimmy, equally laughing and crying, recognizing it as a perfect moment. When the sparkling dimmed, I smiled and thought, "OK, I’m ready to turn 30 now."

And they're off...

Watching the Democratic debate was thrilling in that it gave me a feeling I hadn’t experienced during a political speech in years: it was this feeling of, well… it was the absence of shame. After eight years of listening to Bush, hearing a politician speak without stumbling seems like the presence of a master rhetorician at work. I’m now dazzled by three-syllable words coming from a podium. A complex sentence? Be still my heart.

While I’m still not aligned with any one candidate, I’ve become quite fond of Edwards. I’ve made a chart showing each of the candidates and their stances on issues, and the Edwards column is by far the most specific and impressive. My initial opinion of him was an underestimate: his specific plans for universal healthcare, environmental regulations, the Iraq War and so on have distinguished him as not only a serious contender, but also have earned him his liberal stripes.

And Hillary recovered some serious ground for me last night. Her recent pandering (flag burning? really?) has been painful, but last night she impressed me (her answers on Iraq and healthcare, especially). The e-mail she sent in response to last week’s Supreme Court ruling was a good one. Saying she’d put Bill to work as an international ambassador? I’m swooning! She’s back, baby; she’s back.

Obama. Ahhh, Obama. I want to like him more than I do. He’s a wonderful speaker. His ideas are so pretty. He makes you feel that the country would hug if only he was elected. I haven’t heard him say anything, though, that distinguishes his views from the standard moderate-left. His column on my chart is lacking – general ideas, no specifics. I’m not counting him out, but I need more.

I especially enjoyed the presence of Kucinich and Gravel, who, due to their snowball-in-hell chance, have the freedom to speak unpopular ideas (a la Sharpton; I really dug him in 2004). A Democratic debate without a staunch anti-war presence would be lacking. Sure, the American people won’t go for it because our society is built around war (our holidays, our monuments, our history books…), but it was fantastic to hear views from the real left. Gravel was like that drunk guy at a party who makes everyone roll their eyes, yet shift their weight uncomfortably due to some hard truths in his rants. To hear him say that the deaths of soldiers in Vietnam and Iraq were in vain was shocking to hear from an elected official (who usually dodge the issue with the standard, “I support our troops and the sacrifice that they and their families are making…”). I also enjoyed the dramatics of Kucinich holding up a pocket copy of the Constitution while explaining his decision to go it alone to try to impeach Cheney. Even if these guys will never present a State of the Union , they’ll force the top-tier candidates to answer some uncomfortable questions and remind Americans that there are options beside the flag-in-one-hand, gun-in-the-other approach.

Here's the soapbox portion of my blog: I don’t know how to end this without being melodramatic, so I’ll just say that if one of the people on that stage last night does not get elected as president, our country is done for (how’s that for melodrama?). Find your favorite candidates, sign up for their e-mails, learn their views. If a candidate doesn’t strike your fancy yet, find your issues and the groups that will support them best. Throw a few bucks their way. And for the love of all things good and holy, register to vote. I'm sick of hearing people rant about politics, but then not actively learn the issues or contribute to campaigns or interest groups. Make this a priority. We can’t screw this up again.

John Flippin' McCain

Like many liberals, I once cited McCain as my token Republican friend. I could say, “I’m not partisan! I like John McCain!” just as racists claim to have that one black friend. Even when I disagreed with him, I still respected McCain because he seemed to act according to principle and not polls. He even compelled me to vote in the Virginia Republican primary to show some McCain lovin’.

How times have changed. It’s been about a year of painful McCain sightings (which he aptly kicked off at Bob Jones U., in case we had any doubt of his intentions), as he’s de-evolved from a man of integrity to a Bush groupie. Even with diminished expectations of him, I still hid my head under a blanket during his interview on last night’s Daily Show (what was up with his leading with an IED joke? nothing like a little IED humor during a war, eh? and then going right into dog-kicking… he seems to have taken a lesson in the Alec Baldwin school of diplomacy).

The scariest part... this is just the the kind of behavior that gets a man elected. Shudder.

If you missed last night's interview, here you go:

Virginia Tech

I don’t know what to write about Virginia Tech, but feel compelled to write something. My heart breaks for the friends and families grieving because someone they loved died in such a horrible and unnecessary manner. I am so intensely angry at that kid who… ugh, there aren’t words for him.

I also feel heartbroken for the thousands of students who will live differently now: less innocently; more accepting of fear. It's not as though this was the first event to chip away at their security either. During grade school, these students heard about Columbine; during high school, it was 9/11. So many Tech students are from the DC area and coped with even more: the duct-tape-and-plastic-sheeting suggestion in case of radioactive attack, the gloves for possible anthrax in their mail, the zigzag walking pattern advised to prevent a sniper hit. These suggestions became instant punchlines to adults, but at their root was a continual reminder of lurking danger. This was the time in DC when we'd casually debate the ramifications of a smallpox outbreak or nuclear attack, and this was their normalcy in high school. The worst news to travel around my high school was Kurt Cobain's suicide.

Several years later, many of these DC-area kids went to Tech and encountered an escaped armed convict on campus in August and the worst mass-shooting in American history in April. What do we tell them? Who can tell them not to worry, everything will be OK? They have come of age during the scariest domestic terrorism of our generation (with unusual attention focused on students: Columbine, the snipers, now this). For myself and most college students, high school and college were places of absolute safety and security. They were the real world on training wheels. We weren’t fearful for our safety but we assumed it, and everyone should have such luxury.

Soon, 4/16/07 will become every group’s Titanic: a giant, tragic metaphor only meant to prove various ideologies regarding gun control, censorship, mental health, and so on. Some of them will have good points; many won’t. We have to remember that for these kids, the day wasn’t a metaphor, but a real day when 32 innocent people died while sitting in their classrooms or dorm, and the innocence of thousands more disappeared. And all we can really say is, we’re so sorry.

Can beauty transcend the ordinary?

Never before has the Style section been so painful to read. Even more painful: honestly asking myself if I would have stopped. I think I would have, I really do. I think...

No one knew it, but the fiddler standing against a bare wall outside the Metro in an indoor arcade at the top of the escalators was one of the finest classical musicians in the world, playing some of the most elegant music ever written on one of the most valuable violins ever made. His performance was arranged by The Washington Post as an experiment in context, perception and priorities -- as well as an unblinking assessment of public taste: In a banal setting at an inconvenient time, would beauty transcend?

It didn't.

So go and notice something pretty where you don't expect to find it. I'll still be here angsting over what I would have done.

A quick vote, please.

Raise your hand if you didn’t watch Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. Hands raised? Now take that hand and smack yourself in the head. It was a really good show, but it looks like because of people like you (tsk tsk tsk), it’s hasta la bye-bye for Sorkin’s latest.

I'm not much of a TV person. I have the same theory regarding new shows as I do drugs: they’re not especially helpful and I get on just fine without them, so why risk any addiction? But thanks to the advice of Sortarunnerguy, I gave this one a shot and really liked it. Matthew Perry, Bradley Whitford and Amanda Peet have great chemisty. Aaron Sorkin writes so beautifully Sorkin. Sure, it peaked early, it wandered as of late, but even mediocre Sorkin is good TV.

Now if Scrubs wraps this year, I’ll be back to take another vote. And you’ll get worse than a head smack if I lose my weekly dose of Braff.

A Date with your Family

Omigosh, this still slays me...

What I Know

I spent my early twenties regurgitating the happy-hour wisdom I once received: that while your twenties are spent thinking you know it all, thirty shows you that you don’t know anything. For some reason, I found comfort in that; it seemed a defense against any stupid decisions I'd make in my twenties, knowing that thirty would be the ultimate do-over. Now here I am, mere months from my thirtieth birthday, and only now do I really understand that little theory.

I’d like to create an addendum, though: not only does turning thirty make one realize that they don’t know what they’re doing, it makes one realize that no one knows what they’re doing. Even worse.

As ridiculous as it sounds, I unconsciously assumed there was a super-secret grown-up club and one day I would get a manual, learn the handshake and get the decoder ring. In the manual would be a long series of “if-then” statements dictating what to do in any given situation, from how to fix a refrigerator to when to leave a relationship; it would include the code to turn off bad habits like procrastination or messiness; it would include the secret to that smooth hair all women but me seem to have. As children, we assume adults have it together and a supreme order reigns. Now I look around thinking, you've got to be kididng, we're all just winging it.

So no manual exists; instead we’re flawed creatures making flawed decisions, creating a very messy world full of loose ends. It seems we’re very much the children we once were, only making much bigger decisions. As a kid, I imagined I'd live my adult life with absolute certainty, like all adults presumably did. Back then, when I felt overwhelmed I wrote little lists titled, “What I Know.” Underneath I'd list everything I was sure of, no matter how minor, and it made me feel better. So what do I list when I don’t know what I know?

Last night, my professor recalled a quote that the opposite of faith isn't doubt; the opposite of faith is certainty. I realized that the people I've grown to trust aren't the ones claiming to have the answers, but ones who can admit uncertainty yet decisively live their lives and pursue their truth anyway. Never did I think of that as faith, yet now I can't think of it as anything else.

Something trivial happened this week offering symbolic hope: the refrigerator broke. Jimmy and I have many talents, but home appliance repair is not among them. Although we didn’t have the super-secret grown-up manual to consult, we did have the fridge manual. With the help of that, Google and a good guess, we figured it out. We fixed a refrigerator. So on the eve of turning thirty, my new, pared-down “What I Know” list looks like this: I know I have a great partner in Jimmy; I know I have a brain, a heart, and good intentions; I know I'll never know it all. I’ll just rely on faith and figure the rest out as I go.

Boo still available for adoption

Apparently, an abandoned, adorable one-eyed dog isn't enough to tug on your hearts, so I've enlisted a little persuasive help in my quest to find Boo a home. So after you're done ripping the wings from butterflies and hating babies, please read on. The first message comes from an early 1990s great advocate of pets, the second is a message a little more specifically addressed (to the most wonderfulest, handsomest man in the whole wide world... too much?). So now... any takers for Boo?

A home for Boo?

Once again, my habit of lurking around animal rescue sites has landed me in a bit of a quandry. This is Boo, and he's available for adoption in Rock Hill, SC. My ever-patient cohort (thank you, Jimmy) and I have visited this little guy. He's charming -- so sweet, so cuddly, and when he wants your attention, he stands up just like he does in the picture. He couldn't be cuter. Considering his rough background, this dog deserves to be loved and spoiled like crazy. Does anyone know of someone who would be interested in adopting Boo?

Boo was found in the pound in horrible shape (pic below), and has since had eye surgery and medical care and he's ready to go home to someone. I thought it rather serendipitous that I fell in love with a Boo -- we already have a Scout, so we're a mere Atticus and Jem short of classic Southern fiction. But as we really don't have the room for a third dog, we can't take the guy in. Yet I just can't sleep until I hear he's found a good home. Anyone have room for Boo?