Genf

My first attempt at international travel could not have gone any worse. It started out okay. My parents dropped me off at the train station and sent me on my way to Newark. I check in, got on to the plane, and prepared myself to sleep the entire way to Frankfurt. I ordered a few cocktails, and proceeded to stare at the ceiling for the next 8 hours, incapable of sleep. It was torturous.

Speaking little French or German, I disembarked my first flight, and rushed to the next gate that was written on my boarding pass. I’d missed my connection, and would have to go find the next departing plane. The only trouble was, I couldn’t find Geneva listed anywhere on the departures screen. I sat there staring at it for nearly 15 minutes before it finally clicked that “Genf” was Geneva in German. Gate located—now I just had to explain that I’d missed my connection to the nice german-speaking gate attendant. That process took a mere 45 minutes to resolve.

Frustrated by my unexpected layover, I decided to try calling home, only to discover that the calling card my mother had purchased for me didn’t work. At all. So I spent $15 dollars to use my credit card to call the states and let them know I was still alive, albeit stuck in Germany for the next two hours. . . My father assured me that my day would only get better.

Oh how wrong he was.

My luggage arrived safely with me in Geneva, and I was able to locate my railpass, get it validated at the ticket counter, and hop on the train into town. Success! When I arrived at the station, my goal was to do two things—first, buy a calling card that actually worked. I found one easily at the Migro market in the station. Second, I thought I’d better get some cash out of an ATM to supplement the 100 Swiss Francs I’d brought will me from home. I tried three different machines, and NONE of them would take my PNC atm card. Hmm. Well, I’ll figure this out later, I thought, and headed out to find the bus to my dorm.

I walked out on the curb, and realized that I needed to actually go across the street to get to my bus. The only problem was you had to go UNDER the street to get across, so I proceeded back into the station, towing both of my large suitcases, and ventured across the street. It was at this point that I started to wonder if it wouldn’t have been smarter to mail my clothes across the ocean for the summer. But I was a big girl, I could do this on my own, I thought to myself as I heaved the larger of the two suitcases ahead of me on the escalator.

I don’t know if it was exhaustion, stupidity, or the fact that Europeans are much better at packing lightly, but halfway up the escalator the weight of my suitcase gave in, and it came tumbling backwards, and I went along with it, head over heals backward into a poor, unsuspecting French-speaking man. He caught me and kept me from a much worse fate, but I couldn’t even muster a mere merci; what came out of my mouth was some combination of gracias, I’m so sorry, and a dumbfounded look of sheer shock and embarrassment. I didn’t know an escalator ride could feel so long.

At the top of the escalator, after my tumble, I was convinced that I needed to get away from that station as fast as possible. Having determined that, I flagged a taxi, rather than try to find my bus stop. Only problem was, I couldn’t, for the life of me, explain how it was that I needed to get to my dorm. I gave the driver my address, and he didn’t know where it was. I wrote it down, and he still wasn’t sure. “Cite Universitaire” I said. He finally understood. Thank GOD.

I can’t even remember how long I’d been traveling by the time I arrived at the back door of the dorm where he dropped me off. I dragged my godforsaken bags through the restaurant that connected the two towers of my dorm and finally found the check in counter. I introduced myself in broken French, completed the necessary paperwork, and looked down to realize that my pen had exploded all over my hands. Not just a little bit, like when you get a spot or two on your index finger. I’m talking a full-fledged black mess, everywhere. Including on the skirt I had worn for my travels.

This is just getting laughable, I thought to myself.

The woman behind the desk took pity on me and brought me into the office to wash my hands. I tried, but the cheap soap and lack of paper towels left me soggy, ink stained, and desperately seeking the comfort of my own bed. I grabbed my key from her with a soggy hand, collected my belongings, found my room, called home briefly to say I was still alive, and got into bed for the next three hours.

I awoke, groggy and confused, and went to open the door and venture out in search of my friends who should have arrived by now. Only I couldn’t get the door to open. I tried locking and unlocking it. I tried kicking, pulling, pushing, and screaming. Nothing worked. Finally, I resorted to panic, and began pounding, desperately, until a neighbor came by. I shoved my key under the door and asked him to unlock it for me, please. He looked at me like I had lost my mind when he got me out. This time I was able to say merci, but entirely unable to explain to him that I had thought I’d locked my self in. I say thought because the well-rested version of myself later realized that if you turned the lock too far it would go slack, and I simply needed to tighten it in order to unlock the door and leave on my own accord. . .

I never did get my ATM card to work; I tried every ATM on the east and west banks of the city, and finally resorted to having my dad wire me cash and then fed-ex me a Wachovia ATM from a new account that he opened on my behalf. On my way home at the end of the summer, I watched a robot explode a bag someone had left behind, and the airline lost my largest piece of luggage. I arrived home with a small suitcase full of dirty laundry and flip flops, and a new sense of independence. I didn’t get a chance to properly thank the man who saved me from breaking my neck on the escalator, and I didn’t make it to at least two or three of the cities I’d hoped. But I did manage to survive the single worst first 24 hours out of the country that I could have imagined. And I can’t wait to go back.

Travelin’ Light

It seems only appropriate that this week’s topic is travel, and I find myself out of town for a very long weekend. As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, I love to travel. I used to be a big fan of road trips but since I’ve bought a new set of wheels it’s just not the same. So I fly.

For probably close to 80% of my adult life I’ve been in a long-distance relationship (where I find myself again these days and the reason for my current out-of-townness). Everyone I know likes to give me a hard time about always finding myself in a situation where I’m removed from the one I love. They seem to think there’s a reason for it. (Am I afraid of commitment? Do I like my independence too much? Am I really *that* hard to live with? Yes.) Regardless of why it keeps happening, and as much as I’d love to live in the same city as a boyfriend for more than a few months, I *do* love to go visitin’.

My house has never really felt like home and a lot of that probably has to do with the fact I spend all of my furniture money on getting out of town. And my renovation money. And since I’m never around to make it feel homey, why should it? My sturdy blue Samsonite, that is waaaay bigger than those little metal boxes that they put by the gate for you to (theoretically) check the size of your carry-on, feels more like home anyway. I know the exact dimensions, the sizing of the pockets, and precisely how I can organize it to maximize space potential (winter is much tougher than summer, sweaters are thick!). I know the biggest purse I can bring and how to attach my water bottle (empty of course!) and tennis shoes to the outside to add even more items to my load. I’m an expert packing and repacking my laptop and quart-sized Zippie from my suitcase, and I think I can put any pair of shoes back on in a matter of seconds. And don’t even get me started on people who check a bag. I’m not sure why someone would ever do that (given the wait on the other end and the chance of loss), especially now that there’s a fee. Egads.

So, to make this short and sweet (it’s 3 am, and I still have two full days of Mardi Gras left), I am a huge fan of getting on a plane and gettin’ out of town. Boston: yep, I’ll do it, Go Sox. DC: Sign me up! New Orleans: Hey mister throw me some beads. Florida: Move out of my way, you’re blocking the sun.

I just want to thank the crew, the Academy, and Jesus.

I'm also loving this topic and it's timeliness.  I'm all about the cinema!  I'm going to follow the lead of several of my fellow blogettes and share some of my more untraditional 'faves' with y'all.

1. Best Performance By An Actor I Usually Hate

I detest Julia Roberts.  I think she is your typical smug, self-adoring celebrity.  And she has a horse face.  But there are times when I see movies of hers, and I can't help but love them and think she was great in them.  The first such film is My Best Friend's Wedding which I thought was incredibly hilarious and fun.  The Julianne character she played was a nut job, but relatable, and I loved the performances by Rupert Everett, Cameron Diaz and Dermott Mulroney.  I also have to give it up for Erin Brokovich, which I thought was deeply moving and also well-done on Julia's part.  The superbly talented and unrecognizable Aaron Echkart is just a bonus.

2. Best Suprisingly Well-Done Turn By A Character Actor

Despite the fact that I have not ever seen Star Trek anything, I thought the spoof film Galaxy Quest was really great.  The story was engaging and the cast was wonderful-- even a not-yet-famous Justin Long.  But the stand-out here was definitely Enrico Colantoni, of "Just Shoot Me" fame (or not).  He plays an alien with a funny, halting monotone and an awkward movement, and he's quite brilliant.  I love those moments when some actor you would have otherwise discounted shows you why they made it.  It's like, who knew?

3. Best Dramatic Performance By A "Comedic Actor"

I've always appreciated Jim Carey's offbeat performances in Man on the Moon, The Truman Show, and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.  But here, I got to give it up for Steve Carrell in Dan in Real Life.  The movie is definitely not perfect.  E.g. What does the fact that he's some sort of advice columnist have to do with anything?  And some of the family interactions feel a little forced.  But even through the funny parts, Carrell is playing a total straight man and he really brings you in.  I remember watching this movie in the theatre, and when the talent show scene came on, and he's singing to Juliette Binoche, I suddenly had tears streaming down my cheeks.  It was such an incredibly poignant moment, the kind you rarely feel in movies these days.

4. Best Performance That Wowed Me After-The-Fact

I really liked the movie Gone Baby, Gone and thought the actress playing the trashy mom was good, but didn't think much about it at the time.  But later, I noticed Amy Ryan in Dan in Real Life (incidentally, with Steve Carrell) and also in "The Office" (also with Steve Carrell). She was so good in "The Office" going tit-for-tat with comedy heavyweight Carrell, it was really hard to believe that she is the same woman from Gone Baby, Gone.  But she is, which makes her performances in both all the more impressive.  Seeing her in this movie put her on my and many other's "Ones to Watch" list, and very deservedly so.

I could go on and on.

  

5. Most Incredible Flash-In-The-Pan (Claire Forlani, from Meet Joe Black to brilliant cinematic achievements such as Jackie Chan's The Medallion???  But why?  She's so. . . pretty. It makes no sense.)  

6. Actor I Had Lowest Hopes For But Was Completely Proven Wrong About (Daniel Craig, a brilliant Bond and also wonderful in Munich)

7. Best Performance By A Movie Star I Had Completely Forgotten Was Actually An Actor (George Clooney in Michael Clayton- wonderful film)

8. Best Movie That Deserves All Of The Overblown Praise It Gets (Walk The Line)

Anyway, the point is I love movies, and of all the awards shows, The Oscars is the one I have some respect for.  So enjoy the show, and my pick for Most Versatile Leading Man (from song and dance on Broadway to Wolverine- is there anything that Hugh Jackman can't do?).

Favorites?

Short and Simple this week…

In lieu of the upcoming Oscars event on Sunday I have compiled a list of my favorite movies and, in my opinion, the worst movies ever made.

Top Five:

1 – Braveheart
2 – Pride and Prejudice
3 – Rocky Series
4 – Sound of Music
5 – Without Limits (not a very well-know film but a very inspirational running movie)

Bottom Five:

1 – Basically anything recent with Samuel L. Jackson (i.e. Snakes on a Plane, Freedomland, Lakeview Terrace, etc)
2 – The Hottie and the Nottie (not that I want to admit to actually watching this)
3 – Glitter (just before Mariah Carey went crazy…)
4 – From Justin to Kelly (American Idol film gone very very bad)
5 – Baby Geniuses (I am the oldest of 10 kids, so unfortunately, I have seen some very very terrible children’s films)

Feel free to add your own favorites/worst and/or challenge my list.

Positively Cinematic

Is it normal to frequently-or-always imagine one's life as a series of celluloid scenes? Is it? Because I've realized that's how I've viewed the world ever since I was a little girl, and I have a bad feeling that no, it's not normal.

It's not just the present moment that always feels... epic. It's the past too. And forget about the future. It's all spread on a huge screen and hundreds of people are popping popcorn into their mouths and laughing, and crying hysterically (and "hiccuping"), and biting their fingernails with me and my cast of characters.

The old hallway in my apartment building... it's old. The moldings are layer upon layer of paint-- a stale pinkish beige. My door is brown. Fluorescent lights blink. There's a window above my door that's sealed shut now. My neighbors are quiet, except for old Helen who practices her violin day and night, but pauses delicately when she hears a door open or close. I can feel her rush over to her peephole.

She is the rent-collector who makes sure her flapper-girl neighbors aren't up to no good. That they have no male visitors. That they haven't been drinking the moonshine.

The elevator is entirely copper with intricate curls and designs. It rattles up and down and you've got to slide the manual door open. It weighs a ton. There's an ancient fire place in the lobby with a large mirror over it. I catch a glimpse of myself for a moment, dark mascara sliding under my eyes.

I am sneaking in from my night job- singing at a bar, to a nearly empty audience.

Outside are brownstone steps. I am met with cool, crisp air and the sound of wind coming off the Hudson. Boats bobbing in the basin. There's the Eleanor Roosevelt statue, pensive with her hand under her chin. She is all-knowing.

I sit down next to her, somber Saturday after somber Saturday, pigeons at our feet. I'm hoping she'll share her secrets, even though she refuses to speak. You know the answer Eleanor, all you have to do is say it.

I hop down the steps, swinging my lunch bag. The sun is shining.

Little birds are carrying ribbons and flowers over my head and humming along with the bread-and-butterflies.

But then I get on the subway platform and the woman with the dirty fingernails is playing her guitar and her voice carries down the tiled tunnel.

I frantically weave between the densely packed strap hangers, running from her voice but it follows me like snaking smoke. And I can't escape her gaze. She sees my fear and laughs a gaped-tooth grin. The train comes and I push my way on. Everyone else seems unafraid and the doors shut in the silence.

They've tried to paint the office walls bright colors, I suppose to keep us motivated. But the greens and oranges look stiffly, uncomfortably vintage. I get started on the daily filing and data tracking, knowing it was never supposed to be this way.

I look around and no one seems disturbed. Everyone else is sorting and labeling and copying and whiting-out, efficiently making their way around the corners of the cubicle maze. I begin by feeling itchy, and then warm- I tug at my turtleneck. The windows are sealed with insulation- I want to peel it off. I turn to my coworker friend, "We didn't really know what we were getting ourselves into when we came here, huh?" She is confused: "What do you mean? Legal needs all my records to match." I swivel back in my chair, with tears perched in my eyes. My hand covers my mouth as I sink a little. I am realizing I must leave even though I only arrived at work minutes ago. I gather my coat and scarf and bag. Someone asks where I'm going. My voice is louder than I'd anticipated: "Lightness has a call that's hard to hear!!!" And I run. And I trip, get back up and run out into the street, dragging my scarf down 5th Avenue, unable to catch my breath but I don't stop because I'm losing it.
I run through the park where we once gathered for tambourine playing, when I wore flowers in my hair; and another time when the leaves once covered the pavement and everything was yellow and red. But I run through it, kicking up the old leaves, the old flowers.
I run through the intersection where I was almost hit by a bus on 9-11, that when it continued on, the driver giving me a stunned look, I saw the boy I used to date on the other side and we hugged and cried in the middle of the street, people filling the lanes, everywhere around us.
I don't stop until I get to a train station and get on the first train out, romantically zipping past the giant board with the blinking track listings. I get on a train that travels above ground and pass the connected apartments of Queens, the auto body shops, the train yard. The sun and clouds defined above. The scenery grows less urban and I begin seeing trees and the sidewalks disappear... the duck farm and the little bridge with the creek running under it... I've caught my breath and arrive at a station that looks familiar. I walk three miles to the beach where we celebrated dawn after the prom, the same place where she came to cry when our friend died at 28-years-old of a brain tumor. And the seagulls and the seaweed and the sea glass and the sandpipers suck the tears out of me and it starts to rain, pour...

Of course it does, it's an indie film.

"A Day in the Life" starts up. I am soaked. My hair is stuck to my face and my jacket is taking on a translucent hue, but I sit anyway- in the dune, near the sign that says not to sit in the dunes. I put my head back and let the sky consume me.

Wide shot. Roll credits.

The 12:01 Phenomenon

The first 12:01 am show I remember hearing about was the release of Episode One of Star Wars my senior year of High School. I had friends who were camping out at the theater over night. I’ve since met friends in college who slept outside of a theater in Washington, DC for a full week in advance of the show. Despite all the hype, my parents wouldn’t let me go. I had to settle for a 7:00 pm show on opening day. I felt inadequate.

For some reason, missing out on that first midnight show has made me all the more likely to go to them now. In theory, going to a movie at 12:01 am is kind of compulsive. I’m not sure what it is that makes me do it. There are lots of reasons to go to the 12:01 am show: you get to see it before anyone else does and not have to worry about having the surprise leaked by some doting fan discussing it on the street; you’re so excited about seeing it that you can’t bear the notion of waiting until the following afternoon; you have a real craving for junior mints at that hour of day anyway so why not entertain yourself while eating them; you have insomnia; you’re a college/law school/grad school/business school student and don’t have to get up until noon anyway; you’ve been dying to show off your new Darth Sidius costume; or maybe its just that all your friends are doing it. . .

After being deprived of that first opportunity in high school, I’ve developed a penchant for the midnight show. Star Wars Episode Two. Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone. Spiderman. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Fellowship of the Ring. Two Towers. Add to that all the opening day movies: Superman, Return of the King, the other Harry Potter movies, Quantum of Solace, Spiderman Two, Spiderman Three, Cloverfield, Star Wars Episode Three. I know there are others that are escaping me; some worth watching, others not.

For someone who hates crowds, waiting in line, and sitting still for more than 30 minutes at a time, I absolutely love the 12:01 show. There’s something about the excitement of sharing the absolute first show with a theater full of others who are just as excited as you are, if not more. If you’ve never been to a movie in which someone in costume gets up before the previews and acts out a scene from the previews, you haven’t lived. If you haven’t staked out your seat in a jam-packed theater and gotten more entertainment from watching your fellow viewers, you’ve missed out. If you’ve never gone in costume yourself, that’s probably a good thing. And if you’ve never waited in line in sleet and freezing rain, you’re probably far less likely to have caught the cold I did while waiting to see Return of the King.

But if you’ve never gone to a midnight show, I challenge you to this. Pick a movie with lots of hype. Read the reviews. Watch the stars on morning show circuit. Take a look at the action figures lining the aisle at the toystore. Go online and buy yourself a ticket to the midnight show. Get a group of friends who are willing to poke you to keep you awake while waiting in line. Get a thermos of coffee or flask of whisky to keep you sharp while killing the time. Bring a pack of cards, your ipod, this week’s issue of the economist, or whatever you need to bide the time, and settle in for your wait until the witching hour. Watch the sheer giddiness on the faces of the folks around you. Listen to the cheers when the first Fox searchlight graces the screen, and join the thunderous round of applause. Do that, and if you’re not sold, I’ll comp you your ticket.

A Walk to Remember. That Doesn’t include A Walk to Remember.

But I do love Mandy More (FYI).
Anyway, for anyone who goes to the movies or rents them regularly, it seems like memories of those experiences are a dime a dozen (if one could really call staring at a screen an “experience.” For those of you who watch the Bachelor, you’re used to almost anything being called an “experience, so we’ll go with it). But there are a few that stand out in my mind. My first thought on this week’s topic (Movies!) was to turn my blog of movies into a top 10 (or even a top 5, bottom 5) but instead I think I’ll take a trip down memory lane……

First Movie. The first movie I can remember seeing is Gone with the Wind. MommaMonday took me to this old theatre downtown that had been renovated and was being used to showcase local theatrical presentations. I can remember some years later going back to see the production of A Christmas Carol. I slept through most of that…..and then some years after that, when we had our Senior Prom there. Anyway, we went to see Gone with the Wind and I remember MommaMonday remarking that we were the youngest women in the audience by a good three dozen years; it was a very true statement as almost everyone else had blue hair and bifocals. The movie was amazing, though, with the old dresses (I can still visualize Scarlett in her curtain dress after all these years) and quaint southern drawls. The antique sconces, intricate woodwork and blood red curtains of the old theatre just added to the effect. What a first movie experience!

First R Movie. I remember going over to Aunt and UncleMonday’s place when I was fairly young (12, 13 maybe) to watch the cousins while they moved stuff from their apartment into their new house. Unbeknownst to my parents, who never would have approved, they popped in Pretty Woman for me to watch while the cuz went down for a nap. I had never even heard of the movie (I’m 12, remember…), but sat there completely mesmerized. I wanted to dress like Julia Roberts, act like Julia Roberts, fall in love like Julia Roberts. I don’t remember completely “getting” that she was a hooker in the beginning. I think that being 12, I concentrated on the Rodeo-drive shopping and romance of having some rich man sweep you off your feet. It definitely made an impression, being that I still hold onto these same hopes…..

First Stolen Movie. My boyfriend in high school had some friends who worked down at our town’s local movie theatre. The first time we ever went there on a date was to see the movie High School High. His friends let us in without paying (thank God, I remember the movie being awful), but when I told my mom about it (with great glee when I got home. “Guess what?! We didn’t have to pay!”) she marched me back up there and made me pay for both my boyfriend and myself. It was absolutely mortifying. So instead of being able to move on and forget this positively retched movie (which, no doubt, for 99% of the 100 people who ever saw it was possible), it instead still lingers in my brain. Thank you MommaMonday and Jon Lovitz. Blech.

First Bawling, Hiccuping Movie. I saw Titanic in the theatre. With 200 other women. We all cried. I’m not sure about the rest of them, but I even went so far as to bawl. Loud painful sobs, with nose blowing and hiccupping. I’m not sure I would experience quite so much visible emotional sadness if I were watching it for the first time at 27, but I think for a hormonal 18 year-old, it was more than I could handle. How could Jack die and leave Rose by herself; they were so in love?! I know everyone likes to make fun of that movie today (Jack, I’m flyyyyiiing), but I think we’ve all forgotten that it did stir quite the emotions when it first came out (okay, at least all of us who have estrogen coursing through our veins).

First Profound, Eye-Opener Movie. My college boyfriend really wanted to go see a particular movie that I had no interest in seeing. Until that point in my life, I’d probably pretty much bossed people around when it came to the movies. If they wanted to see something I didn’t, we compromised until we got to the one movie we were both willing to see, but neither of us was dying to see. I never completely caved. But with Oh, Brother Art Thou?, I was adamant that I DID NOT want to see such a stupid looking film, but I gave in. Anyway, I was mesmerized by the movie, which still reigns in my top 10 of all time. I’m the first to admit that I was completely wrong, and it just made me realize that I should let other people have their way some too, especially when it can result in enjoyment like that. But just so you know, giving in can result in seeing films like Malibu’s Most Wanted (GirlFriday?!?), The Perfect Storm, and I Am Legend (see below), all disgraces to the film industry.

First Walk-Out. The only movie I have ever walked out on was Ace Ventura, Pet Detective. 2. When Nature Calls, or some shit like that. I can’t even remember what was so horrible about it, or even who I was with (who, no doubt, wasn’t happy about having to leave). I think I can almost recall some crude bathroom humor, which doesn’t ever sit well with me, but it could also be the presence of a lame plot. Either way, I left and forfeited probably close to 10 bucks. At the time I think I would have paid 10 more just not to have to sit through the rest of it. So next time I see one of you, make sure to let me know how this one ended. Since I obviously care. One other note on this subject: I also could have walked out on I Am Legend, if I hadn’t been with three other people. It was unnecessarily scary and the dog dies (ooops, spoiler alert, sorry).

I could run this trip down memory lane on for hours (or pages), but I’m going to leave you with just two more. First “I Could Sit Through That Again, Right Now” Movie: Contact. A really terrific movie for any of you who have never seen it. And First Subtitles Movie: Amelie. Also great. And also probably could have sat through that one again as well.

GirlFriday Week

I do love birthdays.  I love them in a way a grown woman shouldn't.  I don't know why.  Maybe it's because I'm not a person who requires a lot of attention from my friends (I make up for this by demanding an unhealthy amount of attention from my parents), and once a year, I enjoy being the central reason for letting the good times role.  So much so, that I don't really have a birthday.  I have birthweek.  I know that sounds sort of preposterous, but somehow it works and everyone loves it.

I really enjoy PG activities, and GirlFriday Week is always chock full of them-- board games, karaoke, painting pottery (a super-fun outing organized by GirlWednesday when I turned 20), pizza and cake.  Very sadly, I haven't had a GirlFriday Week since I moved away from my friends.  I don't mind too much.  My husband treats me very well.  But I can't help but be reminded about how much I miss my friends every time I get a year older.

I love to hear from all of my old friends on my birthday, but it's not crucial to me.  I don't evaluate someone's friendship based on whether and to what extent they remember and celebrate my birthday.  Especially with the handy dandy Facebook reminder, it's not really an indication of someone's amount of care for you, or even their level of thoughtfulness and class. And sometimes it can even feel like people are remembering and contacting you sort of just for show.  That doesn't mean they care about you more than your closest cousin who plum forgot.

It's nice to hear from folks, but people are busy.  They have a lot of crap going on, and just because they don't call, email or send a gift does not mean they don't care about you.  I think the most important thing is that you hear from your parents, and that the people who you hang out with regularly or work with do something sweet for you.  And if you don't tell anyone it's your birthday, you can't get upset that they don't know it!

In school, I was on the young side for my grade.  I always liked that.  Even though I knew it didn't mean much, it felt good that I was accomplishing things slightly sooner than most.  Well, I must have really liked how it felt, because I went on to accomplish a lot of things at ridiculously young ages.  But now I'm in my late 20's and I'm losing most of that novelty.  My peers have definitely caught up if not exceeded me, and now it's like, who cares that I hit milestones at young ages-- we all ended up hitting them eventually.  In that sense, it's a little hard getting older, because I'm losing that "young and accomplished" feeling that was once so intense every time I blew out the candles.  

Still, I don't mind getting older.  Mostly because I'm so happy with where I am as a person.  I'm sure it's dangerous to think even that.  After all, life doesn't always go as planned, and I will probably reach birthdays at which everything is not so rosy.  I haven't previously thought about birthdays so reflectively, as a time to be gracious and appreciative.  But perhaps I should.  From now on, in addition to arcade games and ice cream sundaes, GirlFriday Week will be about being thankful for everything in my life.  It might not be perfect, but it's GirlFriday.  And it's pretty fabulous.

P.S. Happy Birthday, BrotherFriday.

It All Started With a Fishing Pole...

Over the last few years my opinion has begun to change about birthdays – particularly regarding the birthday gift. When I first met my now-husband he surprised me that first summer with a fishing pole as my birthday present. I remember quietly chuckling to myself and thinking this was probably one of those gifts that men are infamous for giving. You know - the ones that they would have rather gotten themselves i.e. a leafblower for Christmas or cool phone accessories for Valentines Day. But, when he gave this gift to me he said that this was going to be one of the greatest gifts I had ever gotten. Why? Because we were going to create endless memories from this one gift. And he was absolutely right.

I had never been much of an angler before that summer. But my then-boyfriend (now-husband) spent countless patient hours showing me the tricks and techniques necessary to be successful at stream casting. I fell in love with the sport. We went fishing in the Boise River about 80 of the 90 summer days that year. Both of us would get off work, quickly change clothes, head to our secret spots on the River, and fish until dusk. We would wake up early each day and make bets on who was going to catch the most fish, who was going to catch the first fish, who was going to catch the biggest fish, etc. The grand prize for the winner of these bets would always be a snow cone – flavor of the winner’s choice. To this day this is an activity that we both love, and most importantly, it is an opportunity for us to spend a lot of quality time with one another.

That birthday gift five years ago was the starting point for a tradition we challenged ourselves to uphold. The challenge: each year we will only give one another birthday gifts that you can create a memory with. The gift does not have to cost a lot of money (and in fact, shouldn’t cost a lot) but it has to be something that you can physically do that will be memorable. This is actually a lot harder than you would originally think. It is somewhat easy to get someone a watch, new cologne, or a nice polo shirt. It is a lot more difficult to come up with a gift that can create a memory. Since making this pact, we have gone on countless memorable trips, and have received and given many other personal memory-creating gifts to one another.

It has changed the way I look at birthday gifts. No longer do I fret over, “What is he going to get me” or “I don’t know what to get him”. We don’t give gifts of large value but they have a lot of significant meaning and are much more enjoyable to give and receive. I have since started to implement this gift-giving philosophy with my friends and family and have received much greater responses than I have ever seen before!

I Know I'll Often Stop and Think About Them

Unseasonable warmth in February- I shed my wool coat for my trench, a scarf. I rested my head back against the seat cushion as the train waited in the station with doors open while a steady breeze blew through my hair. The air was cool with warm undertones. A preview of an almost spring. I sat on the train in the eastern Long Island station and waited for the doors to close and the train to take off. And as I waited, I didn't fail to notice a ghost of my younger self ride her bike quickly along the side of the tracks, in the gray gravel. Her bike skid a little, she stuck her legs straight out, opened her eyes and mouth wide in anticipation of the tumble. But it didn't happen that way. The bike dipped and she sloppily dug one sneaker into the ground and caught her balance. She shrieked happily, pushed off and pedalled furiously away.

I remember how my sweatpants felt back then- pants I was allowed to get dirty when I rode my bike everywhere- they were baggy and had elastic at the ankles. I wore them with big white socks and sneakers. I had a "1986 World Series- Mets" sweatshirt. Or a puffy windbreaker. I always wore pony tails or french braids that, after a few minutes in the wind, my curls would fall out of. My tongue was usually purple or blue from a treat from the ice cream truck.

So I looked like a maniac... My bike was pink. I was a runny-nosed mess most of the time. But as a kid nothing was better than than the first signs of spring. In Queens where I grew up it meant running outside at even the faintest hint of warmth and turning over all the bricks, in the small garden we shared with my grandparents, to look for "rollie pollies" or lady bugs. My sister and I would dust our bikes off and pull them out of the garage and race along the train tracks behind our apartment. It was cold, but sort-of warm.

This old memory made me feel so comfortable I could have fallen asleep right there on the train. And I love the way weather holds such a memory for me- in a way no diary ever could.

Here's a great line from the book I'm reading, about a girl who tried to hold onto her memories so tightly, but after much reflection thought better of it:
"I was beginning to understand, and with the touch of an imaginary wand I released my prisoners, flung open the dining room doors and sent them on their way, let them go, scattered them like the seeds of a dandelion that one blows into the wind on a warm summer's day."

I kind of like the way these vivid memories come and go like an unseasonably warm winter afternoon. I can't summon that exact feeling just any time of the year, it's a special day that I remember these things. The memories aren't prisoners, they're visitors.

The train doors closed and we began to chug along. I couldn't shake that dusky, almost-spring feeling-- I was glad for it though. I didn't want to lose it like deja vu that slips away before you can figure out why it's so familiar. I wanted to hold onto it.

Almost spring used to make me sad, fill me with a sense of hopelessness. In college a boy broke my heart in the almost-spring. We sat on the pavement outside the dorm on one of our last days together and I watched as the girl I knew he'd started to like instead of me crossed the street in front of us. There was nothing I could do to stop the situation. So instead I went for an endless walk around the city in a big sweater and a scarf.

I don't remember what I thought about as I walked around the city until the evening turned too cold and windy that I had to return home. But I do remember exactly what it felt like that day, to put my hands on the cool sidewalk and push myself to my feet, before leaving him.

Later in life this time of year brings me right to Italy. When the air was cool and warm at once, I was in Florence. I remember the reddish tiles of the Tuscan roofs, the off-white walls, the over sized doors and the dark green shutters. The small, sleepy city with a river through it, the wide piazzas, the rising sun glinting on the cap of the Duomo... being alone in Europe- to call Europe home for a few months.... Almost spring in Europe smells like spinach quiche in the oven, sounds like a cool breeze rattling a tall row of cypress trees, smells like the shopkeeper's perfume, looks like the lights of shops along the downtown cobblestone streets.

My train kept on rolling past the familiar towns. I was headed back into the city. A place where I've spent, and continue to spend, many almost-springs.

The playground in Middle Village where my sister and I would roller skate the slopey perimeter... The promise of school almost being over before summer break... Going to church for Easter and noticing the tulips... Exploring an old, abandoned house with my best friend... Moving into my first nice apartment and sitting on the roof-deck to finish my favorite book while the sun set over Manhattan... Going for a comfortable jog along the Hudson River and past the doggie park...

I love to reflect and watch my memories grow up as I do, each year a different age. Seasons like birthdays taking me through life. I like to imagine what future memories I might create when the thermometer hits 50 in coming Februaries.

I am a planner.

I chart out my life with to-do lists and post-it notes scattered on my desk, my computer desk-top, and my blackberry task list. For every large objective, I think in process-oriented task increments.

What, you may ask, does this have to do at all with birthdays?

Simple. Birthdays are the ultimate increment by which to measure progress towards and success in reaching precisely such goals. At least for the first twenty-five years of my life, that was the case.

When I was truly little, the goals were equally small- age five- teach myself cursive using my brother's handwriting homework; age seven- get ears pierced; age ten- have my first big birthday party with all my friends.

Once I hit the teenage years, the birthdays obviously carried with them the more “serious” milestones: thirteen- kiss my first boy; fourteen- start highschool; fifteen- get first real job; sixteen- get driver’s license; seventeen- get senior driver’s license.

And then came eighteen.

Eighteen for me was when birthdays first got serious. At eighteen, I became an adult. And I don’t mean in the legal sense, the voting sense, or the able-to-buy-cigarettes-and-porn sense. I mean that my eighteenth birthday was the first birthday on which I thought about birthdays in terms of what I had accomplished, or what I needed to accomplish in the coming year. With an early April birthday, I had the pleasure of receiving college acceptance and rejection letters for my birthday. Only the thing was, all the good letters came the day BEFORE my birthday, and the skinny, ominous envelopes arrived the day OF my birthday. Oh cruel world. At eighteen, I wasn’t focused on what illicit transgression I would partake in—I was focused on the fact that my “dream” college had delivered the big N-O on my first day of adult hood. Happy Birthday, welcome to reality, sucker.

At eighteen, I was focused keenly on my future. My chart looked something like this: Nineteen- pick college major; twenty- land kick-ass summer internship; twenty-one- take LSAT and begin applying to law schools; twenty-two- get in to top 15 law school, graduate summa cum laude, and move in with boyfriend, soon to be fiancé. Move to big city—live fancy “adult” life together; marry during final year of law school, and start high-paying career, all by the age of twenty-five.

Somewhere between twenty-one and twenty-five the train derailed. I didn’t get in to the big city school of my choosing, and my boyfriend didn’t even follow, let alone become my fiancé. I tacked on another year of graduate school, and birthdays started to send me into a serious funk in which I just wanted the day to come and go as quickly as possible so I could avoid the introspection. At twenty five I found myself single, lonely, and trying desperately to figure out what direction I was headed in life. Sure, I was only single for a little while, and I had a job all lined up for the summer that would likely lead to a final job offer, but I felt as though by failing to satisfy the artificial timeline I had set out for myself I was in some way inadequate as a person. I had failed.

Twenty-five: Grow up.

Fortunately for me, I turned twenty-five in the company of a few friends who were older and wiser than me whose opinions I respected and who tended to succeed in talking me out of fits of irrationality. Rather than placate my whining diatribe on why I was a failure in not checking off my to-do list by twenty-five, my best friend told me to pull my head out of my ass and stop trying so desperately hard to shape my life into the artificial mold I had created for myself. So at twenty-five years, one hour, and 45 minutes old, I let go of my “grand plan.” I adopted the best “come-what-may” mentality that can be expected of a psychotically type-A personality, took a deep breath, and looked forward to the year ahead. At twenty-six, I celebrated my last birthday as a student, and at twenty-seven, I celebrated the first birthday in which old and new friends came together and celebrated as one in the city I now call home. I will celebrate twenty-eight as a newly married woman, three-years behind “schedule.” And I am okay with that, because I wouldn’t take back the three years between for all the world.

Weekday Dish: Five Girls in their 20s……..

Only for another 6 months. Then it will be four girls in their 20s and one in her 30s. And that one is ME. There I said it. I’m turning the big 3-0 (don’t you hate when people use that phrase?!) this summer. I’m telling the world – or rather the 10 people who might read this blog.

Since the year I turned 26 twice, I’ve been trying to turn back time, and I’m not sure why. I turned 26 three times and this year will be my second try at 27. Everyone at work is confused about how old I really am and is constantly asking, and each in a different way: How old are you? What year were you both? My son’s 26, aren’t you his age? Seriously people, how am I supposed to keep track of my lie when you keep making me do math. So my routine answer has become, “I’m in my mid 20s” or “cresting on toward 30, although that seems really far away.” Heh, I think. That will keep them guessing (and me too).

I remember when I started we went out for a lunch for the summer birthdays on my actual birthday. I had only been there a few weeks so no one was expected to know it was my day. I was talking with a friend about how ironic (in an Alanis way, not actual irony) it was that we were going out on my actual birthday when he proceeded to email our director at work and slip her the info. At the lunch she spilled the beans, wishing me a happy one, then asking if I was 21. 21?! My first thought was: how could they have justified hiring someone who was just 21 into this job? My second thought was: does she really think I could have worked for 2 years and gone to grad school and still been 21? Who was I, Doogie?

I’ve really liked being the youngest (by almost 10 years) in my office, but lately it’s become a burden. Perhaps it’s always been a burden, but I’ve only recently discovered it. Turns out that if they think you’re only 21 they will treat you like you’re only 21. Especially when the Director and most of her senior leadership have birthdays (years included) within 12 months of each other. And that age is 50. So I’m the kid. Literally.

I really want to start embracing the impending 3-0 (said it again! Next thing you know I’ll start talking about only the weather and eating dinner at 4:30), but I can’t. It’s not in my genes. I remember when DaddyMonday turned 40 he left town for three days, no note, nothing. He had been stressing about that day for probably two years. GrammaMonday always talks about how 40 was fine for her, as was 50 and 60, it was 30 that was the problem.

I seriously don’t know what I’m going to do to get myself over this ageaphobia (new word. Definition: fear of revealing one’s true age). I want to embrace my age, especially since I have a lot to show for my 29.5 years, but as DaddyMonday reminds me: wait until 40. As GrammaMonday says: I spent my entire 30th birthday crying. And as MommaMonday says: At 29 your ability to conceive begins to decline. You do realize your eggs are drying up, right?

It seems the deck is stacked against my success.

Where'd All My Security Go?

Money is important to me.  I am not one of those people who say, I can make do on $35K/year for the rest of my life.  I can't.  It's not because I have expensive tastes.  I think it's probably because of the way I was raised.  See, my parents made a decent living, but were extremely cautious with their spending.  Making money and having money was all about security for them.  Money was valuable to the extent that it could keep us healthy, safe and productive.

I like to indulge in buying things, though I have my limits.  I recently got an expensive Burberry wallet I have been pining for.  I love it, and I'm glad I have it, but I also felt a little dirty when I bought it.  I know I didn't need it.  But I will allow myself to do stuff like that- splurge with a couple of hundred dollars.  I also see things like Chanel bags that I desire, but giving up $2,000 for a bag is something I don't think I could ever do, no matter how much money I had.  At least I hope not.

Part of the irony about buying stuff you want is that if you're anything like me, it will really actually never be enough.  I used to think if I won the lottery or married a prince, I would just go out and buy all of things I really wanted (one huge period of splurging) and then keep it kind of reasonable.  Something grand here and there, but for the most part stick to stores along the lines of J.Crew, not Bergdoff's.  But I don't think it ever ends for most girls.  There is simply too much fashion, jewelry, make-up and accessories to be had.  (Sigh.)  Perhaps it is a blessing that I can't afford fancy stuff.

But back to the overall concept of money.  I do crave security and therefore want to have money, but what's really scary is that the idea of security has completely shifted.  Working hard in school and being a top performer used to be enough to know that you would always be able to provide for yourself and loved ones.  Not these days.  I know a lot of people who are total badasses in terms of higher education and prestigious jobs and are out of work, with no end to their unemployment in sight.  And forget about making money, even just saving money is not a guarantee.  You think your company has your pension secure, that you can retire on your 401k, but for the first time in a long time, people are really and rightfully questioning all that.  The best way for us to get out of this recession is to be unafraid.  I'm with GirlMonday.  Spend.  Do the things you wanted to do.  Reach your goals.  Go for it anyway.  But I can see why people would be really, really scared to do so.  I'm tempted to withdraw from the bank and hide it under the mattress myself.

I know the economy is in the toilet right now, but I still believe in capitalism and that all of this will self-correct and all of that good stuff.  I'm for the government spending-- appropriately. Last year, I made less money that the year before (when I was a single girl aggressively working my butt off).  Sure, it was a little sad to see the gross income go down.  But it didn't bother me like it should have.  Why?  Because if I had made more money, a greater chunk of my total would have gone to taxes.  So personally, it wasn't worth it for me to put in more time and effort.  That's just the honest truth.  The government's rate of tax incentived me to work less.  I find that very sad.  

I'm all for helping out the truly unfortunate, but I have doubts about the way the government allocates my money.  There are things I want to do that I can't do because I have to give up so much of my income.  For example, I'm not going to have children until I can afford it.  Yet, some of my money is contributing to the welfare of some other kid.  It doesn't seem fair, because it's not.  I can respect that people lack resources and get into negative situations, but shouldn't I be able to help them on my own terms (e.g. charity of my choice)?  It's not just the supposedly poor the government wants to spend for.  There's the banks, the auto industry. When's the last time the government bailed you out of your debt?  I'm losing the money I have invested because of your bad management practices, but part of what I have left is devoted to saving you?  And that's going to make me more confident in the economy?

I want to hold onto my money.  Even if I have some to spare, I don't think of it as extra cash flow.  It's my security.  It's not easy out there, and I think I'm entitled to hold on to whatever I was able to get my hands on in the first place.

Growing up with $Money$

I decided to take a different approach this week on the topic of money. I grew up in a family that would fairly be categorized as middle class. I have always had a keen sense of observation on the demonstrated behaviors of individuals that did in fact grow-up in wealthy families. Many families have a fair amount of wealth, but my focus for this article is on the group of extremely wealthy individuals. While there are always exceptions to any broad categorization of a collective group of individuals, I think that overall my perceptions of this group are quite accurate.

Many children living in a financially wealthy family environment expect more from their parents as far as clothing, trips, and gifts. They fail to understand how expensive these items and experiences can be, and also how fortunate they are to get those items and experiences. Can anyone really blame them for having these desires and not fully understanding how fortunate they are? No, not really, what kid wouldn’t have the same wants and desires? But as these children start to become teenagers and young adults this once uniform group begins to separate into two distinct clusters.

The majority group I call the “Appreciators” because they realize how fortunate they are and begin to truly appreciate the opportunities that have been provided by growing-up in a wealthy family. Then there is the minority group known as the “Suckers” because they feel set for life, have very little, if any, appreciation for their fortunate situation, and have little desire to have any meaningful impact in any arena during their life.

The Appreciators often spend their young adult life devoting their time and energy towards setting and achieving personal and professional goals as well as helping others through social causes. They try to add meaningful activities to their lives and in some way shape or form help others. Most people in this group are humble, and don’t like to make others feel as if they are flaunting their money. A prime example of the individual that falls into this group is Anderson Cooper. Most people have seen him hosting his show on CNN, but during his younger years he spent time in Africa trying to bring about change to a struggling society. Even though Anderson comes from the Vanderbilt family, and was set for life, he demanded more from himself and actively pursued opportunities to make a meaningful impact. The point is not that a trip to Africa, or seeking out absolute righteous activities should be expected to fall with the Appreciator group, but an effort toward setting and achieving personal and professional goals should be made. I respect the individuals that compose the Appreciators because they have the desire to accomplish their own goals and make a difference in this world.

Then you have the worst of the worst, the Suckers. This group would gladly waste their entire life playing video games, snowboarding, going to concerts, and attending events and parties so that they can tell their moocher friends about how cool and exclusive it was. (This crowd always has a few moocher friends that feel special for being associated with the rich person, and the moochers often expect some freebies for being such “good” friends). Not that the Suckers don’t have the right to partake in activities they enjoy and spend their time how they desire, but I resent all of the individuals in this group. Mostly I resent them for trying to impress me and the world with their bank account and self-centered experiences when they have the potential to be and do so much more. Rather than dare to be great and make a difference in this world they would rather leach off the past blood, sweat, toil, and success of their ancestors. Instead of having a meaningful life, they would rather pursue endeavors that at best provide brief moments of satisfaction. Sadly, most in this group will listlessly roam this earth without ever realizing their available opportunities, and for this the world will quickly forget they even existed.

A Recipe

Ingredients:

a dozen or so envelopes

a box to fit said envelopes

a pen

a paycheck, regularly (preferable)

your debit card

a pair of scissors

Directions:

Make a list of your expenses: gas bill, TV, Cell phone... student loan payment, credit card, rent... doctor co-pays, toiletries, clothes... Don't forget things like "haircuts" and "vacation" and "gifts"- places you spend money once or only a handful-of-times a year versus once a month, or once a week.

On the upper corner of each envelope write an item.  

In the box place the envelopes for the expenses that you don't need to carry around with you.  For example, you probably don't need money for furniture on you at all times, but it's probably a good idea to have your grocery envelope in your purse.

When you get paid and the check goes into your account, you remove that exact amount in cash.  (If your bank requires a minimum balance, keep that amount in there and remove the rest).  Take your wad home and distribute the money into the envelopes.  Start with immediate necessities and work your way back.  On the envelope record what you've deposited and on what date.  

When you need to pay a bill, take the cash out of the corresponding envelope, deposit it and pay your bill.  Note on the amount you've taken out of the envelope and the date.

The next time you get paid, repeat the process.  

Come the holidays, you will have a small savings devoted fully to buying gifts.  Every six to eight weeks you have exactly what you need to pay- in cash- for your hair cut.  

Then take your debit card and pair of scissors and cut it in half.  Ok, no need to be dramatic.  Keep it but don't use it.

This is a recipe for getting in close touch with your money.  You will see, touch, distribute, spend exactly what you have and not a penny more.  You will realize you can't buy something if the fund is dry- or you will realize that you should start depositing more money into one envelope rather than another.  

It's called "the envelope system"-- it's how my grandmother used to do it- and she was a very successful businesswoman.    This guy does it too.  

Happy saving!

Ten Year Plan

It is fitting that Girl Friday chose money as this week’s topic—I actually received the email informing us of her selection shortly after concluding my first meeting with our financial planner. We were introduced to him through a mutual friend, and chose to schedule an appointment so that we could begin our marriage on a strong financial footing. My father is fond of telling me that money troubles are one of the leading causes of divorce. Whether it be the failure to communicate about money or the inability to align financial goals, many couples allegedly have difficulty working towards a unified financial future.

The future Mr. Tuesday and I have always prided ourselves on our ability to communicate. Even when emotions get the best of us (or me) and I flare up irrationally, we always make it a point to calm down and discuss our frustrations in a civilized manner. So it seemed appropriate that we, wanting to avoid the communication difficulties that befall some couples, sit down and chat with someone who earns a living counseling folks such as ourselves about wise decision-making.

After a few weeks of back and forth to schedule a meeting that would work with three full schedules, we confirmed a time and location and were ready to meet. He told us that all we needed to bring with us was knowledge of the balances in our respective savings, checkings, and retirement accounts, as well as any additional investments we might already have. Further, we should consult our respective employer’s benefits plans to understand life insurance, retirement, and long-term disability coverage available. We did all that; we were prepared.

But then came the questions. Picture yourself ten years from now. How do you envision your finances? What job do you hold? Where are you living? Do you have children? What are you saving for?

We fell silent.

After a pause that probably felt much longer than it was, I chimed in—“we’ll certainly own a home by then. And likely have our first child, if not have another on the way.” There, I’d come up with a respectable answer.

“And your job?” He asked. “Where will you be working? Are you figuring you’ll be making Partner about that time, as well?”

Partner? Really? I need to decide that NOW?

“I don’t know. It’s difficult to say having just started at the firm. It is too early to determine whether I can really envision myself staying in the private sector. I mean, I would like to go into the Government when the time is right. If such an opportunity presents itself before the ten year point, I might consider it.”

I received a knowing nod in response, and sat in quiet introspection as the future Mr. Tuesday explained that he wasn’t certain where he was headed. He didn’t plan to build a future at his current job necessarily. “I’d like to go back to school at some point, but I really don’t want to go until I have a better sense of what I want to DO,” he explained.

More nodding.

“What about your spending habits? What kind of lifestyle do the two of you envision living for yourselves?”

More silence.

“Well, honestly, that’s something we need to work on. We know that we want to start saving to buy a home, but we’ve been dealing with a lot of extra wedding-related expenses so far this year, and really aren’t certain what a ‘normal’ cash flow is for each of us.” There, that was an educated sounding way of saying I don’t have a clue.

“Well, you realize that saving has to be the first impulse. You have to save first and allow yourself to spend only after putting aside money. That’s the only way you can really do it.” He seemed so wise and all-knowing; but what he was really doing was stating the obvious.

We felt like children, really. It’s no wonder that money breaks people apart. While it is easy to think that it is “just money,” there is a real truth to the fact that as you look forward into adult hood, everything you do is shaped by money in some form or fashion. A job becomes more than what you do from 9 to 5; or from 8 to 7, such as the case may be. The job brings the paycheck, and the paycheck is the gateway to home ownership or higher education or a fast sports car. I don’t mean to imply that money is everything; but the plans that we make, the priorities that we set for ourselves, are not possible without the financial foundation to back it up. The blood in our veins may be what keeps us alive, but the cash flowing through our bank account is what keeps us moving forward toward the ten year point. It brings a whole new layer of meaning to the saying two hearts beating as one.

Money, It's a Gas: Grab that Cash with Both Hands and Make a Stash

This week is all about money. Bucks. Dough. Moolah. Clams. Greenbacks. Quid. Cold Hard Cash. Loot. Bacon. Coin. Benjamins. And my favorite: Fitties.

This is good timing for this subject given the state of our economy and the state of my wallet. Two years ago (right before the housing market took a plunge) I bought a house. As has always been the case with me, this was just another example of my ability to time things perfectly. And to make matters worse, I didn’t plan on staying in it for very long. But that’s a story for another day. I don’t want to take up too much of your time this week and I don’t have much to say, but the house is just a perfect example of two of my thoughts on money:

The first is that with the purchase of the house, I needed to fill it with nice furniture (first thought, Pottery Barn, second thought: Restoration Hardware, third thought: Target, latest thought: Ikea, next up: Goodwill). I knew that getting everything I needed wouldn’t happen in the first year, but I really thought that 2009 would be the year I could dump the college couch out by the curb and invest in something nice. I currently own two couches, a desk, and a bed. My kitchen table and coffee table (aka TV stand) currently have commitments elsewhere as soon as I can relive them of their duties here, so that doesn’t leave me with much. No wonder I never invite anyone over……Anyway, what I’ve finally realized in the last few months is that I’d rather spend my money on traveling to see friends and going on exciting trips than have furniture. If I’m off doing something fun, then I’m not missing my crappy pink couch. And since I can’t have both….Beach House it is. Mardi Gras it is. Tahoe it is. OBX it is. And I’ll just stick with the furniture I have. And the four completely empty rooms.

Second thought about money is that I have decided to refuse to let the foul mood of our nation and the crappiness of the economy keep me from doing what I want to be doing. If I want to change jobs, I will. And I won’t be (too) afraid. If I want to try to sell my house, I’ll give it a shot (prepare for the worst), but not be afraid to do so. If I want to spend money at the rate I did before the market went in the tank, then I’ll do that as well. I’ve been too good for too long. I invest obscene amounts of money in my 401(k-for krap), own a house, and have several months of salary saved. I refuse to put my life on hold because of fear (DaddyMonday says to blame the liberal media for fear-mongering, I say - don’t tell anyone we’re related). That doesn’t mean I won’t be careful, but I’m not going to let years slip away just to be careful. I’m already on year 3……….

So there: my thoughts on the fitties.

That's Not The Toilet

In preparing to write this post, I found myself focusing on my college memories.  College was a time when wonderful and awful things seem to be happening constantly, at a furious pace.  Yet I wasn't much of a party-er in college (and I'm still not).  So I don't have that many hilarious drunken stories to share.  However, there is one night that sticks out in my memory.  It wasn't my best or worst or stupidest moment-- just kind of a crazy thing that happened, to my roommate.  And thank god it didn't happen to me.  I would never recover.

One night, my roommate-- I'll call her Leigh (the names have been changed to protect the embarrassed) was hanging out in our dorm room with some of our guy friends.  Around midnight, I announced that I was going to bed.  Leigh sort of rolled her eyes and left with the caravan.  I was definitely a social person and enjoyed the company of all of those people- but also rather conservative and straight-laced, and I guess she thought I was a bit of a party pooper.  I didn't care, because I thought she was obnoxious and a bit of a loser.  Though overall, we got along just fine.

A couple of hours later, I heard something and woke up.  It was a Leigh with one of the guys-- let's call him Keith.  They were giggling in her bed and making out.  Now, normally this would send me into a fit of rage.  We (Leigh and I) had actually recently talked about the concept of bringing a guy to your room when your roommate is there and we both agreed that it was so ridiculous it wasn't even worth discussing.  It's something that we never would do to one another.  I know a lot of people who think all bets are off in college, but we weren't that way. Or at least Leigh pretended to be when we had talked about it.

So anyway, Leigh and Keith are in her bed, and instead of getting up and yelling at them and kicking him out, I remember thinking "whatever", rolling over, and going back to bed and literally not being bothered at all.  Looking back, it's so crazy to think that I ever would have reacted that way.  I think the gods were looking out for me-- knowing how much I would relish retelling this story for years to come.

A little while later that same night, around 3:30 AM or so, I woke up to the feeling of someone sitting on my legs.  It was Keith.  He was doubled over and completely out of it-- I had never seen someone so drunk before and rarely have since.  I said, "Keith!  Keith!  Get up!  Are you okay?  Keith, you have to go back to your room."  Keith lived one floor below us.  He kind of mumbled back to me.  I said, "Keith, do you need me to help you get back to your room?"  He said something that approximated "No" and got up.  He proceeded to almost make it to the door, but was about six inches too far to the right.  He began marching in place into the wall, seemingly perplexed that the wall wasn't opening up and allowing him to leave.

Okay, of the three people who witnessed this next chain of events, I was the only one who was sober.  And I remember it very clearly.  The other two folks have no recollection of this and I'm sure would like to believe that it never happened.  And yet, it did.

Keith walks over to Leigh's bed, where she's sleeping.  He stands right by where her head is. And then he starts peeing.  I'm not kidding.  I start screaming, "Keith- stop it, that's not the toilet.  Leigh- get up!  He's peeing on you!"  Leigh sort of sits up, and she's in a total daze. Keith finishes peeing, and then says, "I'm so sorry.  Oh my god, I'm so sorry."  Leigh says, "Keith, go to your room."  Keith says, "I'm so sorry."  Leigh says, "Whatever, don't worry about it, just go to your room."  Keith proceeds to leave, without zipping up first I might add.  His roommates later told me he didn't get to the room until about 5 that morning.  So where he was, unzipped, all that time, I have no idea.

Anyway so back in the dorm room, Leigh rolls over to go back to bed.  She's obviously still drunk.  I say, "Leigh- get up.  You have to change your sheets before you go back to bed."  She says she's tired.  I say, "Leigh- that's disgusting.  You need to change those sheets."  She retorts, with 'tude, "Yeah, well I really don't care." And with that she's back to sleep.

The next morning, a Friday, I woke up early for Intensive Intermediate French, which met every day.  I look over at Leigh, and she's rolling around in the bed like nothing ever happened. I thought, well this is going to be interesting, and headed off to class.

When I returned, Leigh was in our suitemate's room discussing the night before.  She was horrified.  But not at the peeing fiasco.  She didn't remember that.  She was embarrassed that she hooked up with Keith and brought him back to her room.  I proceeded to report on the night's events, and she was appropriately mortified.  She immediately changed her sheets and begged me not to tell anyone.  I then proceeded to tell anyone who would listen.  Leigh was pretty full of herself and often made very rude comments directed at me.  I didn't feel the need to protect her.  

Sadly, the Leigh and Keith saga continued for years, and this incident is not close to their lowest low.  I don't talk to Leigh much anymore, and I'm sure if I did I would like her a whole lot more than I used to.  She was only 19 back then, and rather immature in many ways.  But I will always be grateful to her for bringing that ridiculous night into my life.  Everyone needs those kinds of experiences, and I got to be a part of one without being directly involved.  And I learned a valuable lesson.  Be nice to people-- if for no other reason than you never know what they might have on you one day.

A Stroll Down Memory Lane...

My freshman year of college was an exciting and interesting year. I went to Willamette University in Salem, Oregon. A liberal arts college which I attended on both academic and athletic scholarship. I arrived two weeks earlier than the other students so I could begin training with the cross country team to prepare for the upcoming season. Our coach had set all the new athletes up so that we were roommates with another girl on the team. I remember being very excited to get a chance to spend so much time with someone who had similar interests and schedules as I did. Coming from a big family I had no problems sharing a room with somebody else, in fact, being by myself was a little too intimidating. The summer between high school and college I romanticized what it would be like to stay up as late as I wanted, sleep in if I wanted, have no rules or regulations. I wondered if my unknown roommate and I would become best friends, if she would be strict and regulated (like some distance runners can be) or if we would be completely different. I knew very little of my soon-to-be roommate except that her name was Sarah, she was a sophomore and was transferring from the University of Hawaii, but was originally from a small town in Oregon.

So I packed up my little 1999 Saturn brim full with all my belongings and made the 7-hour drive from Boise, ID to Salem, OR. Looking back, I am surprised that my parents let me leave for college all by myself. But, I was hungry for adventure and looking forward to this new chapter of my life. I showed up at my dorm, grabbed one of my duffel bags, and headed in to meet my new roommate. I was excited and anxious to see what she would be like. I walked into room 304 and was immediately greeted by a petite, brown-haired girl who was appeared to be a little shy. “Hi, I’m Sarah!” she said and welcomed me with a warm smile. We spent a few minutes with the regular ‘get-to-know-you’ type conversations. All of the sudden something silly came into conversation and we both burst into a fit of giggles. I don’t even remember what was said at the time, but I knew instantly that we would be great friends.

In a lot of ways Sarah and I were very different. I was extroverted, outgoing, and into ‘girly’ things. Sarah was quiet, a little shy at first, and more ‘outdoorsy’ than me. But we were perfect compliments for each other. As I look back at that first year of college, I realized that all my best memories were with Sarah and I wouldn’t have had the same experience if it weren’t for her. We shared some very funny moments and also some very silly ones. I started to jot down some of the times that make me laugh or smile when I dig them out of my memory.

*The trip to the Oregon Coast – Sarah and I both had crushes on these two twin brothers who lived in the building next to us. Their names were Loren and Laurence. We would stay up late and talk about the two-word conversation that one of us may have had with one of the twins and imagine about what it would be like to date on of them. The four of us were all good friends and had a big group of people that we would often hang out with. One weekend everyone decided to go to the Oregon Coast. Sarah and I had strategically planned it so that we were in the same car as the twins. Anyways…to get to the point of the story…there were probably about 12 of us on the trip. We had gotten there a little bit earlier than everyone else and decided to build a large bonfire. We had all brought our sleeping bags and the plan was for everyone to just camp on the beach. The twins, Sarah and I started to build this huge bonfire that we had planned. We loaded up a HUGE pile of wood, lit it with some kerosene, and watched as the flames erupted. After about 5 minutes we all noticed that there was a terrible smell protruding from somewhere….we started looking around and spotted one of the most disgusting things I have ever seen! There was a beached shark only a few meters from where we had just built our bonfire!! Some creature had come over and taken a huge chunk out of its belly area so the shark’s intestines were spewed all over the sand. It smelled putrid and we were in a bad situation. We couldn’t very well move the bonfire…it was enormous and would take hours to burn out. Plus, we didn’t have enough wood to start a new one. But, this was a large shark and the smell was so disgusting. After a few minutes of everyone saying, “not I!” somehow I got stuck with the job of dragging the shark to a different part of the beach. Luckily, the twin I favored stepped up and decided to help me with it. We each took one side of the tail, held our breathe, and drug the shark as quickly as possible to the other side of the beach. I quickly took out my Purell and tried to get the nasty fish smell off my hands, but it was impossible. We ended up having a great night, but what a memory! I will never forget the night that I dragged a half-eaten, rotting shark across the beach of the Oregon Coast.

*The Condom Experience – Sarah and I did some pretty silly stuff. This memory has some embarrassing but still funny recollections. I remember one night we discovered there were a bagful of free condoms that the health center had hung on the door of each room in the dorm. Sarah had heard this story that condoms could stretch insane sizes before they would break! We were 18 and immature…plus neither of us had ever really taken the time to take a part or examine a condom. So, I watched as Sarah unwrapped one of the bright purple condoms. She opened it up to see how big it would stretch!! We were laughing and giggling, all of the sudden one of our dorm-mates came over and showed us that they would even stretch over your foot!! We were kind of grossed out, but doubled over in laughter at the sight of our overweight dorm-buddy walking around with a condom over his foot. This led to a few other condom “discoveries”. We learned that if you put a condom around a quarter and push the quarter tightly into the end of the condom you can do your laundry for free! You put one quarter in each condom, push in the quarters, and they come back, but the washer machine will register as if you put money into it! Occasionally you would lose a quarter or two when the condom would break, but we saved a LOT of money by getting free condoms from the health center!

*Midnight Running Club – Sarah and I were both on the cross country team. Although we were running a lot of miles each week (around 50-60) for some reason we both were gaining weight! I can contribute the weight gain to the unlimited amount of cafeteria food and the grotesque amounts of calories we would feed ourselves. Although we were running a lot, we were eating too much, too often, and not healthy enough. So, in an attempt to shed the extra ten pounds we had gained, we started the “Midnight Running Club”. Each night at midnight we would go for a 10-25 minute run (in additional to the regular workout we did with our team earlier in the day). This was crazy, I know, but we did some pretty silly stuff. Anyways…it was working pretty well until one night we got bored of running around campus and decided to veer off-campus into the city. This was a huge mistake. We ran into homeless people sleeping on the streets, and some very sketchy characters. I remember being so scared that night. I swear to this day that we were being followed! Sarah thinks it was only a pizza delivery guy who couldn’t find the house he was to deliver to…from that night on one of us would carry a little hand-held bottle of mace that Velcro-ed to your palm.

*Goldfish – Sarah and I had gotten this little fish tank and put a few goldfish in there. Well, for some reason we could not get them to stay alive longer than a few weeks. So, we started this tradition (don’t ask me how this idea came up) where we would name the current person we were ‘interested’ in after each one of the fish. If the fish died, then we cut it off with the guy. And we actually stuck to it for a few months!! It was a good excuse for neither of us to ever get very serious with anyone.

*Dance/Clean/Dance – I am not the most organized person in the world. Usually I am actually a bit cluttered. Sarah was the opposite, very organized and tidy. Well, this posed a problem because we were living together. My half of the room would always be a disaster and her half of the room would usually be super organized. After a while, my bad habits started to wear off on Sarah and she wasn’t liking it. She noticed that she would become a little untidy or get messy herself and that bothered her. So, somehow we came up with this hair-brained idea that would make the idea of cleaning a little more enticing. We decided that we would clean for 5 minutes, dance for 2 minutes, clean for 5 minutes, dance for 2 minutes, etc. I still remember the first time we did this and at 5:01 the song “I feel like Dancing” by Leo Sayer started playing on her computer!! We broke into hysterics. You have to remember, we were two scrawny little white girls who had no rhythm and really couldn’t dance at all. But it worked!! It motivated us to clean and organize our room while still having fun.

The list goes on and on….at the end of that first year Sarah ended up transferring to Boston University and is now getting her Masters at Vanderbilt. I transferred to another liberal arts school in Idaho for the remaining three years. Sarah and I rarely talk anymore….our lives have gone in different directions. But, my best college memories are from that first year. If nothing more, I learned to laugh and enjoy life more than I ever had up to that point.

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.