Bonfire of the Stupidities

"Parts of the Hamptons are a well-known playground for the rich who own summer homes
there as well as a seaside resort frequented by the residents of New York City during the
summer months for weekend getaways..."

That's what Wiki says about the place where I grew up. The place where I spent, not only my summer weekends but my summer, winter, spring and fall weekdays as well. The kids who would come out with their families every summer would ask me where I live and I'd say, completely blind to the cultural gap, "Here...?" An old-money 13-year-old once said in response, "Here? People live here in the winter?"

Wiki goes on to report:
"Many year-round residents find the term 'Hamptons' to be misleading..."

Indeed. Though I don't personally find it misleading since to me "Hamptons" is a place defined by its multiple personality disorder. It just is... it's two things alternating, and at once. In the summer it wears crisp Polo and in the winter it wears a hooded sweatshirt with the cuffs cut off with a pair of scissors.

In the colder months the shops and the ice cream drive-in would close down, you couldn't park in the beach parking lots after dark, there were no more concerts at the gazebo, the flowers and shrubs were neatly wrapped in burlap. Us local teenagers spent a lot of time watching our breath make steam in the cold air at the 7-11 parking lot (which was made, per code, to look wooden and quaint) waiting for someone to give in and invite everyone back to his house.

It took us four years to discover a place we could go-- undisturbed, unsupervised, all-access. In 1998, a small group of Westhampton Beach High school seniors discovered Spinny Hills.

Though deep within Long Island's precious pine barrens, none of us idiots could ever point to it on a map-- the only way we even knew it was there was because it was at the end of some kid's street- some boy who'd stumbled upon it (literally) one night while looking for a place to drink beer alone, without his parents finding out. And that's exactly what Spinny Hills became- a place for us to escape adults, and potentially, looming adulthood.

It was unclear whether it had been discovered by lost teenagers before us, just looking for a place to hang out. Certainly it was an old trail-- the buzzing echoes of ATVs and dirt bikes had long since been heard. At some point, the location had been used as an illegal dumping site- there was lots of old furniture laying around and large, indistinguishable pieces of metal, wood, cardboard.

Our Spinny Hills was several muddy clearings in the middle of the woods, linked by narrow, sandy trails. This video, here, really captures the essence of this simple place. Though it seems much bigger in my memory.

Every weekend, we would drive into the clearing through an otherwise less-traveled side street in East Quogue. I'm sure some, if not all, of the residents of that street called the cops about the weekly teenage caravans. Some cars were too small to cut through the mud and would have to park near the entrance and either walk in or get a ride from someone. My best girlfriend drove a JMC truck we called "Jimmy." She could drive right into Spinny's and once into the clearing she'd speed into a series of donuts- so fast that the entire backseat of her old tuck would come right out and it'd feel like we were floating in space inside our rocket.

Then like everyone else, we'd park, get out and sit on the open flat-bed of someone's pickup, or on the hood, or open the car doors and turn on the radio to the highest volume.

I saw our class's top academic do a keg stand at Spinny Hills.

One of my clearest memories was the night of the spontaneous bonfire. Well, only spontaneous in the sense that someone spontaneously had the idea to start lighting stuff on fire. Not like it was a miracle.

I'm not sure what happened first-- maybe it was a cold night and someone was considerate enough to think to warm us all with the heat of cavemen. Maybe someone was playing with a lighter. Maybe someone dropped a lit cigarette and the whole thing was an accident. But first went in a few pieces of wood, and that burned really well, made a decent flame. Then a couple of guys carried in the small, disgusting love seat that had been in the woods for months, and dropped it into the fire. And the fire grew. Someone added the load of flattened cardboard boxes that was also part of the trash heap... and then a lawn chair... some plastic pipes. Our bonfire was huge and it made all the drunk boys act like lords of the flies. People were screaming and chanting and laughing-- daring even more ridiculous pieces of trash into the fiery sand pit. Every time something went in, the fire dipped down at first, then roared high. Fights broke out around the fire- the biggest kid in our high school emerged from the convulsion with blood on his T-shirt, but he didn't appear to be hurt. He released a battle cry and held an old mattress high over his head and dumped it into the pile with great dramatic flair. Everyone cheered. The mattress broke down in small explosions, letting out a sprays of snow-like fibers. It rained over us, as we watched it drift into the cold night air. The stars were bright over the tree-tops.

The following Monday everyone was talking about the craziness. (Apparently someone got their face broken in the melee? I never saw a "face cast" on anyone though, so that one couldn't be verified). And there was some talk of toxins in mattresses that get released in especially high intensity when burned. We worried for about five minutes.

After that, the group at Spinny's experienced another night that could have ended much worse-- in fact, all nights could have ended much worse, but didn't. I think that thought only crossed our minds after the fact, like most 18-year-olds probably.

On this night one of our friends-- "Teddy," a guy with a history of alcohol-- went missing. He was a benign guy, super funny- just drank a lot whenever we all hung out. I'd always gotten the impression he'd been drinking for years and years. I'm not sure if this was true at the time.

This night, though, we couldn't find Teddy anywhere. We checked in all the parked cars, but no Teddy. And it was late and dark, in the woods, the guys had been drinking, people wanted to go home... He could have wandered anywhere- we never knew the depths of the pine barrens at that location.

Finally, one of the group's leaders, "PJ," stood on the back of someone's truck and hushed everyone until he had silence and then announced:
"Everyone, we're looking for Teddy. He's missing. We're going to all drive around Spinny's with our brights on and try to find him."

The last car to park at Spinny's pulled out first. And trudging slowly through the mud, every car followed. It was our well-intentioned, drunken, surprisingly-well-organized search party. Driver looked left, passengers looked right. Some of the pickup trucks had people standing in the backs with flashlights, screaming his name. We passed through clearing after clearing-- every section looked just like the last one. The possibilities seemed endless. At what point do 18-year-olds call the cops for help?

We completed what appeared to be one, full revolution, bringing us back to the charred remnants of our historic bonfire and the first car pulled into his original spot... then the second... but one car up ahead didn't pull in, he stopped. Everyone stuck their heads out to see what was the hold up.

Lying on his belly in a thick layer of mud, was Teddy-- smack in between two deep tire tracks from one of the cars that had pulled out-- right over him.

I mentioned miracles earlier. This was a miracle. He had somehow rolled under a car and passed out-- slept as the car pulled out over him. When we found him, Teddy was snoring.

Eventually the cops caught on to us. At first they put up a wooden barricade. We moved it aside and drove past it. We moved it back in place on our way out. Not really the point the police were trying to make I imagine.

The next time we tried to go to Spinny's there was an old car in our entrance. It was banged up and had no engine.

We never went back.

I wonder what goes on in Spinny's now? Are the dirt bike tracks in use again? Have the local kids found some other way to sneak in there and hang out- laugh and act stupid? I hope so.

Steak and Shake

It is hard for me to pick just one college moment as the BEST. I loved college. A lot of my best friends are college friends. I met the soon-to-be HusbandTuesday in college. I chose my profession in college. I forged lasting relationships with professors. And I developed a stronger, more confident sense of self. I guess I’m one of those girls who looks back on college as the time I “found myself.”

But I also discovered Steak and Shake and Donatos Hawaiian Pizza. These were two of my best discoveries. Each for different reasons.

Mmmm, Steak and Shake. Oh how I miss the triple thick oreo chocolate chip milkshakes, with the tiny chocolate chips that get would get stuck in the straw, and the chocolate wafer cookie resting ever so gently on the whipped cream. My first visit to Steak and Shake was at 2 am in the morning in the Spring of my Freshman year of college. Before the soon-to-be HusbandTuesday and I started dating, we spent that spring forging the bonds of an unbending friendship. Determined to listen to a recording of Sarah McLachlan that he had left in his car, the two of us set out for a late night road trip out of the cornfields we called campus and towards the closest city. Having grown up there, he spent the next two hours showing me how beautiful the skyline looked by moonlight out the window of his tiny little sports-car. We capped off the night with a visit to the Steak and Shake drive through. I can’t remember if it was my first time there; somehow I don’t think it was. But it was certainly the most memorable. Driving home in silence, having exhausted our music selections, I felt the most indescribable combination of happiness and calm. And deliciousness.

While milkshakes may trigger an emotional reaction, Donatos Pizza simply makes my mouth water. There weren’t many fine dining options near campus, and the first time I had Donatos’ thin crust pizza, I was actually unimpressed. But then I learned about the Hawaiian pizza. A delicious thin crust pizza packed to the edge with thinly sliced ham, pinnapple, cinnamon, sliced almonds, and fresh mozzarella cheese. It is the most addictive and delicious pizza I have and will likely ever taste. Sure, it isn’t served with Papa John’s artery sauce, and it isn’t the most traditional pizza. But I can eat it for every meal, and snack on it in between. I’ve brought it cold on airplanes home from school, and I make every effort to stop and get one when we’re back visiting his family. I can’t remember the precise moment I tasted my first slice, but it was certainly the most delicious discovery of my collegiate career. The two of us shared many Friday night dates sipping rootbeer, laughing at the local color, and splitting an entire pizza. My waistline probably appreciates the fact that the franchise doesn’t extend this far East, but my stomach is actually growling at me right now, angry at me for going into such detail and longing for just one warm slice.

Section 306, Row 2, Seats 1 and 2

Spending time with my dad this weekend had me thinking back to how we became such crazy sports nuts. I don’t know if I can pinpoint the exact time when the love of all things spectator-sport related began (probably when the doctor said “it’s a girl” to which he says he responded “are you sure?” and has since proceeded to treat me like the son he never had…) but I can definitely pinpoint the time when we got crazy about it. It was, sadly, one of my most defining college moments. Or at least one of the ones I can actually point to as having had a tangible, noticeable influence on who I am today.

DaddyMonday’s been going to the Final Four since, well, forever. He’s got this buddy, I call him Mr. Final Four, he goes with, and they’ve got pictures with Larry Bird at one of the FFs in Indianapolis, some story about the FF in Charlotte where they took this other friend and he refused to pay scalpers’ prices for tickets so they watch the whole thing on a TV in the back of a limo (needless to say that guy never went again….), and lots of stories about trying to buy or sell tickets in the rain in New Orleans. It seems it always rains in New Orleans.

When I was a senior in college I was invited to go along. We’d been basketball fans since I was little. We always had Tennessee basketball season tickets as far back as I can remember (and had them up until 2003 when MommaMonday moved away - she was the cash behind the whole thing). We sat in the upper deck, Section 306, Row 2, Seats 1 and 2. I remember the first time I ever went down to the lower section (to see Daddy’s friend, Mr. Final Four who sits really, really close). The players were so big. And more easily defined than just by the tops of their heads. It was amazing. But I went willingly back to 306, no worse for the wear.

Now back to the 2001 Final Four. I was a senior in college and the FF was in Minneapolis (cold and exotic to me back then). We got tickets the old fashioned way, through the lottery. Every year in June they mail out lottery slips to anyone interested. You send them your check for roughly $100 a ticket and pray that you’re picked. Now the best tickets are held by the NCAA for distribution to the schools who make the four, so the lottery tickets given out almost a year in advance are the really, really crappy seats. And by crappy I mean limited view. They hold these things in football stadiums, put the court down on one end (think roughly the 30 yard line to the end zone) and then basically fill the place up with seats. Our tickets would be around the other 30 yard line (it’s like watching 10 guys juggle from 100 yards away and 80 feet up). Yikes. But I didn’t care, I was going to the Final Four.

So here we were, the first night, games 1 and 2. We find our seats, check out the view, then decide to roam around the lower level since it’s early enough that we can do that without much problem. We both stopped around half court and moved down into the seats so I could get some pictures and then sat down in the last row to enjoy the moment before heading back out to Wisconsin. Only problem was….we kept sitting there. And sitting there…And then there was only a half hour before the game started. So we decided to see how long we could go. We saw Dickie V, Bob and Libby Dole, Morgan Freeman, Grant Hill, a bunch of coaches, all come and go past our seats.

And then it happened…………The game started. So dad said “they must only be interested in the second game, they’ll surely come then.” At this point the place was packed….probably 50,000 fans and the only two empty seats had to be up in section Nowhere, Row a Million. Where we were *supposed* to be. Not here at half court, row 35, right under the press boxes.

But they didn’t come for the second game, so we enjoyed ourselves, but you’d better believe neither one of us was about to get up for a coke or a pee. No way were we leaving and chancing not getting it back.

The final game was different. We both thought, “there’s no way,” but we tried it anyway. It was a lot harder to get in this time, they were checking tickets. We had to sneak in four or five sections over and crawl across entire rows. And when we got to the seats there was some guy sitting there. So I said, looking at my ticket for section Nowhere, Row a Million, but never turning it around or putting it down, (and I’ll never know where this came from who what person I transformed into)”excuse me, I think you’re in our seats.”

And he got up and left. And the game started. And we watched the whole game, unspoiled in Row 35, half-court. It was amazing. I’ve never had an experience like that where I just got lucky, and got to see what it was like to live like the rich Iron Dukes who sat next to us. It’s one of those defining experiences, only not the ones like most people have. For me it was about seeing how the other half lives, but not in such a way that I would want to live that exact life, in such a way that I thought, “hey, I’m sitting here and I didn’t have to give a million dollars to some school, I just took an empty seat.”

And that is how I became addicted to not ever playing by the rules when it comes to sporting events. I will never sit in my seat. I can be asked to move 40 times by rightful ticket owners, but it’s always worth paying $10 and trying to get a $300 view. Pick me up, scoot me over, move me around, but I will never go back to only seeing the tops of heads again.

So thank you random Red Sox fans who didn’t show up and allowed me to sit behind home plate for Red Sox/Yankees. Thank you to GirlTuesday for giving me her ID so I could get two student tickets to the 2005 Final Four and DaddyMonday and I could sit on row 3 behind the basket. And thank you to DaddyMonday who always says “doesn’t look like those people are going to show up, wanna move down?”

Now just wish me luck this weekend, I’m going to a Vols game and our tickets are in Section 329, Row 23, Seat 6 and Section 328, Row 24, Seat 11. Yep, we’re not even sitting together. But you just watch. I bet I can figure out how to get us into the luxury boxes.

Love Being a Hater

Okay, I love this topic.  I find the act of being deeply critical about people, places and things to be extremely gratifying.  It allows you to be funny (or so you think), connect with humanity, and get a little closer to understanding what you're all about.  And isn't that what it's all about? And when you love to hate something, not only do you hate it, but you get a sick pleasure out of its stupidity.  Writing this post will put me on a week-long high.

Things I love to hate:

1. People who only send Christmas cards after they have children.  

I have no problem with people who don't send Christmas cards in general.  I like doing it for a lot of reasons.  I can be bad about being in touch.  A lot of holidays cards are glittery.  I think it's nice to stop once a year and literally take the time to let someone know you are thinking about them.  I can understand not doing it.  It takes time, it gets expensive, and some people don't even appreciate them.  However, if you have a child and then suddenly feel the need to spread the Christmas spirit, you are totally full of it.  I can understand wanting to show your kid, looking cute in a special ensemble, to interested parties.  But if you never bothered to send me holidays wishes and wish me a happy new year in the past, don't do so now as a pretense to showing off your baby.  I think it's incredibly poor taste.

2. Married couples who communicate with each other on Facebook.

Okay, I can understand the silly joke here and there, and I'm not above doing it myself.  But I've seen people who are married compliment each other's cooking, or wish them luck at their meetings, and have other sorts of inane conversations through their Walls.  Of course, people who live in the same house will still need to talk online, and maybe even use Facebook to do so, at times.  But I can't help but feeling like a lot of what they are doing is just to show other people that they are a happy, fun couple.  Lame.

3. Business owners who act like you should know their business as well as they do.

This one has been a huge pet peeve of mine for years, but I have never witnessed the heights of ridiculousness of this situation more than when I was planning my wedding.  I hate when you walk into a store that sells something you need, like flowers, or a service you need provided, like framing; and you ask a basic question about what the purchase entails/includes, or how the process works, and they totally scoff at you for asking the question.  Like they are so smart for knowing how the business they have run for 25 years works, and aren't you an idiot for not. And it's not only the owners who do this.  Often, employees behind the cash register do too. Give you attitude for not knowing that Venti is the largest size?  Well, I'm sorry.  I never accomplished my dream of working at Starbucks, so you'll have to school me.  The bottom line is, there is a nice, friendly way to convey information, and then there's being an ass.  If you have so little to feel good and confident about that you treat customers like they're stupid, it's really, really sad.

4. "That's a really good school."

I hate when people say that.  But I do love to hate it.  I find it hilarious when people say that because if the school was truly great, we'd all know about it.  Of course, there are exceptions. There are some really kick-ass small liberal arts colleges out there, but that is not what I'm talking about.  I'm talking about the random local schools.   I think people feel the need to justify staying local for college.  If you chose to go to St. Joe's (in Philly) or Creighton (in Omaha), that's fine.  But don't tell me it's Princeton.  Don't tell me that your education was elite-level rigorous and just as prestigious.  It simply isn't.  But who cares?  Own it.  Be proud of your achievements wherever you went and what you've accomplished since.

5. Bad Waitresses

I feel annoyed when people lament the experience of the downtrodden waitress.  Disrespected, paid poorly, on their feet all day.  Sure, that's not good.  But often people in service complain about how bad most customers tip.  I'm sure that's true.  But I think that there are a lot of bad waiters and waitresses out there too.  They can be generally inattentive, not refill your drinks, mess up your order-- and then what really kills me, not be nice or apologetic about anything. Such servers are included in the "woe is me" waiter population, unfortunately for the ones who are really good.  I'm a very generous tipper, and I hate to think that my generous tip should be expected, rather than compensation for excellent service.

6. Political Geniuses

I really hate that a lot of people out there feel empowered to talk down to others about politics and policy.  I have alluded to this in my "Hey Celebs- Shut the Hell Up" post.  In my opinion, the government and how it works, and should rightfully work, is incredibly complicated stuff.  I would be very careful before I spouted anything about politics, not because I'm not equipped, but due to my education and my work, I fully appreciate what it entails.  Clearly, others don't have that hesitation.  And when people do talk about issues that are more simple, in some moral sense, they naively treat them as black and white.  Abortion, Stem Cells, Affirmative Action.  Gay Marriage.  It's fine if you feel a certain way, but when you think everyone who disagrees with you is either stupid or bad, you're really losing sight of things.  And people on both sides of the aisle do this.  It's the easy way out.  It's much harder work, intellectually speaking, to tackle the perfectly justified arguments against your view.

What I might hate more than anything are people who complain.  Ironic, you say?  But I'm not complaining here.  Like I said, I enjoy hating those things.  I'm not complaining that they exist, because that's life.  Complainers are everywhere.  They really feel bad for themselves for whatever they are dealing with.  But I think they should buck up.  No one said it would be easy.

What do I Love to Hate??

This was a challenging topic for me to write about. Growing up my mom’s favorite motto was “Be a solution-finder, not a problem-finder”. Whenever we would complain or talk about something we disliked she were immediately ignored and told to only focus on the things that we could control. Although annoying at the time, I am now very thankful for this valuable approach that we were taught at a young age. As a result, I don’t focus much on the things I dislike. With that being said….everyone thinks at some point about unpleasant or annoying things that they have no control over. It has been really fun reading the other blogs. As I was reading down the web page each morning, I found myself smiling, nodding my head, and thinking, “Oh yeah, that annoys me too!”
As I went through the week, I started to pay close attention to the things that really annoyed me….the things I loved to hate. My list isn’t incredibly extensive or conclusive, but it is a collaboration of things that I realized I strongly dislike.

1. “Facebook” This is actually a hard one for me to put on here. I just recently cancelled my Facebook account. And, not because I hate it, but because I hate the amount of time I was wasting on it. For the past few weeks, I have had to convince myself that I hate Facebook so I am not tempted to re-activate my account. There are times that I do miss ‘snooping’ around on other people’s pages and peeking at old college cohorts. It is fun to see which high school classmates have gotten fat and which ones (sometimes surprisingly!) are very successful. However, I spent way too much time looking at pictures of people I barely knew or reading status updates for people that would never affect my life. So, I quit. Cold turkey. Thus, I now ‘hate’ Facebook.

2. “People who trickle on the toilet seat and don’t wipe it off” I am sorry, but this is absolutely the most disgusting thing ever. I never sit down all the way on a public toilet. Girls, you know the drill. You go to a public restroom, get in a funny “squat” position, and then you do your thing. Sometimes you end up dripping on the toilet seat during the process. I apologize if this is TMI (too much information), but it is the truth, we’ve all been there. The proper thing, then, is to take a wad of toilet paper and wipe of what you have left. The most filthy and sickening thing is when you get to a public bathroom and there are yellow liquid drips all over the seat. Gross! The part that is funny to me is when this happens at the office. Trying to figure out who the ‘culprit’ is can actually be kind of entertaining. You hear the bathroom door shut and turn on your ‘potty-patrol’ mode, stealthily walk over, get a cup of coffee and eyeball whoever walks out. B-U-S-T-E-D!!

3. “Nancy Grace” Do people really care that Caylee’s mom cracked a smile during her court hearing? My heart goes out to that family because they lost a young child, but six months later does the public really need to know every detail of every conversation the mother has had while in prison? My husband loves to watch Nancy Grace (I think mostly it is because he knows how annoyed I get with her). Her behaviors are mostly an act for TV to increase her viewer ratings. Her obvious statements and over-zealous personality are so irritating and force me to change the channel after only a few minutes.

4. “The person at work who gives WAY too much information about their personal life (which is 95% of the time exaggerated).” Everyone knows one of these. The Drama Queen. The person who threatens to quite every-other day (albeit only says this to his/her coworkers) but has never actually acted on this threat. The girl who gives a play-by-play recap of her weekend hook-up with the local-league football player. The thirty-something guy who still tries to hit on the new, young, employees while at the same time complaining about the sex life with his wife. In an office full of sales people “this person” is nearly every employee. Although I will admit this can be entertaining at times, it gets so old.

So there ya go. I started writing this blog thinking it was challenging. I have finished it smiling and realizing it has been kind of fun to focus on the things I get enjoyment out of disliking...

I Love to Hate You, Regina George

     What's funny is that I picked this week's topic, and it took me much longer than usual to come up with ideas. What are some things I "love to hate"? I started with a blank page on a yellow legal pad. I wrote, "Love to Hate" at the top. After a few moments of nothing, I underlined "Love to Hate." And then another few moments of more nothing. 

     Then "sex addicts" popped into my head and I thought, "Gosh sex addicts! What a ridiculous reason to go to rehab." So just below my underlined title I wrote, "sex addicts." I thought that was just hilarious. And then I started doing light research on sex addicts and I wound up feeling kind of bad about preparing to make fun of something that maybe actually is real and sad. So I crossed it off my list. But then I was like, "Oh ha-ha scientologists" and "ohmygosh Angelina Jolie" and "you know what I hate? Actors who say they're quitting their TV show to work in film and then disappear for a while and then come back to TV." 

     My list grew quickly. My hatred just seemed to spill from me: "Leonardo DiCaprio's South African accent" and "snobby people at expensive gyms" and "city moms who use their baby-strollers as weapons of mass destruction" and "organic mania" and "CSI: Miami previews" and "Bush jokes" and "out-of-control kids" and "Fergie" (the performer, not the former duchess) and "non-Italians who say 'Ciao'" and "the term: fine lines and wrinkles."

     I just kept digging up things I derive sheer pleasure from hating (the volume of my findings-- a little worrisome, I agree).  I was throwing back my head and giggling, rubbing my hands together saying occasionally, "oh and!" before scribbling yet more down the page.  But it wasn't long before I realized that not one item on this laundry list compares to my hatred of... mean girls.  

     I'm not talking about ordinary, perhaps even respectable girls who are in touch with their mean streaks.  I firmly believe that every girl should find that bitch within and pull her out when needed.  Cause, she's gonna need her at some point.  Guaranteed.

     No, I'm talking about "mean girls" in quotes.  Like, "gossip girls."  Like, those girls that you can remember being in middle school, praying you had a time machine just so you could fast forward and see her get her comeuppance. 

     I was teased a lot growing up. My family moved to a small suburban, resort town when I was in 5th grade.  So, I was teased for being new.  I was also teased for being from "the city" (we moved to Long Island from Queens).  I was teased for wearing hats (I loved hats. I blame the movie "My Girl"), for the types of earrings I wore, for collecting those little trolls with crazy-colored hair.  I was teased for reading so much I'd spend lunch and recess in the library.  I was teased for being too skinny, for being flat-chested.  For being shy and nervous and neurotic and weird or different or both.  Most probably I was teased because not once did I ever expect it. The insults came from around a sharp corner- I never saw them coming- and probably the look of shock and confusion on my face made it all worthwhile.

     When I was a senior in high school, my ex-boyfriend started dating a mean girl.  She wasn't popular (as in, "elite"), but she had her group of friends, and she was mean.  She was bitter and awful.  And one night after a basketball game, I was making my way to my car, walking through the parking lot of people doing the same.  I was walking, minding my own business I swear, when I crossed a few feet in front of a car that had just slowly pulled out of a spot.  But then the car's headlights turned on.  It was my ex-boyfriend's car.  I looked up for a split second, but kept walking.  Moments after the headlights turned on, the ex's car lunged forward in my direction and made a huge screeching noise.  I jumped out of my skin.  My hands flew up to my face.  I thought for sure I was about to get run over and die a painful death.  But I didn't.  The car had barely moved.  And when I stepped out of the headlights I could see Mean Girl was in the passenger seat, covering her face, laughing. 

     I hate reliving this moment, because the truth is, I got her back in a bad way, and I feel guilty about it.  So, retelling this whole thing doesn't really make me feel better.  I'm not proud, okay?  But I'll tell you anyway. 

     Not long after this incident I was assigned to a public speaking class.  She was in it.  She sat there-- quiet and safe and smug.  The fact that she was in that class and got to live in peace every day with no visible remorse ate away at me.  On the last day of public speaking I gave the biggest, baddest speech of all time.  I gave everyone in the class a certificate, awarding them titles based on the speeches they gave ("most dysfunctional family" and "best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches").  It was a big hit.  But when I got to her name though, I told the story I just told you.  I told the story about how she thought it was just so funny that this guy scared me by pretending to hit me with a car.  And I threw in there that I suspected it was all her idea.  And then I said that I didn't have a certificate for her, but if I did it would name her "piece of shit."  I closed with:  "And I hope you do feel like a piece of shit.  Because as far as I'm concerned, that's exactly what you are."  

     The kids in the class went in an uproar and I saw her tears from my podium.

     It was to date, the first, last, single meanest thing I've ever done.  I sure hope that doesn't make me a "mean girl."  ...Wait- does vengeance count?  

     Anyway, truth be told, that is not the way to handle a mean girl.  If I could rewind to that night in the parking lot, I'd get over my initial shock, take a deep breath, walk over to her passenger-side door and open it.  I'd pull her out by her collar and throw her to the ground and say something cool like, "What's so funny, bitch?"  

     Nip that sucker right in the bud.  

     Not sure I'll ever be up for that.  I am kind of a lady.  Not entirely, although I try to keep up appearances.  But I do think that alternate ending wouldn't have humiliated her so that I'm still thinking about it 10 years later.

     So yeah, mean girls.  Love to hate 'em.

 

 

Welcome; now kindly leave

Given that I am writing from our Nation’s capital on this historic day, I figured—what could be better than a blog post discussing how much I love to hate tourists in DC. Don’t get me wrong, I think today is a fantastic day, and I got goose bumps standing by the reflecting pool listening to celebrities discuss our founders and recite the words of past presidents. I’m not trying to diminish the significance of this spectacular moment. But I just wish it wasn’t happening right outside my doorstep.

Typical tourist season in DC extends from mid-June through the end of August. There are all sorts of categories of tourist sightings. The first signs of tourist season emerge on the metro. I heart DC and FBI t-shirts adorn sun-burnt youngsters who stand with their luggage blocking the doors, a middle aged man discusses loudly how smart they are for figuring out which direction they were supposed to go on the train, while another curses even louder when he realizes four stops too late that he missed his transfer point. And the children run up and down the crowded eisles, pretending to surf until they go flying.

The metro is only a beginning, however. The surest sign of tourist season is trying to venture into the Museum of American History, Natural History, or Air and Space on a weekend. Forget it. Stay home. It is not worth it. If you actually wanted to read the signs, too bad—because some little brat is probably rubbing his germy hands all over it and asking his mom (who is still two rooms behind him) to read it for him. Although I do love the fact that even in the heat and crowds of summer, the National Gallery usually holds vast expanses of quiet, empty rooms in which I can go to escape the masses momentarily. . . until I walk back outside on to the mall, that is.

I don’t know what it is about tourists that I love to hate so much. I can’t really blame them for wanting to come here; I mean, I love this city—why wouldn’t you want to come stand in the marble hallways and take in the splendor of it all? Where else can you spend days upon end not paying for a single attraction? It’s pretty cool.

But I still don’t want them walking four astride on the sidewalk when I’m trying to get to work, or hoping up and down around me when I’m trying to keep my balance on a crowded metro train, or slowing down the line at starbucks asking if they sell diet coke, or stopping me on the corner when the cross-walk timer is almost red to ask for directions. At the same time, the fact that I notice makes me realize how quickly this city has truly become my home; when the momentous history around me seems at times to be an inconvenience, I can’t help but smile, despite my hatred of crowds. And even though I left yesterday’s concert right as Obama was speaking to try and get to the metro ahead of the masses, I enjoyed taking it in as though I was a tourist myself. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be excited to see them all head home tomorrow and Wednesday. . .

Tofu and James Taylor

In thinking about the topic for this week, Things I Love to Hate, I had a lot of trouble. I could think of lots if things that I Hate to Hate:

• Tofu. I know its supposed to be good and better than killing poor, innocent chickens, but I just can't get past the sponginess. I find that unless you cut it into tiny, tiny slivers (let's just call them crumbs) it tastes like eating stir fry with soy sauce flavored jello. Yuk. I really hate that I hate it, but I do. I can't help it. I want so badly to promote the slaughter of innocent soybeans instead.
• Running. I hate running. I always have, but I wish I didn't. It sure would have made the first few weeks of soccer preseason a lot less painful if I could have just stayed in shape over the summer. I manage to make myself run about once a week in the winter and 3-4 times a week in the other months. I want to be trendy and cool (and fit), but I can't figure out a way to make it less monotonous and boring. Oh well.
• American Idol. I HATE this show. I HATE everything about it from the terrible auditions by people who must know they're terrible, to mean Simon, to drunk Paula, to the bad karaoke of Hollywood week. I know it’s cool to love this show and I hate being left out, but I can't force myself through 10 minutes of it without being disgusted (or disheartened by the state of our country - when is it okay to be intentionally mean to someone?). Sorry Fox, I know it's the only reason you're hanging on, but I can't do my part to save your network.
• Forever 21. Most of you probably haven't heard of the Heaven on Earth that is F21 so I'll summarize: it's a suburban mall situated sanctuary if cheap clothes. I don't like to admit that I shop amongst polyester, spandex, sparkly, tube top clad teeny boppers, but I do. And I also use phrases like teeny boppers. Cheap jeans and sunglasses are happiness.

The idea of talking about what I Love to Hate also got me thinking about what I Love to Love (secretly). These are all secrets so shhhh! Don't tell).
• Alabama. Oh God, I can't believe I'm letting the cat out of the bag on this one, but here goes. I'm supposed to hate them, but I don't. I love them. I was born into a hatred of all things Tide, but somewhere along the way I lost interest in hating. So now I secretly cheer for them (except against my beloved Vols, obviously) and am known to secretly squeal the occasional RammerJammer (give 'em HELL) especially when I've been drinking.
• James Taylor. My head thinks of him as in a category with Michael Bolton and Barry Manilow, but my heart and my ears can't get enough. You've got a friend? Classic. Carolina on my mind (enough said!).

So long story long, I did a lot of thinking and finally wrapped my simple mind around the task at hand, those items that I find great pleasure in hating. Drumroll please.....

Things I Love to Hate

• The Bachelor. You may be amazed that I can hate Idol with such passion yet can be so passionate about this stupid show. I’m the first to admit this bastion of faux tans, cleavage, desperation, and tears should have been off the air years ago. But since it’s not, I still watch (although I've missed probably half the seasons). This show brings out the snarky side of me, but I love being snarky. I think part of why I love the Bachelor is why I love the romcom, I'm a romantic at heart and this stupid show plays to that. Oh, and I love making fun of the desperate girls who talk about babies and wedding planning the first night. Heh.
• Walmart. I love telling everyone how much I despise this store with its big box attitude. I hate the way they sprawl on for miles and miles with their enormous parking lots. I hate the way they treat their employees like dirt. I hate their big box attitude. I hate the way they manhandle the small companies whose products they sell. And I definitely hate the way they draw out the rednecks in droves. And I love to tell all of those things to any poor soul who utters the words Walmart within 50 feet of me. Oh, and I loooove their prices. Shhhh!
• Flying. I like to talk about how much I hate to fly, but I sure love to do it. I would travel every weekend if I could. I bitch and moan about the long security lines, taking off my shoes, and running to make connections because of delays (which I secretly love - such a sense of accomplishment when you make it. Like beating the system at its own game. Take that airline!). I love fitting everything into one suitcase, I love all my 3.2 oz travel bottles, and I especially love the feeling of traveling so far in such a relatively short amount of time. So while United expends all of its energy trying to piss me off by making me sleep in O'Hare, I keep packing lighter and refusing to pay for a drink, pillow, exit row, isle, movie, or extra bag (or first bag).

Don't Step Believing

I totally hear GMon’y’s point.  Why wait until January to do something you want to do to improve your own life?  Well, humans are interesting creatures.  Most of us aren’t totally happy with every aspect of our lives, but we feel nervous and scared about changing things.  A lot of the things we do, but don’t like that we do—such as smoking, drinking, eating excessively, not exercising enough, using bad language, being inconsiderate, not calling people enough, spending too much money, not enjoying life enough, buying too much make-up, etc.—we do for complex psychological reasons.  If anything, I’m sort of relieved that making New Year’s Resolutions is such a popular tradition.  It serves as evidence that I’m not the only crazy one out there.

This year, I’m focusing on religion and attending services regularly.  I often think of how I will raise my children in terms of spirituality, and yet I don’t usually go to my house of worship.  If I don’t do it now, why would I do it then?  Being a good parent is about being a good example.  And I would be a super-hypocrite if I suddenly became someone I’m not now just because impressionable kids are around.  So I’ve started doing that and it’s going fine.  I’m sure whatever happens will be what is ultimately right for me, what I’m comfortable with, and what will be positive for my entire family. 

I think that people make those important changes in their lives in January because a new year is the ultimate symbol of hope.  And when attempting to change major aspects of our lives, we need as much hope as possible.  We need to feel that the change can happen.  But according to my intensive research (i.e. Wikipedia), it can’t.  In a resolution study, 52% of people were confident that they would be successful in keeping their resolutions, but only 12% were.  But I don’t think it really matters.  I just think it’s cool that people resolve to change their lives.  There are societies in which people are truly complacent.  They don’t think about improving things in such a way.  But in America, we do.  However delusional, we imagine our best selves and we go for it.   And we’ve been doing that for long before Oprah Winfrey came into the picture.  I don’t mind that people fail in what they resolve to do, but I would hate it if they didn’t resolve.

New Years Resolutions

New Years Resolutions are very hard for me to keep! I always concoct these elaborate and detailed schemes to lose weight, run faster, educate myself more, etc. I am gung-hoe and dedicated for about two weeks. Then I lose a few pounds, start to think I look good again and become less dedicated. Or a new season of American Idol begins and my resolution to read instead of watch television wears thin as I begin to laugh at the goons and become interested in the characters.

This year, I made a decision to make two resolutions that I have never tried to make before. I came up with two:

1 – I will not hit 'ignore' on my phone. I have a very bad habit of ignoring phone calls if I am busy and then never checking my voicemails. My mailbox gets full about every two weeks and then I get angry texts from my friends and family demanding that I delete my voicemails because it makes them worried that something is wrong with me. Finally, I started to tally up the all the wasted time involved with checking my voicemails, calling them back, play phone tag, etc. I figured that if I just would have answered my phone on the first ring then I would save myself a lot of wasted time.

2 – I will be a better wife. This was one I have never tried to make before because I have never been a wife at New Years before! I know that you always hear you shouldn't create vague resolutions like this one. But, at times, I find that I could have responded better to a particular situation, done a better job of keeping things organized, or been more supportive towards my husband. I don’t think I am a bad partner, but there is always room for improvement. This one shouldn’t be too hard to keep.

So, there you have it. My 2009 New Years resolutions written down and broadcasted to the world. Let’s see how long these will last… :)

Read My Lip Gloss: No New Makeup

I'm already squirming to break one of my many 2009 new year's resolutions. Just this morning I seriously contemplated taking a stroll to the nearest MAC store because I had convinced myself that I needed a new blending eye shadow. "Something light, no sparkles," I said to reflection in the mirror, eagerly trying convince myself that it wouldn't be a felony if I bought just one more piece of makeup. Eesh I'm sick. But I'm not going to wait for an A&E Intervention!  And since the first step is, as they say, admitting I have a problem, then here I am-- Girl Wednesday-- admitting I have a problem.  Below is a very pathetic photo essay that explains why one of my resolutions is to stop buying makeup....

In this pile o' hussie-face:  Essie nail polish in "Pink Glove Service" (sexy name!) and some Cargo makeup (comes in round silver tins)- I think the packaging made me feel like I was buying something industrial, minimalist, rough.  Rough, sparkly lip gloss.  I'm not blind to the irony.  I've got a pink Clinique lip gloss tube for when I get sick of the coral Clinique lip gloss tube that's sitting right next to it.  I use neither with any regularity.  There's even some Calvin Klein in there, even though his makeup history is rocky. He manufactured the goods in the 70's and then as far as I know, again in the early 2000's (see above picture shows his lucite-encased eye shadows). And after Calvin closed his makeup department a few years ago, looks like he's at it again.

My Martha Stewart toolbox (containing all the makeup I refuse to throw out) is put to good use:

How practical-- I keep some of the stuff that I don't use every day in a glass bowl on the side.  I'm like a makeup chef on the food network, setting aside the reduction for later basting!

The reserves:

This little, clear cosmetics bag I got at Duane Reade. In here are the regulars: Chanel foundation, Lancome spot cover, MAC fiber mascara, and a MAC blush.  The most unfortunate irony is that I really use only these four things daily.  So why do I keep indulging I ask you!?!

(In the background-- I keep my weekly-cleaned brushes in a flower pot.  Quaint!)

Not to point fingers here, but Girl Friday is kind of an enabler... Thanks Girl Friday! Best gift ever! GF gave me this multi-tiered set of everything a makeup addict could ever dream of. It's got two levels of eye shadows, two lippies, and one big fat layer of rouge (love that word, but you've got to say it in a bad French accent). I think I stopped breathing when I first opened this. I still kind of can't believe it.

One more thing I'd like to share-- this one's by MAC-- pure eye glitter. In a teeny pot. In my dreams I dive into this little tub and when I come up for air I've got purpley sparkles on the tips of my eyelashes and on my fingertips and everything is a spectacular white winter wonderland.

Look. I don't drink. I don't smoke. I'm a healthy eater and I gym, run, and yoga. Video games don't get in the way of me leading a normal, healthy life. I've never had any plastic surgery. I've never bought anything from the Home Shopping Network. ...What other kinds of things do people get addicted to?
Anyway, if makeup is my vice, then I'm OK with that I think. But it is a recession and it's a new year and I think it's time for me, at least temporarily, to come to terms with the fact that I probably have everything I need in my highly organized, makeup library. So until all my mascaras have dried to dust, and until I'm scraping lipstick out of the tube with a tooth pick, I'm closing my purse and sitting pretty.

Resolution: Take Two

G'mony stole my punch line. That said, since I proposed this glorious topic, I figured I would share a bit about my success (and failures) at keeping one particular new years resolution.

When I was in graduate school, I made a resolution to be a better friend. I had fallen out of touch with my college classmates, lost touch with childhood friends, and only had a handful of people I
really thought I could turn times of need or crisis. Recognizing that this mentality of take it or leave it friendship was no way to go about creating and fostering a support system for my adult life, I vowed that year to make a two-fold new years resolution. First, I would be a better friend to my existing friends; and second, I would be an active participant in the academic and social community surrounding me in an effort to cultivate the new and potential friendships around me.

This two-fold resolution was both a success and a failure. In striving for the first goal, I created bench marks for myself- commit one hour each Sunday afternoon to calling and reconnecting with old friends. Screen fewer calls using call waiting, and instead pick up the phone
and chat, regardless of how busy/hungry/sleepy/or otherwise occupied I was. Send emails every few weeks, giving updates, or simply to let friends know I am thinking about them. Ask about life; inquire into their wellbeing; and, above all, listen. Listen intently.

I was very good for a little while at this. I reconnected, I laughed, I felt somehow more complete in my own life, having opened myself to others. But it was really only for a little while. . . the college friendships grew old and weary, and the emails seemed shallow, empty—the platitudes reflecting the aging process and the fact that where commonalities once stood, only distance and memory remain.

As to the second prong of my two-prong attack, I was able to succeed, for the first time in my life, at keeping a resolution. I took a step back from my preconceived notions of law school classmates and my aversion to the artificial realities and camaraderie of force small sections and decided to learn more about my classmates. Rather than identifying them by row or surname, I would learn to identify them by ambition in life, favorite beer, sports team allegiance, favorite past-time, hometown, or other identifying characteristics that had heretofore gone unnoticed in my narrow-minded attempt to treat school as a job. I stopped fighting the system, and embraced it. I was met with the warm embrace of a fantastically diverse group of 10-15 individuals whose friendships each played pivotal and crucial roles in carrying me through the 2.5 years of school remaining.

Sure, there were people in my section whose names I have already forgotten, and there are people who I don’t really care to remember, even though I do know their name. But there are also the people who touched me so deeply that I will be forever changed and forever better for the role they’ve had in my life. There are the girls who I once dubbed our section “cheerleaders,” who both turned out to be remarkable women. One, a southern belle whose opinions, intellectual curiosity, and tenacity, though initially off-putting, helped fuel and foster my own sense of self-worth as an attorney. Whose hypothetical questions and insane attention to detail during intense study sessions expanded my own legal intellect, and whose willing ear helped me through the most emotionally trying nine-month period of my life thus far. The other, a classy city chic whose self-depricating, yet elitist nature meld together into one fantastically loyal walking contradiction. As we’ve moved back north and left the steamy southern humidity behind us, she remains a steadfast friend. The kind who call out of the blue, simply because they were thinking of you. And when I’m behaving myself, I pick up and listen, and through the banter, I am reminded of the value of such friends. And then there were the gentlemen. The island jokester, the sophisticated I-banker, the fresh out of undergrad charmer, and the mysteriously enigmatic boy-next-door. Those four taught me more about myself in a three year span than almost any real friend before me, save the one I will marry. They taught me to laugh, to take myself less seriously, to let go of myself, to relax. They taught me to appreciate the joy of skipping class to sit by the pool, and the fear of avoiding wild dogs crossing the highway. They taught me that the best beer to hold green food coloring is miller high life, how to smoke a cigar, how to lose at black jack, and how to love platonically. Finally, there was the intellectual, future professor and my dear, thick-skinned Detroit-born buddy more opinionated still than any of the aforementioned gunners.

This motley crew is now spread across the country; and I find myself this New Years, realizing that I really ought to return to the first prong of my attack, and make the same goal once again. The failure part of my story is that my efforts at writing, at calling, and email have long since subsided back to dismal, pre-resolution levels. I wake, work, run, eat, and sleep in a relatively tunnel-visioned state in which picking up the phone to call even my dearest, most important friends must be mentally scheduled. And I screen phone calls. Often. I have lost touch with college classmates, and grown apart from all but a handful of highschool friends, and, with the exception of one, I speak only once a month, if that, to each of the above mentioned once-familiar faces. In an effort to prove to myself that these friendships, unlike some of those formed in college dorm rooms, have the strength to endure into adulthood. Perhaps it is the nature of life that we meet folks who will mold and shape who we become, and only a handful will remain our friends into the future. But as I sit here opining to the bloggosphere, I am resolving to put off that process for at least one year, and try, once again, to be a better friend. Because even if I know it would be unrealistic to tell each of these remarkable individuals how much they meant and continue to mean to me every day, I will be certain to send them my hellos more than merely once in a while. And I resolve not only call, but to listen. Listen intently.

A Life Without Bacon is Not a Life at All

Given that we are a mere 12 days into 2009, GirlTuesday has made the suggestion that we write about New Year’s Resolutions this week, which I think is a great idea.

I had the opportunity to speak, at length, with a guy I met this morning as were were on the way to a community service project. After going on and on about how the Earthy-Hippie-OverPriced-Organic-Local grocery store didn’t have grits and soysage at 7 this morning, he started to preach the benefits of vegetarianism (and veganism more particularly; one thing for which I can never see benefits. Give up cheese and sour cream? No way!). I know lots of vegetarians who don’t eat meat for health, environmental, religious, and ethical/animal treatment reasons, but he didn’t really seem to have a reason for his initial decision other than he needed to make a New Year’s Resolution. So he decided to give up meat for the year 1991, and here we are 18 years later, and the guy has stuck to it. His endurance is impressive, but I’m just not sure he knew why he did it in the first place.

Never in my life have I ever met someone who kept a New Year’s Resolution for a year, let alone 18 years (and one that eliminates bacon and fried chicken from his diet – I can see giving up something terrible…, but bacon?! Now that’s dedication), so I am quite impressed. And dumbfounded. I have never really understood the point of New Year’s Resolutions, and have never been inclined myself to make one. If there’s something different I want to do in my life, I just do it. I don’t see the point in waiting until January (unless of course one New Year’s eve, while bowing to the porcelain gods you decide to give up drinking….then it might as well start immediately). If there’s something that you want to change about yourself badly enough, you should be inspired to move on it quickly; I think if you have a need to put it off so that you can make an official New Year’s Resolution, then you’re probably not that interested in change anyway. And sorry to say, you’ll probably fail. Take all of the overweight women in my office as an example. They’ve been planning for the diets they all started last week since…oh….October. There were complaints of “I can’t fit into my winter clothes” starting around the first of the month, but nothing was done because “the holidays are coming up, and it’s hard to be good during the holidays.” The holidays? What holidays? Columbus Day? Halloween?

I don’t mean to sound overly cynical or judgmental, I wish everyone well in their resolutions, but I hope that people are doing them for the right reasons and that they can stick with their resolutions.

So this year, I’m making my first ever New Year’s Resolution. I’m giving up cauliflower. I hope I can stick to it.

Out Here In The World

I was really excited when GMon'y picked New York City for this week's topic. It's the birthplace of myself and my brother, the first place my parents lived after they got married, the place I went to college, the place where I had my first job and apartment, and the place I became the fully realized Girl Friday I am today. Whenever I see images of New York on TV, I feel instantly homesick. I simply love the place. Yet lately, I have been telling all of my close friends and family that I would never live there again. Initially I thought I would write this entry to explain that although I love New York dearly, there are so many reasons I need to leave it behind. But after reading posts by my fellow blogettes, I feel the need to revisit a few of the many reasons I do heart New York.

As Girl Wednesday mentioned, there are a lot of jobs available in New York. This is largely because most professional industries are based in New York. This situation lends itself to a cutthroat attitude that some may find off-putting, but I like that "in it to win it" quality. I have lived in many different parts part of the country; I can tell you that the New York workplace has a sense of urgency that is unrivaled. Now, it's not nice when people are jerks, of course; and many New Yorkers probably take it too far. But I like being held responsible for my performance, for feeling I have no choice but to be the best. Because the moment I don't, there is a young, eager college grad waiting right behind me. I haven't felt that way the other cities I've worked in, and I have missed it.

Another thing I love about New York that I have to say, I don't think about very often, is its history. One can't even begin to list all of the important things that have happened on that tiny island. And when you live there, you are a part of it. Walking by landmarks, sitting on benches, even eating at restaurants, you are experiencing the past, every single day. In that sense, there's not really another American city like it. Right or wrong, you feel incredibly significant in New York, because you are around so much that is significant.

Which brings me to my last point. One day, when I was 17 or 18, I was walking down the street in lower Manhattan. There was a young boy who looked to be about seven years old, vigorously pushing a stroller with a baby in it down the street. His mother was running alongside him, attempting to rein him in. He didn't want to give up the stroller. He exclaimed, "You never let me push it!" His mother said, calmly, "You've pushed it lots of times." He grew frustrated and replied, "Ugh-- that was just the lobby. I mean, out here in the world." I really enjoyed witnessing this encounter. I knew exactly what he meant. Among the bustle of people and things on Fifth Avenue, you really feel like you are out in the world. Have you ever felt restless? Like you were missing something? In New York, you don't. And there are some people who really like that feeling. For others, they like it for a certain time in their lives, as I did in my early adulthood. Daily life can be tough and it isn't always pretty, but there is still something undeniably great about living in New York. I'm usually not a fan of any philosophy that dictates that you need to have experienced a situation firsthand to appreciate it, but I think that is the case with New York City. It's easy to see that it can be dirty, unsafe, crowded and hectic. Its magic is harder to articulate. 

NYC

We are all writing about NYC this week. And, although I know many of my fellow blogettes are from the Big Apple and have fond memories and experiences, I have to say that I align my view more with GTuesday and perhaps my views extend even further. Although visiting New York City has been and can be a lot of fun I remember being completely shocked last year when I visited NYC for the first time since I was a child.

When you don’t live on the East Coast, typically the TV images you see of NYC usually involve New Years, TRL, Macy’s Parade, Sex in the City, etc. Sometimes you might see a movie that is based in New York or has a scene or two in the city. Things that come to mind are streets full of taxis, big crowds swarming across intersections, and very distinct areas of the city.

Last year I visited New York for the first time in over fifteen years. I was really quite shocked at my visit. One of the things that stuck out vividly was all the trash on the streets and the strange smell of the city. I had a hard time getting past this. Do people have such little regard for their city that they see trash everywhere and don’t do anything about it? Or worse yet, are the trash-throwing culprits? I also would have a very hard time living in New York and not help but struggle knowing you were only a number among the millions of people who live there.

My idea of a great quality of life is spending time with my family when I get home from work, not having to battle traffic for hours or take long commutes to get home. My primary focus in life isn’t my career but rather making an impact and difference with the people whom I love most. I would rather give up a career move to improve the relationships with my family. I don’t care much about celebrity gossip or seeing famous people strolling about; I would rather focus my time and energy on the people who matter the most to me. I love the fact that we didn’t have to lock our doors when we were growing up and my parents felt safe when I would ride my bike around my neighborhoods. I enjoy fishing, hiking, camping, watching the stars from your backyard at night – none of this would be possible if you lived in the city. I have a hard time imagining I could really enjoy raising a family in a large city.

I don’t mean to be critical of other people’s decision to live in NYC, it is just not the lifestyle I would love to live. With all this being said, my impression is simply that – an impression. I am sure that if I had grown up in NYC my experiences would be completely different than the limited number of impressions I have had to the city. Reading GWednesday’s blog reminded of all the fantastic cultural experiences I didn’t have growing up in a small town. My interests and experiences align much closer to outdoor activities than cultural ones. So for now, I will leave the city life for others. I am happy and content being a 'country girl'. :)

They Say the Neon Lights Are Bright

I heard this guy on his cell phone, on the M5 bus tonight:  

"You know how when you get home you just want to chill?  Well I get home and my mom is like, 'He been here all day.'  I'm like, 'That motha-fucking nigga, he got to learn responsibility.'  He been crashing here and crashing there since 1997 word up!"

Ahhh..  Inhale.  Exhale.  I was on my way home from yoga.  The bus swerved.  An old man wearing an ascot, leaning on a titanium walker tripped sideways.  The loud-talking bus rider went on,

"Bro, I don't know if it's genetics or what, but I don't let no one sleep in my bed.  I'm muscular you know so I take up most the space!  But when I sleep with shorty yo, we fit just fine--HAAAA MARCUS BRO!!!  No but for real bro I got to get this cock sucker out of my apartment."

The very old lady behind me was whispering, "Shut the fuck up" over and over.

I'm not sure if this kind of thing (you know, these typical "real," New Yorkey moments that Robert DeNiro's always alluding to in interviews and American Express commercials) is a good thing or a bad thing.  You can't go on with your life sheltered from all grit, can you?  Admittedly, I could have done without this lyrical gangster's discourse.  

But then again, I could do without most things.  

I could do without coming home and knowing that if my neighbor went away and didn't take her garbage out then I probably have one of those sick, six-inch roaches with twitchy antennas waiting for me.  (Those things, I swear they stare right back at me and a mini-tumbleweed rolls between us).  I could do without smelling cigarette smoke and curry chicken whenever the person upstairs has a craving.  

Everyone on my floor can hear my toilet flush.  

Oh, and I could do without the constant subway delays and the even worse- ambiguous "earlier incident" announcements that purport to explain it.  On rainy days the subway tracks get too wet; in the summer they spark and start fires.  On foggy days the buses never show up.  

And then they hike the fares and raise your rent and ask you to work without benefits.  And soon you've been hand-to-mouth for as long as you can remember.  

So you take a big-girl breath and try to walk wherever you need to go.  On the way you pass a discarded mattress on the sidewalk, wrapped in plastic with duct tape and a sign that reads "BED BUGS."  So you cross the street, but before you get to the other side you are ankle-deep in sludge.  Bye-bye new suede shoes.

And then you see a teenager getting arrested before 10AM.

And you get the wind knocked out of you when the crowd around the Rockefeller Christmas tree gets too thick to pass through.

And then you see a woman who's fallen, lying on the ground and among the crowd around her is a passerby who's stretching to take her picture with his camera phone.  And that is not the first time I've seen that happen, by the way.

Want to do something in NYC?  Allot 45 minutes, minimum.  Doesn't matter where you're going.  Grocery shopping?  The simple act so simple it's practically a God-given right-- of purchasing food for the intent of survival?  Good luck.  My neighborhood grocery store is a ground zero of guerrilla warfare.  I do not know where these old Upper West-Side ditties learned their dirty-fighting tricks.  They will use anything as a weapon- a sharp-edged crate of clementines can get you to the front of the miserable 8-items-or-less lane.  Yup, you gotta be quick in the Big Apple.

Above the grocery store is a dance studio.  "Five six seven eight!" Da-da-da-da-- tap tap!  It's the beginning bars of "God I Hope I Get It" from "A Chorus Line"!  My heart races for a second-- a play about resumes.  Could anything be more New York?

What kind of city thrives on the delicate and unlikely dreams of so many starry-eyed kids anyway?  I haven't lived here long enough to know the odds of "making it."  But I know they're slim.  And if you leave for a different town, are you giving up on your dreams?   

...The glitter rubs right off and you're nowhere....

Now, I can knock it all I want, but when I do a career search for various cities, I have to say, New York City by far has the most open positions.  At least in my field.  And it's not just that.  It's not just that there are jobs here, it's that everyone wants them.  If you're working, you're doing a job that a dozen other people would die to do.  People here push forward and scratch for more.  Your career is the pulse of your day.  It sends you out into the twists of the transportation system like a little oxygen bubble coursing a vein.  People are doing what they love, or are striving to, because they wouldn't be living in this God-awful, uncomfortable city just to pass time and spend money.  People come here because of work.  Every day on the street, on the trains, in the halls, in the elevators-- everyone is reaching and pushing to move around.  

We're so close to where we want to be, we can taste it. 

...And there are perks.  You can get a manicure at 10PM.  You can grill Korean beef strips and within an hour slurp Vietnamese cow-cartilage soup.  You can walk under the giant snowflake-shaped Christmas lights on Mulberry Street and be serenaded by the maitre d' of the Italian restaurants.  You can sample red-bean cookie shaped desserts in Chinatown (Girl Friday didn't like those so much, but I still dream of it).  

If you go to an amped-up movie premier (i.e., "X-Men") you can wait for hours with hundreds of other crazies and then race into the theater when they swing open the doors so that you and all your friends can sit together-- this might involve running up the down escalator.  

You can walk for hours and never really see a deserted street.  You will see trees and cobblestones and art deco designs on old brownstone fronts.  You could get lost in Central Park or you could see the stunning red, orange and yellow autumn leaves that cover the ground in Washington Square.

And if you get your heel stuck in a subway grate, it's possible an old man will stop walking to grab your ankle and pull you out without even giving it a second thought.

Or if you fall as the city bus takes a sharp turn, an old lady might catch you- rather heroically- and then say, "Now you've got my back."

Or you can kiss a boy on the street and maybe- just maybe- a jolly, red-faced young man might come up and wrap his arms around you both and proclaim:  "This is love!  I know it when I see it!" 

Have I seen a roach on a subway car?  Yes.  Was my NYU friends' favorite past-time called "Jump Rat Alley," which involved going to a street in Chinatown where hundreds of rats were known to scurry between a dumpster and a pile of garbage bags all night long and trying to jump over the vile creatures without any of them touching their feet?  Shamefully, yes.  Have I gotten stuck on the subway, in between stops for longer than two hours while sweat from the forehead of the man next to me dripped on me?  Yes, it's all true.

BUT.  Have I seen Britney Spears in my neighborhood Sephora testing mascaras?  Yes!  

Maybe one of my favorite movies of all time, "Working Girl," left such a huge impression on me as a child.  The idea that a dopey girl from Staten Island with a bad perm can make it if she worked hard enough-- only in New York.  

Or maybe I've been permanently charmed by:  "Citizen Kane" or "Annie Hall" or "Miracle on 34th Street" or "Rear Window" or "Breakfast at Tiffany's" or "Funny Girl" or "Midnight Cowboy" or "The French Connection" or "The Way We Were" or "Three Days of the Condor" or "Saturday Night Fever" or "All That Jazz" or "Fame" or "Escape from New York" or "Trading Places" or "Ghostbusters" or "Wall Street" or "Big" or "Bright Lights, Big City" or "Green Card" or "Goodfellas" or "Six Degrees of Separation" or "The Family Man" or "Someone Like You" or "American Gangster" or "Reign Over Me."  

    

  

NY, NY

In an effort to shake things up on this blog; we're each addressing different perspectives and commentaries on the same topic each week.With this week's focus on the big apple, I find myself feeling similarto how I do about the city as a whole- intimidated. I do not share the same affection for the city as my friends. I tend to shy away from theglitz and fashion and 4 am last calls in favor of jeans, polo shirts,and on demand movies. I watched last week's premiere of mtv's the city (after all, bad tv is my true weakness), but I still could never envision actually calling manhattan home.

In some ways, I am fascinated by the glitz and glam; but I know thatit is not for me. My own big city seems itself too cold and urban, andwe don't even have sky scrapers. I like going home to tree linedstreets and my view of the neighborhood park. I like being able todrive into the countryside in under 30 minutes, and I like being closeto home. I like running into classmates on the street corner, and I like feeling as though this city of hundreds of thousands is just assmall as my own hometown. I like relatively clean public transportation, and I like that I didn't see any rats until I'd livedhere well over a year.

I am intimidated by rake thin models and the anonymity of the place.The noise and the construction are too much to counter thesurprisingly good tap water. The sheer volume of people and the fact that you can't really hesitate when walking down the sidewalk lest yoube plowed down by the pedestrian onslaught. I

couldn't do it; it is not for me. And the fact that others not only put up with it, but actually embrace it, fascinates me. So I will leave it to my other lovely bloggers to explain the joys ofthe place; I am still too busy on my quest to understand it.

Ben? Or Noel? Or Neither?!

I have a new best gal pal. And if she didn’t exist only in my TV, she would probably accuse me of stalking her. Because I would totally move to New York City just to hang out with her and her friends. They seem like fun. I could be there having Thanksgiving dinner with them, road-tripping across the country, and drinking coffee at Dean and Deluca. They seem to be having a great time and the only thing missing is me! Of course besides selling my house, quitting my job, and packing up my things to head to the land of Yankees (literal and Southernly figurative), I would also have to fire up the time machine. And set it for 1998.

I am completely (and very newly, and therefore sadly) obsessed with the show Felicity. Where the hell was this show when I was in college? Or maybe where the hell was I? It seemed like everyone I knew was watching X-Files or ER or both. The former of which, despite being extremely nerdy in college, I expressed no interest in. What was the deal with the smoking man? And why didn’t Mulder and Scully just get it over with? Seriously. But now, I know what I should have been doing instead of studying and pining for my lab partner. Watching this freakin awesome show.

It’s embarrassing to be closing in on the big 3-0 and be completely mesmerized by the doings of a scrawny, crazy, curly haired college girl. But I totally am. I have the biggest girl crush on Keri Russell. And I am not afraid to say that she should be with Noel. Not Ben. NOEL. And she never should have slept with that art student, although he was pretty hot, and I probably would have….But I do concede that it’s hard to say what should happen being that I am only as far as Season 2, Disc 2. I had to take a break from Netflixing them over the holidays since the family wanted me to get some movies. Movies?! How can they? Don’t they know I’ve been netflixing episodes at a rate of 2 per week for the last month. You have no idea how hard it is to wait three days for a disc (it’s a little remote here and the turnaround time is crap) only to stay up until midnight on a Tuesday watching 8 episodes just so I can return both discs and get two new ones! Sad I know.

Anyway, I had to spend my holidays with the likes of Juno (fab!), Wall-E (fab!fab!), and katherine heigl in the likes of 27 dresses (so not fab, she doesn’t even deserve caps in her name). (Oh, and as a side note, went and saw Rachael Gets Married – got so nauseated with the hand-held camerawork that I had to watch the last hour and half with my eyes closed. MommaMonday thought I was sleeping….not a bad idea…..).

But here I am, back in town, away from the family and my movie obligations, and I’m awaiting Season 2, Discs 2 and 3. They should be here tomorrow, so good thing I’m not GirlTuesday.

Will Julie forgive Felicity for “stealing” Ben? Will Noel sleep with the ditzy blonde on Felicity’s floor? OMG, I LIKE totally can’t wait to find out.

Sadly.

I Am Woman. Period.

I am tired, irritable and I just can't accomplish anything.  Why?  I have cramps.  That's right- it's my time of the month.  I am debilitated by pains in the tummy, a lasting headache, and general fatigue.  It's no fun.

Every month, I start to feel achy.  I snap at my husband and my mom more than usual.  My appetite is even less than usual (I'm not a good eater).  Without fail, I think to myself, 'I wonder if I'm getting sick.'  I get my period with perfect regularity every four weeks.  So, you would think I would be totally prepared for it each time.  For some reason, I'm not.  I'm in a constant, deep, subconscious denial.

I have a theory that this denial is a part of my coping mechanism-- one that every woman has. Even though it's really unfortunate to have to deal with everything involving this beneficent natural process, in a way, it's pretty empowering.  Can you imagine how men would handle being sick, without fail, every month, for five to seven days?  Not very well.  Yet we do it.  We live our lives and for the most part, perform just as well no matter what time of the month it is.  As I started this post, I said I wasn't being productive.  Yet the reality is I got a hell of a lot done today.  I conceived of a new hairstyle this morning (I'm really into bobby pins lately).  I attended and contributed greatly to three long, involved conference calls, wrote up formal documents, and reached some tricky agreements with co-workers. I made dinner (pesto rack of lamb and garlic cheddar mashed potatoes) for me and my husband.  I had a nice chat with my brother.  I checked in with my mother.  I played with my dog.  I was productive.  I felt less capable today, slower, more sluggish maybe, but I don't think anyone other than myself or my girlfriends would have noticed. I performed as well as I do on most days.  I internally whined about my period for about twelve seconds.  Then I got up, took some Advil, made my bed, and put the tea on.

So back to the coping mechanism.  If at the first sign of trouble, I started to freak out, and thought 'it's coming!  what a bummer', I would totally psyche myself out and maybe I would actually be less productive.  So I protect myself from that kind of thinking.  (Or I'm just really thick.  Whatever, I like my theory.)  I don't think a man could do the same thing.  If a man was dealing with my physical state, he'd likely stay in his pajamas and bitch.  And we face related roadblocks all the time.  Men assuming we're more emotional, dealing with us differently, being less comfortable around us in the workplace, having a hard time getting over our pretty faces or cute butts.  Yet women can accomplish anything they want to in the professional world.  And they do, every day.  Isn't that amazing?

Twilight

I have a confession. Perhaps a somewhat embarrassing confession: I have fallen deeply, completely, and head-over-heels into the Twilight craze.

About three months ago, I was driving home from work, battling traffic, and trudging along at about 10 mph on the parkway. During this time I usually try to call a family member, friend, etc to avoid the road-rage that I have a tendency to build. On this particular day my 19-year old sister was gushing about this great book that she was reading. She told me it was about vampires and werewolves and I immediately lost interest, phased out what she was saying, and started wondering to myself about what I was going to cook for dinner that night. I really have never been interested in science-fiction books so a world that included vampires and werewolves didn’t sound the least bit interesting to me. To be quite honest, when my sister started telling me about this book I remember actually rolling my eyes and thinking to myself, “isn’t Megan too old to be reading these kinds of books. I guess she is pretty flighty…”.

Two weekends ago, I had a very busy schedule. I flew from Pittsburgh, PA to Boise, ID (my trip, however, included a flight from Pittsburgh to Phoenix to Portland to Boise). I was in Boise for about 12 hours and then I flew to Tennessee. I ran a marathon the next morning and then drove from TN to Pittsburgh. A lot of traveling during the course of 36 hours. As I was walking through the airport on Thursday morning to catch my plane to Boise, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that there was a 50% off/used copy of Twilight at one of the airport bookstores. I had recently seen an interview of the main actor on Jay Leno and the flashback of my sister’s fascination with this book popped into my head. I bought the book thinking, if nothing else, it would help me pass the time on the plane.

As I started to read the first few chapters I suddenly started to feel like I was getting sucked into the world of these characters! When I was a kid, I had a problem with this. I loved to read. In fact, I was so weird. I liked to read so much that my parents would actually ground me from reading. I would get so engrossed in my books that I would do my chores, I wouldn’t eat dinner, and all I would do is read! There is a funny picture of me at about 10 years old. I am in my bedroom closet with the door shut, a blanket over my head and a reading light in my hand. I was told I wasn’t allowed to read until I had cleaned my room and so I tried to sneak away to finish a few chapters. As proof of the picture, I had apparently gotten caught.

So…back to Twilight…after reading the first few chapters, I felt like I was that same little kid again! Embarrassed that she had gotten caught reading when she should have been doing something else. I am a grown, married woman and this book is supposed to be written for a teenage generation. Yet, I couldn’t put the book down! The first book is over 600 pages and I finished it on the first flight. I have this strange ability to read very very fast. I immediately purchased the second copy during my layover and processed to read it on my second flight. It was the same effect; I couldn’t put the book down. I ended up reading all four books in the series over a course of 5 days.

The author, Stephenie Meyer, does a very good job of building up the characters. It is almost like you feel as if you know the characters. It is very strange. Or perhaps, I am just the strange one. Anyways….I convinced my husband to take me to the movie and, I swear, we were the only people in there over the age of 16. There was a lot of nervous, teenage giggling throughout the film in the rows behind me and afterwards the cinema was filled with comments like, “I can’t believe they forgot this part…” or “I knew exactly what Bella was going to say in that scene!”. Nearly everyone there had read the book first and then was going to see the movie.

Well, I feel better now that I have gotten this off my chest. I will try to no longer be embarrassed by the fact that I got caught up in the latest teenage-craze. If you get the chance to start these books, let me know what you think. I thoroughly enjoyed them and am very excited to see the next piece of work that this author produces.

Adam

Little Adam Walsh.  One of my earliest memories is about him.  It's fuzzy, but it's there.  I'm in a department store with my sister.  We are wearing wind-breaker jackets that make swishy noises when we move around.  We are little, can't see over the circular racks of clothing in the store and so my perspective is from a very low vantage-- we are obviously tiny, young.  Most vivid part of this memory is a sense of tension.  I hold onto my sister's sleeve protectively.  She is smaller than me and likes to joke around more and I'm afraid if one of us is going to get kidnapped, it's going to be her for sure.  She would guiltlessly talk to any stranger, probably.  I lead her around the circular racks looking for mom.  Mom isn't calling for us but she knows I am the keeper, she knows I won't stray far.  As we make our way through the isles, I remember looking up at the shopping adults, the ones not accompanied by children, suspiciously.  I wonder- why don't they have a child?  Do they want one?  Will they try and take us?  Just like they took Adam Walsh?  

I remember making faces at people shopping alone, in the hopes that if they thought I was bratty, I wouldn't be someone they'd want to take.

I was a crazy, neurotic child.  

But this is my oldest memory.  It's from the very early 80's in Miami, where I was born.  Adam went missing in 1981 in Florida; my sister was born in 1982.  I would have to say this memory is from at least 1983.  

The details of Adam's death were too terrible for my mother to ever explain to me.  I just knew that the bad man that took this little boy did horrible things to him and that is why I should stay close to her at all times.  In the classroom, teachers showed us that if someone approached us in a car we were to run in the exact opposite direction (a trick that would come in handy 14 years later when I was studying abroad and almost got kidnapped by a bunch of drunk Italian boys).  There were all sorts of stories on the news about kids getting snatched.  There was kidnapping mania, especially in the state of Florida.  

I remember watching "I Know My Name is Steven"  for the first time and being scared witless at the prospect of getting stolen by someone who likes to make slaves out of little kids!  I didn't even like to do chores in my own house!  What would life be like if I had to pour bowls of cereal for a fat lady who won't get out of bed all day and all night!?  (That's what I thought happened to little-kid slaves).  

The Adam Walsh case was a big deal for little me.  Not just because of my parents' interest in the mystery, the tragedy, or the fact that his father became a well-known crime-busting icon.  I grew up feeling like I knew Adam, as if he were in my pre-school class.  I remember developing a palpable sympathy for him at such an early age.  Fearful wondering what his life was like in his last moments without his parents, and hope that I would never have to experience it firsthand.  Survivor's guilt for an imaginary friend.  

Little Adam would have turned 34 this year.  That makes me so sad.   

 

Going Bowling

I just entered my bowl picks for the upcoming college football bowl season. I love the bowl season. Frankly, I just love college football. Some years, I think I actually look forward to New Years Day football almost more than I look forward to Christmas. (And given how many blog posts I’ve written about Christmas lately, you have to have at least some idea of how much that means I like football. I also bought a fancy TV this year to be certain to enjoy the games in the highest-possible picture quality, and, in the days before the birth of the Big Ten network, I was a faithful subscriber of ESPN College Football Game Plan. Oh, and I used to have a splitter on my cable so that I could watch two games at once. The only thing better than fall and the smell of football in the air was the chance to watch my team prove itself on the national stage in the year’s BCS game.

I miss those days.

This time around feels terribly different, however. First, I know far less about the match-ups this year than I have in years past, and I find that terribly depressing. I just reviewed the list of teams, and I haven’t really heard of half of them. I suppose there is an argument that NCAA Division I football has achieved some degree of parity, thereby relegating some of the “big name” teams to mediocrity. Or maybe it’s just that some of the big name teams stunk it up this year. Either way, there are some newcomers to the scene.

Second, I haven’t watched nearly as many games as I did last year, and certainly not as many as I did the year before. I used to stay up to watch College Gameday Final, and could tell you which team had a dark horse running back that would give their opponent fits come bowl time. Now I’m lucky if I can tell you which sideline Erin Andrews visited on any given Saturday afternoon. I’m out of the loop. I feel as though the season flew past without me, and looking at that bowl pool only cemented that belief in my mind. Trying to assign confidence values to my picks seems laughable given my complete lack of awareness this year.

Third, I’m not even sure if I’ll be able to watch half of these games. As I’ve bemoaned before, I’ve lost all ability to plan ahead in my life. Work is known to throw me for a loop as late as 3pm on a Friday afternoon. Not one to turn away from responsibility, I’m already preparing myself to have to stay late at the office despite wanting to watch my team. So I guess there is a piece of me that is trying not to get too excited for the games so as to not end up disappointed when that time comes.

But most importantly, I think I’m annoyed because I’m missing out on the great dialogue surrounding the fate of the BCS. I think the lack of high-profile match-ups is only going to exacerbate the discussion about the need for a college football playoff. When there’s talk of finding antitrust violations in the BCS, you have to know there’s something wrong. When Obama is taking about “fixing” the BCS, there’s gotta be a chance for change, right? My fiancé has crafted a plan to fix the system. My best friend has drafted a 10 page paper proposing a full-scale overhaul of the conference and rankings systems. I used to be able to criticize such proposals and offer educated, well-argued critiques and suggestions for improvement. I used to pride myself on being one of few girls who understood the intricacies of the diverse stakeholder interests at play. Now, I’m just overworked.

My Christmas Buddies: Unnamed child age 5, Evelyn, Irene, Sophie, and Rodriguez

I have loved reading all of the posts over the last week about what Christmas, and its traditions, means to everyone. I was not planning on writing about the holidays because this is always a difficult time of year for me. I don’t come from a large family with lots of traditions or even lots of members, and I cannot be with two of the people I love this year. But over the last several weeks I have come to realize that this year, Christmas is not about me anyway. And I hope to never go back to it being that way.

One Sunday over a month ago at church we watched a video montage of a member’s annual Christmas trip to Nicaragua. Now I probably couldn’t pinpoint Nicaragua on a map with any sort of accuracy (I might be able to since I think I would recognize Panama, Costa Rica, and Guatemala, but I also think there might some other countries in there like El Salvador, so then again maybe not….), and I don’t particularly care for those videos that they show with the children who have swollen bellies. I was traumatized by those as a child and now have to turn the channel when I go past them on Saturday mornings. So I already knew I was going to hate whatever they were going to show me. Well, turns out the video that the member was showing, and her trips, are really inspiring and not sad at all. All she was asking people to do was take a gallon-sized Ziploc, fill it with gifts and necessities for a child, and return it by Thanksgiving. There were clips of her handing them out, and the kids were smiling these gigantic, wide-eyed smiles only kids can do. They were showing off their Elmo toothbrushes and 99-cent coloring books to anyone who would throw a glance their way. Although this was only my second trip to the church (I’ve been church-shopping for 2 years now – I have commitment issues…a topic for another day), I scooped up a baggie figuring I could come back at least once more to drop it off.

Two weeks later I rounded up all of the goodies I needed for my unnamed child, age 5, at Wal-Mart and walked out having spent a whopping $27.17 on Veggie Tales toothbrushes, soap, playdoh, plastic dinosaurs, Hot Wheels, a comb, washcloths, crayons, and the beloved 99-cent coloring book. I then spent an hour at home trying to cram it all in the bag. Merry Christmas Unnamed Child Age 5 – don’t put all of that toothpaste on your toothbrush at once.

A week later this feeling of generosity inspired me to take two names off of the Senior Wish Tree at work (elderly county residents in nursing homes who have no family. Sad, sad, sad), at which point I went back to Wal-Mart for gift cards, a poinsettia, large print books, and a zip up robe. $43.90 well spent I told myself. Merry Christmas Evelyn, enjoy your steamy Harlequin that’s about 700 pages long because it’s Times New Roman 30 point font. Merry Christmas Irene, I hope you learn the true beauty that is finding everything you want (and tons more) at the Wal-Mart Supercenter.

But unbeknownst to me, I wasn’t done yet. We got an email alert from the Sheriff’s Department at work that there were still 102 (102!!) needy children who hadn’t been sponsored through the Mountain Santa program. Close your eyes: Can you imagine being a child who has nothing to open on Christmas morning? Now imagine 102 of them. So I emailed, and got back the name of a child: Sophie. Sophie is 11 and wants Disney and Hannah Montana stuff. You just wait Sophie, on Christmas morning you’re going to have three brand-new pink, black and red HM t-shirts, a HSM3 hoodie, a Disney glitter art set, a HM backpack, and a stocking full of candy, coke, nail polish, Lip Smackers, notepads, sparkle pens, and fuzzy pink socks. I am the first to admit I got a little carried away with Sophie. But when you’re 11, style matters. And at $119.50 (roughly), it was a steal. Merry Christmas, Sophie.

Last week I took lunch with a co-worker who had last-minute shopping to do. While she was in the Victoria’s buying a present for her partner, I took an opportunity to avoid an awkward situation and wait outside. Which just happened to be right next to the Angel Tree. As I was standing there looking around thinking about how it shouldn’t be awkward to go into a store with a lesbian who is picking out pretty panties for her partner, my glance kept going back to the tree. I noticed that the sign said gifts due Dec. 15th and it was already the 11th. The tree was positively covered with names of children needing something for the holidays. There had to be more than 102 (which apparently stood as my own internal barometer of sucker-ness), so I took one. Rodriguez age 10, size 11 shirts and pants, likes cars and trucks. Rodriguez baby, I got ya. I spent an hour at Toys-r-Us Thursday night then a really long lunch on Friday buying a remote-controlled FJ Cruiser the size of my dog, a soccer ball, a hoodie, two t-shirts, jeans, and a polo. Total: $81.82. Merry Christmas, Rodriguez.

So three kids, two seniors later, I am renewed with the spirit of Christmas. I hope that each one of them wakes up Christmas morning thinking that there is someone out there (whether it’s a parent or a stranger) who wanted to make sure that they felt just one day of hope and storybook love.

So I have decided that this year and going forward, the holidays aren’t about making sure my boyfriend has a new PS3, or making sure my mom gets that KitchenAid mixer, and in sum I didn’t spend even as much on all 5 of them as either of those items costs. It’s about understanding what Christmas really means. For me, I can’t think of anything better than spending 99-cents on a coloring book to see a child who has nothing fill with joy.