Today We Give Thanks

I don't know what anybody else is giving thanks for this year, but I'm giving thanks for good examples.

This year would have been my grandparents' 60th wedding anniversary.

Today would have been their 60th wedding anniversary.

My grandparents set an example without even trying to, of how to be and stay married.

And today, as I celebrate Thanksgiving with my family, their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, I am thanful for their good example.

Inside The Actor's Studio

It's probably a good thing that I got out of the theater when I did. Let's ignore for a minute that I lack the necessary talent and ambition to make it as an actor, and also the necessary temperament -- what I really worry about is that I never would have been able to handle the heartbreak of falling hopelessly, helplessly, head-over-heels into (mostly unrequited) love with all of my co-stars.

(Okay, "co-stars" might be a bit of an over-exaggeration, since I was always just a member of the supporting cast, but still.)

Let me provide you with the examples, lest you think I am joking.

• Seventh grade, "The Hobbit" -- I played a dwarf (either Dwalin or Balin, I can never remember which), and developed a terrible crush on the guy who played Gollum. He was in my 6th period study hall, and we would pass notes via a mutual friend, and repeatedly make plans to meet up for pizza on Friday nights after our high school's football games. After the third broken "date" because my parents determined that 12 years old was probably too young for me to be dating boys, he stopped passing notes, and I ended up spending three weeks in complete tears.
• Eighth grade, "South Pacific" -- I was a chorus girl, and I feel hard for the guys who played Stewpot, Emile, and Luther Billis. The first two crushes never amounted to much (primarily because they both already had hot 9th-grade girlfriends who allegedly "put out"), but on the cast trip to NYC that spring, I got drunk or high or whatever off of an entire canister of Binaca breath spray and spent the entire bus ride home French-kissing Luther Billis. We "dated" for a month or so, before I realized that (1) he was kind of gross and (2) the smell of Polo kind of makes me want to throw up, and he used to practically swim in that stuff. Not sure which of these facts occurred to me first.
• Ninth grade, "Li'l Abner" -- I played one of the Dogpatch Wives, and I had crushes on both of the guys who played my Dogpatch Husbands (yes, both the "Before" and the "After" Yokumberry tonic versions), and they both basically thought I was a ridiculous fool who kept following them around with puppy dog eyes, humming stupid love songs all the time. Not a lot of 9th-graders were listening to Anita Baker, after all. At this point someone probably should have had me committed or at least staged an intervention, but I'm pretty sure that all my friends thought I was the most spectacularly, hilariously dumb person who ever lived.
• Tenth grade, "Annie Get your Gun" -- Another turn as a chorus girl, and crushes on two of the gayest human beings who have ever lived. Both of them dropped numerous hints and yet were astounded to discover that I could not get a clue. Thus begins my storied history of gay ex-boyfriends (even though, technically, neither of these guys were ever my actual boyfriend).
• Eleventh grade, "Our Town" -- Oh sweet Jesus. I played Rebecca Gibbs, and I fell in love with the guy who played George (my brother, in the show), and this crush remains legendary for spawning one of the most transparently obvious "anonymously submitted" sonnets in the history of Mrs. Trimble's 4th period British Literature class. This poem is SO BAD, you guys, and I have Facebook friends out there who can vouch for it. I don't know why nobody stuffed me in my own locker for the remainder of my junior and senior years in high school.

What? You actually want to read this terrible, awful, treacly, disgustingly amateur sonnet, this love poem that I wrote to a boy who basically thought I was the biggest nuisance in the history of ever? Are you sure? Well, okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. You might want to have an airsickness bag or similar device handy, because I am telling you -- this is so junior-year-of-high-school-English-class-unrequited-love poem.

The moonlight dances on the windowsill,
The wind echoes your name against the glass.
It's January now, but I think still
Of scenes we shared, performed November past.
Distinctly I remember, in the play,
You were my brother George -- sixteen, in love.
"I love money," I was supposed to say,
But no one knew it was you that I thought of.
And as upon the ladder we both stood,
You gave a line that I thought quite ironic;
Manipulate the facts as best I could,
The word for us will always be "platonic."
As far as I'm concerned, well now I know.
"There's only room for one at this window."

I mean, honestly, could you just die, or what? That right there is some of the worst poetry in the history of the written word, is it not? And yet I somehow figured that by writing this down and handing it in for a class assignment and having someone read it out loud that perhaps, just maybe, it would get back to him and he would have no choice but to fall instantly, desperately in love with me. What a goofbucket I was back then.

In retrospect, I really should have learned to deploy The Wonder Twins (i.e., my boobs) sooner in my dating career. Although considering the number of gay ex-boyfriends I have, I'm not sure it would have mattered much anyway.

• Twelfth grade, "The Sting" -- I played two parts in this show, one of which was a cop or an FBI agent or something whom our director decided to play like some kind of femme fatale, and there is quite a story here that ultimately ends up with my husband, and since we are now literally 20 years after the fact, I can say at least that this particular (and particularly devastating, eventually) crush began with a comically misguided attempt to get a date to a Christmas dance that everyone else was going to, a whole lot of double-entendres, a black trench coat, fishnet stockings, a really spectacular push-up bra from Victoria's Secret that I wish I still fit into because it really was something, and a slew of high school students running around backstage in their underwear because we pretty much completely lacked adult supervision.
• Freshman year in college, "West Side Story" -- I was Anybodys, and I fell in "little love" with Tony and "BIG LOVE" with Baby John, and I don't even think I told my parents this but there was a period of about a month where I was seriously considering converting to Judaism because Baby John's father was a rabbi and I was willing to do whatever I needed to because I really thought I was going to marry that boy, so you can imagine how much it destroyed me to walk in on him kissing another girl who already WAS Jewish.

Wow. That was longer than I expected it to be. The good news is that right after "West Side Story" I decided that I didn't really want to be an actor any more, just a person who dated actors, and not too long after that (but, sadly, after a non-zero number of gay ex-boyfriends) I met my husband, so it worked out pretty well for me.

(And that's what you missed when last night's "Glee" made me remember all this crap in the first place.)

Happy Birthday To My Hero

Today is my husband's birthday. He's 36. He'll probably get mad at me for saying that, but too bad. He wants to lie about his age, he can get his own damn blog.

Last night he stayed up until 4:00 am bailing water out of the basement so I didn't have to, because he is awesome that way. This video has nothing to do with anything, but it's cute. Just like he is.

Happy birthday, babe. I love you.

Ten at 20

On this day, twenty years ago, I was a week away from becoming a high school senior. Seventeen years old, with all the naïve and undeveloped and insufferable swagger that comes with being that age. I knew everything there was to know about everything at that point, figured it all out myself, and anybody who disagreed with me was flat-out wrong and stupid, and I told them so every chance I got.

(Hey, I never said I changed much in the last 20 years; I was just younger then. No less loud, no less opinionated, only a little less likely to be uncompromising in my beliefs, no more patient, and significantly more likely to be wearing tattered cut-offs and ripped fishnets and red jelly shoes. The biggest differences now are (1) that I know that I don't actually know everything, I just act like I do, and (2) in the last two decades I have learned how to call people stupid in about eight different languages.)

I was in the choir and I was a band groupie and I occasionally hung out with other fledgling "artists" and "writers," and by association I ended up listening to a lot of different kinds of music. My favorite records tended to be punk and post-punk and new wave and American college radio: the Clash, the Ramones, the Cure, the Smiths, Elvis Costello, R.E.M. – lots and lots of R.E.M., especially Document – Concrete Blonde.

(Most people, to this day, probably do not know about my secret hidden obsession with New Kids on the Block, and once this is over we're all going to pretend that this never happened, but I still hold a very special place in my heart for Joey McIntrye, and I still get weak in the knees if I ever hear "Please Don’t Go Girl" or "Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time)." I truly believe that in another life, he and I were meant to be together. SHUT UP.)

My parents, I'm sure, thought it was just so much noise, but I'm sure that's what their parents thought about their music, back in the day. The only difference between their generation and mine, I'm pretty sure, was that my grandparents were probably pretty certain that John Lennon and Paul McCartney were not secretly transvestites, as I'm sure my parents wondered about Robert Smith. As did I, from time to time, let's be honest.

I can't remember what class I was in the first time I heard chatter at school about this new band that had just put out a record. It wasn't one of my musical friends, who were all going through a simultaneous fixation with Queen to the point where we listened to A Night at the Opera every day at lunch time for almost an entire school year. It was a VERY LONG TIME before I was able to listen to Queen again without immediately wanting to find Jon Conahan and punch him in the face.

No, this was somebody else, another student who was not my friend, just someone I knew, who would now mostly like be called an "early adopter." The CD got passed around among a cluster of boys who were all listening to the same stuff at the time – "arena rock," U2 and INXS and AC/DC. This was something new, a kind of music coming out of Seattle, and nobody was really sure whether they liked it or not. I remember catching a glimpse of the cover, kind of bright pink, which I thought was weird, and some muttering about lyrics: "I think this one song is about suicide."

My interest was piqued, that was for sure, but not necessarily in a good way at the time. Whatever the equivalent of "girl, please" was in 1991, I no doubt was thinking it: that one song is about suicide? You need to listen to some different music if you think one song about suicide is a big deal. Love is suicide. Life is suicide. Here, listen to this record and read some Sylvia Plath and then we'll talk. Pass the black eyeliner.

Six months later, maybe more, I finally heard songs from the record for myself. Yet again, I cannot remember where I was or who I was with. I seem to recall being in a car, and having just broken up with a boy, and probably I was sneaking a cigarette as I wept into my Mountain Dew. It was night, I know that much, and I think it was cold. What I do remember for certain is the sound of my entire worldview shifting without a clutch.

It sounded like righteous anger, and fear, and boredom, and loneliness. Like grunts, and groans, and testosterone, and overcast skies. Like torn jeans, and boots, and flannel. Like someone railing against the entire world, guttural growls against the messed up shit that was all around us, everywhere. Like loud guitars, and live drums, and masculine wailing. Like I had finally found someone who actually understood me, after an entire lifetime of listening to music about people who were themselves misunderstood.

It sounded like Pearl Jam's Ten, first released twenty years ago today, and still one of my top ten favorite albums of this lifetime.

Rah-Rah-Sis-Boom-Bah

For two years when I was in junior high -- 7th and 8th grades, maybe, or possibly 8th and 9th grades -- I was a cheerleader. There are probably incriminating photos somewhere, but I won't admit to having any in my personal possession. At any rate, when I was cheering, it wasn't a sport like it is now, with all the aerial acrobatics and dance routines and international competitions on ESPN; I was just your garden-variety cheerleader on the sidelines at a Pop Warner game on a Sunday, with the pom-poms and the megaphone and the pleated skirt and the saddle shoes. Boy, could I rock a pair of saddle shoes (and I still do, occasionally, when the spirit moves me).

I wasn't particularly gymnastically inclined: I could do one- and two-handed cartwheels and round offs, back bends, a small variety of basic jumps, and splits in both directions, but my repertoire was decidedly limited compared to what some of the other girls on the squad could do. My primary skill-set included crisp arm moves, excellent spirit fingers, the ability to project my voice without actually shouting due to years of choral training -- and, since I was a swimmer and therefore one of the "studier" girls on the team, I was always, without fail, one of the spotters for any stunts or, more likely, one of the corners of any mounts that we would do for our halftime routines.

My kid, the Flying Wallenda? If she becomes a cheerleader, she's going to be that girl at the top of every pyramid, the one who does double back flips and otherwise spins through the air like a top while she twirls over the 50-yard line, 20 feet in the air, with sparklers in each hand and possibly another one between her teeth.

And it's going to be AWESOME.

Creature of the Night

Bless me, Dr. Frank-N-Furter, for I have not sinned: it has been 15 years since my last audience-participation screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

I used to be huge into RHPS -- way back in the uncharted backwaters of time, when I was in college, I was part of an unofficial players' group in my dorm. My R.A. was, too, and some assorted people who lived in Brewster-Boland Hall, plus (of course) a couple of drama and film majors. Almost every Friday night, we would gather in someone's room, get some pizza and sodas and sometimes beer, cook up some toast and popcorn, and watch our favorite movie. Sometimes we would spend all night watching it over and over again, doing the Time Warp until 6:00 in the morning.

And it goes without saying that it was awesome.

I was a Rocky Virgin until my senior year in high school. I'd heard of it, and I had friends that were part of the cult that made the film a classic, but for whatever reason I never actually saw it in a theater until sometime during my senior year. Even to this day, I can't explain what took me so long to get hip to what the really cool kids were doing. Fear no doubt played a big part. I'd heard stories (we've all heard stories) about what happened at the Movies at Midnight, about the hazing rituals for first-timers, about the weirdness and chaos and awesome insanity that happens once the theater doors shut and the room goes dark and those lips appear on-screen.

It didn't help that there was always, for me, an unfortunate connection between Rocky and some degree of lameness; RHPS was advertised back then on the dork-ass "classic rock" station alongside one of the other fixtures of the Movies at Midnight, The Wall, a movie that I have not seen, never want to see, and that I will always and forever associate with potheads, dropouts, outcasts suffering a self-imposed exile from the "now."

(Blah blah blah some of my best friends yadda yadda gabba gabba hey. And it probably goes without saying that I have long since reconsidered my position on many of the other bands that they still play on that station, but you'll never get me to change my mind about Rush, no way, no how.)

(Of course, now Pearl Jam and Soundgarden and Nirvana and The Pixies are considered "classic rock" by people who are literally decades younger than I am. Circle of life and all that.)

Anyway ... I can't remember who I was with the first time I saw Rocky, but I'm pretty sure I went with friends who were in the band, and who had already been seeing the show live for years. I do know that, not knowing what to expect, I dressed as "normally" as I could muster at the time. Ah, the era of grunge and teenage rebellion. They warned me, but I didn't listen. I stood out like a sore thumb, obviously, in my tattered jeans and flannel, while everyone else was in their lingerie, giant wigs, stilettos, 8-inch high patent leather platform go-go boots, glitter, sequins.

I never felt like more of a nerd in my entire life. And if I remember correctly, my rite of passage as a Virgin was to eat a piece of candy out of someone's crotch. (Don't worry, Mom, they were clothed.)

Me, in the "clean" version
of my Magenta costume -
Halloween 1993

After that, though ... hoo-boy. It's weird to say that learning how to do the Time Warp was a seminal moment in my character development, but it was. It really was. I never really looked at the world the same way again. And I mean that in the absolute best possible way.

Imagine being me in the twelfth grade: a giant brain trapped in the body of Tinkerbell, with no boyfriends but plenty of interest, not really fitting in anywhere socially, a budding writer with very little angst, friendly but not exactly popular, sarcastic and cranky, wanting to rebel but not really knowing why, all of this a defense against the world, because no matter what I did, I couldn't quite figure out my place in it.

And then I went to the movies one Friday at midnight, and there was all this stuff happening. People were yelling at the screen and throwing toast and dancing in the aisles and they were all dressed like freaks and lunatics and it was amazing because everybody was having, like, the best time ever. It was Halloween and a play and performance art and rock music and a drag show and a summer camp sing-along and all of the best stuff about being proto-emo and melodramatic and a little bit unhinged, all at the same time.

It was basically nirvana, for me. Almost a drug. I couldn't get enough. Every time I came home from college for the weekend, I would call my friends and tell them: "Rocky. Saturday. Be there." And by and large, they would.

In 1994 I started dating my husband and stopped going to see RHPS regularly, because he wasn't as into it as I was, and eventually I got too busy at college to keep my standing Friday appointment, until gradually it turned into 1995 and my audience-participation days ended. Sometimes I really miss them -- I still have occasional moments when nothing but doing the Time Warp in my cubicle can get me through the rest of the day -- so I am super-stoked about the upcoming Rocky Horror-themed episode of Glee (airing 10/26). I've been teaching Shae how to do the Time Warp, because there is no time like the present, right?

When I watch that episode, I know I'm going to have a moment or twelve where I am crying from laughter and also from the floods of memories I fully expect, from the time when I was a "Creature of the Night" myself. But I know I'll be doing the Time Warp until Christmas, and you better believe that if I see those lips on my television screen at any time from now until the day I die, I will stand up and scream, "SING IT, BITCH!"

Fly Me To The Moon

Today is my cousin's wedding anniversary. I didn't remember it until she asked me if I had any pictures; for some reason I have been thinking her anniversary was in April all this time -- I must have been conflating her birthday and my anniversary and jumbling them up for the last eight years.

Also, in my own defense, I was kind of tanked at her reception. Not drunk and disorderly, not exactly, but I don't remember much except that one of my former co-horts from my high school swim team was a bartender that day, and she was making me all kinds of fancy delicious drinks that came with maraschino cherries and whose names ended in "-tini," and there was a big ol' wheel of brie cheese baked in puff pastry, and the food was good. Damn good. And apparently I had a rough time in the ladies' room, and had to get an assist. (That part I don't remember, but I've had anecdotal evidence since.)

I wish I could say these pictures brought back memories, but unfortunately they don't. That's the trouble with a good bartender, I suppose. You look at pictures of that special day when you're a decade removed from it and you're all, "The HELL?" I still have the dress I wore, though. Doesn't fit any more -- was too small, now it's too big, and either way it was never particularly in style anyway -- but I still have it.

Still have the husband, though. That one's a keeper. Even though it appears on this particular occasion that he did not consent to coordinating his tie to my outfit. The bastard.

I always dance with my Daddy at weddings when we're both in attendance, even now that we're both basically old people. It's like a rule, dating back to middle school or so, when I danced with him to "Angel" by Aerosmith when one of his siblings got married. Don't ask me who, because I don't remember that, either.

It would be almost three years later when these two crazy kids would up and get hitched. That was another kick-ass wedding. But boy oh boy, are they kids here. My sister can't be older than 25 here, if she was even that old (if I did the math correctly, I was 28, basically a baby myself still).

... Anyway, I kind of lost the plot here. (Go figure.) One of the things that I DO remember about Tina & Sam's wedding was their first dance: "Fly Me To The Moon," by Frank Sinatra. It was something really, really, once-in-a-lifetime special. It's such a great song to begin with, one of my all-time favorites, and on top of it all, they did a fancy little choreographed ballroom dance number, and it was SPECTACULAR. The whole room filled to overflowing with joy, and for a few short minutes nothing in the world existed but those two, and the music, and their love, and it was nothing short of awesome. Really and truly.

All of this is a long way of saying: Happy Anniversary, you guys. I hope you continue to be as happy now as you were then, and I hope you always are. You're awesome, and your family is awesome, and even though I ate my weight in maraschino cherries that day and therefore don't remember everything quite as clearly as maybe I should (although I assure you, I tipped the bartender well), I am glad I got to be part of that day, and that I still get to be part of your lives, even if it's across the miles over coaxial cable.

In other words: I love you.

Ladies Who Lunch

I was six or seven years old the first time I went to New York City. I think it was a birthday present or something -- I went with my mother and my grandmother to see my very first Broadway show. It was my very first bus trip, my very first "grown-up" adventure. We went to Beefsteak Charlie's somewhere in Manhattan for lunch, and on the way home we stopped at a restaurant called Three Sisters where I had eggplant parmagiana for the first time that I remember, and we saw a matinee of "Annie."

While we were wandering around the city, whether it was on the bus or by foot I cannot say, but at one point we passed the Russian Tea Room, and that was the first time I was introduced to the concept of actual tea time. And I thought to myself: "This is awesome. When I grow up, I am going to do this all the time. I am going to be fancy. I am going to be a fancy Broadway star."

I was in love with New York City for a while, but as I got older and more anxious around large groups of people, my ardor softened. I don't really like big cities now -- I am very much a suburban girl at heart -- and NYC is different than it was when I was a kid. I always thought I would visit all these famous places, but Windows on the World is gone now, since 9/11 happened, and Tavern on the Green has closed. We had a bad experience on a bus trip once, and my husband hates being on the train, surrounded by Yankee fans.

I still love tea, though, and when I have a chance to go to tearooms for brunch or whatever, I jump on the opportunity. Like I did this weekend, when I went to a tearoom in Emmaus with a girlfriend. This is our favorite place to go when we meet up for lunch.

It's funny that I would feel so comfortable in a place that is all pink and white and gingham and Victorian when I claim to hate all the trappings of girlishness, but I guess that even to a tomboy such as myself, there are situations in which these things are acceptable -- desirable, even. I don't think it's just because this place has great food and the absolute best Coconut Cream Cake in the world, either.

Maybe it's because I remember when I was still a little girl, and I still thought I was going to grow up to be a fancy Broadway star, and anything was still possible. Maybe it's because when you're drinking Earl Grey over Sunday brunch, nobody cares that you're only an average singer at best, and that you're too short and fat and uncoordinated to be a Rockette. Maybe it's because everything else changes, but teatime stays the same. Maybe it's because it's a special girly thing that someday, someday soon, I will share with my own fancy little girl, and thus the circle will be unbroken.

But it could be the cake. I love cake.

Accidental Tourists

I was doing some follow-up on this post, which was inspired by this one, and I found some rather mysterious and long-lost pictures on the way. They were developed in December 2008, and they had some shots from Shae's first summer with us, but the really odd thing was that there were pictures on that roll from our trip to Los Cabos. In February. Of 2002. Dun-dun-DUUUUUUN!

These were from long before we were even thinking about having a family. We were practically newlyweds then, not even married three years yet. G was still working at his former company, the one he got laid off from last year, and I was was still working at the Phone Company of Doom and Stupid. (True fact: I started working there on September 11th, although not THE September 11th. It probably goes without saying that particular date gives me the creepy-crawlies now.)

The trip was a prize for winning some kind of ridiculous contest. Ways to generate new revenue or something. My ideas were pretty dumb, but it this was before every dot-com on Earth lost everything they had, and apparently someone was feeling generous, because we got to go anyway. All expenses paid except for optional excursions, like this snorkeling-slash-whale-watching trip, which I am surprised my husband survived, because the water was like 62°F or something. The Pacific Ocean is cold.

We took these pictures with one of those underwater cameras, those all-plastic jobs that were quite the rage, back in the day. It's amazing that the film survived in the camera, partially exposed, for more than six years. Also, that waterproofing technology for camera equipment hasn't much advanced in all that time -- the fancy underwater case for our new video camera is basically one of these same all-plastic jobs, only more expensive.

I don't remember much about this trip, but what I do recall is so vivid that sometimes I still have dreams about it. Riding ATV's on the beach. G almost causing a sand avalanche and falling down a cliff. The beautiful desert colors of the resort. How the ocean smelled, the pool, the $18 turkey sandwich, being able to sleep with the doors open because there was no humidity.

Oh, and this. El Arco. Which apparently cannot be photographed badly, not even with rinky-dink plastic jobbies that sit around for years, undeveloped.

Camptown Ladies

There's no denying it now: I'm officially deep into one of my downward spirals, one of my heavily proto-emo moods, where I'm going to end up wearing black all the time and dying my hair green and listening to The Smiths and The Cure and Depeche Mode on repeat for six years. Just like high school, but now ... with a blog!

And this masochism is only going to get worse, because after Shae's birthday next week I'm going to have to start throwing myself into what is maybe the most passive-aggressive thing that one could possibly do, to wit: I am going to start planning our upcoming camping "vacation." There are not enough rolly-eye emoticons in the world.

We're a camping family, or at least we were once. I remember when I was a kid, and how I used to look forward to our annual trips to the 1000 Islands, in upstate New York. Although why I looked forward to it, I can't really say, because even way back then, I hated bugs and dirt and humidity. And especially worms, which are a big part of the action, because fishing figures prominently.

People think I'm kidding when I say it, but now that I have experienced the joy and wonder that is the all-inclusive resort hotel with swim-up bar and poolside beverage service, my idea of "roughing it" is staying at a Motel 6. It's been a very long time since I've slept in a tent. In the dirt. In the outdoors. With the daddy longlegs and the 100-yard trek to the public toilets in the middle of the night. Sometimes it's hard for me to wrap my head around voluntarily participating in an activity that has not gotten much more technologically advanced in the last 30 years, unless you count recent advances in air-mattress-inflation-speed technology as "progress."

I mean, really, does that sound like a "vacation" to you? To me it sounds more like a penance.

Then again, a lot of big family moments can come out of getting back to nature. Little things, unnoticed at the time. So we're going to do it, and I am going to do my best to try to enjoy myself. It's probably going to require copious amounts of toasted marshmallows and wine coolers, but these are risks I am willing to take, I suppose.

I am not the least bit concerned about whether Shae is going to like camping -- I think that is pretty much a given. She likes fresh air, she likes grass and trees, and already she is showing an aptitude for climbing over rocks, which is the second most popular activity in Wellesley Island State Park, after "fishing" (which is really just drowning worms, but let's not tell her that, okay?).

Actually, there's no doubt in my mind that she'll have a great time. There are lots of places to explore, and lots of swimming to be done, and we're making it a family reunion of sorts, with lots of my relatives coming along. There will be maybe half a dozen little kids there, and already I can hear the happy screeching and the laughter and the endless refrains of "The Littlest Worm."

I can say that camping was highly educational for me once. I learned to cook sunny-side-up eggs, I used an Epilady for the only time, I saw my very first dirty limerick on a bathroom wall, I caught minnows in a net, I kissed a boy, I watched my dad try to master the PogoBall. It wasn't always all bad.

And if they could figure out a place to put a tiki bar, and hire some hot young things to peel me grapes and bananas and bring them right to my campsite? Maybe we'll talk.

Hark the Herald Angels Sing

I was totally going to write this Christmas Eve post about "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost and how it's one of my very favorite poems and I think it's about Santa taking a rest for a thermos full of Irish coffee halfway through his rounds and it was going to be all pensive and thoughtful and tender and existential and English major blahblahblah but I changed my mind because I GOT SOME PRESENTS!

And even better -- they're the HOMEMADE CRAFT PROJECT KIND.

Yes, we got the usual assortment of handprint poems and construction paper stockings decorated with glitter and cotton balls and tempera paint, and those are of course awesome, but two of the gifts in particular are SPECTACULAR and right now I have to say that I am TOTALLY IN LOVE with Shae's pre-school teachers because these craft projects are pretty kick-ass.

First up:

A frickin' water globe. This is way impressive. It's so simple -- your basic water and glitter inside a Ball jar -- but it's the simplicity of it that makes it so wonderful. I mean, who doesn't love water globes? I know Shae loves playing with water globes (we've already broken two this year) so I can just imagine how much fun it was to actually make one. But it is the cute little details that make it so extra special, like the picture of Shae sealed inside the lid and the compass in the stock and this thing which tells time and the little ornament that floats inside:

I am so enamored of this thing, in fact, that I might try to make some as gifts next year, if I don't forget all about it by then. But the very best present of all is my new favorite ornament that we have put in a place of honor on the tree, up near the star:

How precious is that? A little angel made of toilet paper rolls and tinsel, with her little face on it? I mean, it's not quite the soft glow of electric sex gleaming in the window but CAN YOU IMAGINE THE ADORABILITY OF THIS THING? Sweet cracker sandwich. Now I know why, for years and years, my mother had boxes of ornaments that we made in school, carefully wrapped in tissue and newspaper, packed away in a box, kept away from everything else where it would be safe.

And that is the true Christmas miracle, right there: that I am turning into my mother a little more every day AND I DON'T EVEN CARE. Not one bit. Because you totally know I'm going to get some kind of plexiglas action-figure box to keep this ornament in, I love it so.

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In all seriousness, whatever you're doing this Christmas Eve: be careful, be safe, and most of all, be loved. Remember that we've all got miles to go before we sleep. Merry Christmas, and may God bless us, every one. xoxo.

All Is Calm

This isn't the best picture of SNOWPOCALYPSE NOW 2009!, or even the most interesting, but it is my favorite because I think it is the most Christmas-y.

Granted, this picture is grainy because it's from the iPhone instead of the Magic Faerie Unicorn Cam, but then again, some of my best memories of my best Christmases are grainy and distorted. And it kind of shows off why I like to do all-white lights on my tree: when some random stranger takes a picture of the street at night, maybe when it is snowing, the lights on the tree will twinkle and sparkle and wink and smile in that warm, welcoming, incandescent way that only white lights can.

By the time it is actually Christmas, a lot of this snow will be gone, but for one night, anyway, my neighborhood was quiet, blanketed with feathery still-falling snow, only a few sets of footprints on the sidewalks. All sound was muffled, and yet while I stood on my porch, I could still hear the gentle hum of coziness, as everyone tucked inside their homes with coffee or cocoa or hot toddies, watching a favorite Christmas movie or wrapping last-minute gifts or snuggling under ancient afghans. Being together, loving each other, safe and warm, enjoying an actual moment of Zen.

Sleep in heavenly peace.

Fake It Till You Make It

Secret confession time: I'm a total fraud.

I was in choirs and musicals throughout middle school, high school, and college. I actually auditioned for many of these things. I've sung classical Masses with organs and strings and brass quintets, a capella medieval madrigals, medleys from Broadway shows. Beethoven, Bach, Sondheim, Gilbert & Sullivan, Irving Berlin. All of it, without ever once having a "proper" voice lesson, or even without being able to read a single note of music.

My very favorite music teacher, Mr. Milisits, told me once that I lacked skill, but not talent, and that anyway, I had the most important thing of all: a real love of music. Of course, I think he said that to all his altos to keep us around, but perhaps he had a point. I can't read music, but I can hear it, and when I hear choirs singing, especially at Christmastime, I can hear the different voice parts, and I appreciate them.

Because, listen: it's hard work, being one of maybe a dozen girls trying to sing harmony over what seems like three hundred sopranos shrieking the melody with no earthly idea of the concept of volume control. Just like the rest of life, I suppose.

Mr. Milisits finally got around to retiring last year. They had a banquet for him in May or June, I forget which, but I didn't go. I hope it is not one of those things I end up forever regretting. I don't know if I ever told him, but he was one of the best teachers I had in high school. Kind of like a musical Mr. Grier -- he knew what we were capable of, even if we ourselves didn't, and he demanded nothing less that our best.

Cupcake Calendar: October

Okay, I'll come right out and admit that this calendar page is not my best work -- not in this calendar, and definitely not since. But I find these pictures very useful as a reference tool.

For one thing, that picture on the left, where Shae is dressed as a skunk? That's one of the earliest pictures we have of her, taken by her former foster family. And I'm not sure if you can tell in the small version, but if you make the image larger, you will be able to tell that Shae was ... chunk-style back then. She's a sturdy girl now, tall and strong, but nobody can call her "chunky" any more, not even after she eats three pancakes and a whole 15-ounce can of peaches for breakfast. (We think another growth spurt is coming.)

Two-thirds of these pictures are from only a year ago, and still I cannot believe how much different she looks now, and yet how much she is still the same. I've said it before, but she is definitely not a baby any more. She's too old for Blue's Clues now, but not yet ready for The Simpsons. She doesn't have the chubby cheeks, and she doesn't fit into that orange shirt any more (which is a pity, because I love that outfit), but you can already see a bit of the devil in her eyes. Which is exactly the way we love her.

Things Unnoticed At The Time

I don't remember much about the swirling days, the week or so, before my wedding. There was, as there always is, so much going on: final arrangements to be made, last-minute changes causing last-minute complications, decisions, delegations, dereliction of other duties. Too little sleep and too much caffeine, too many thoughts and too few ideas. Life happening while we were busy making other plans.

Columbine happened the week before I got married, and I don't remember hearing about it until we were in church that day. I don't remember thinking about it until we were on our honeymoon, one night in Disney World, while we were watching the news. Maybe it didn't actually happen this way, but I remember telling G: "Why didn't anybody tell me about this?" There are so many things I just don't remember.

It's nice to be on this side of things, even though this is not the first time I have been a bridesmaid since being a bride. At this point I have done all I can to help except be there to watch a woman become a wife, and all that is left to do is enjoy the ride. It will be bumpy, at moments, because wedding days always are. But those bumpy roads are the ones that, over time, become shiny cobblestone streets, interesting and meandering and endless.

While I was trying to decide what to write about for today, probably the last "good" blog entry before the big day, I kept finding all these pictures that I don't ever remember seeing. I've had these pictures for 10 years, and I swear to God, I haven't seen them all before. Kind of like life, I guess, and like marriage: the best ones are the ones that are constantly surprising. Familiarity breeds contempt, and all that.

I guess my point is -- and once in a while, I do actually have one -- who knows what my sister is going to remember about her wedding day? And really, what does it matter? My wedding day was awesome, I'm sure, but I don't remember most of it. I remember saying and hearing "I do," and that's about it. And that's okay, because one day does not make a marriage. Because life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans. And because memories are made out of things unnoticed at the time.*

All photographs by my fantastic wedding photographer, Troy Schnyder.

* From Barbara Kingsolver; wish I could take credit, but these words are hers.

WTF!? Friday PLUS Trivia: Goin' to the Chapel

A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I got married. A couple of years later, my sister got married, and I thought I even blogged about that, but I guess not because I can't find anything. Anyway. Next weekend my other sister is getting married, and since I'm in the wedding, I'll kind of be busy and stuff, so this week is Wedding Week here on The Blog.

The collage is made up of some of my favorite pictures from our wedding day -- one of these pictures I love so much and find so awesome that I framed yet another print of it and gave it to someone as a wedding present as recently as last year (hint: it's the picture on the bottom right). I guess that's kind of the "WTF!?" for this week -- "WTF do you mean, you're STILL giving out wedding pictures as presents, you cheap bint?"

So ... this week's trivia is all about weddings. Standard trivia rules apply. There will NOT be trivia next week because I will be stealing My Anonymous Mother's Ativan* in preparation for the festivities, so make this one count! Can you name ...

• Three movies with "wedding(s)" in the title
• Three songs with "wedding(s)" in the title
• Three movies with "bride(s)" in the title
• Three songs with "marriage" or "marry" (or some variation) in the title
• Two famous brides from history or pop culture
• Two famous couples who are/were married for more than 30 years
• Something old that a bride might have with her on her wedding day
• Something new that a bride might have with her on her wedding day
• Something borrowed that a bride might have with her on her wedding day
• Something blue that a bride might have with her on her wedding day

Twenty possible points -- this one should be easy. I'll post my answers after 5pm on Monday. Good luck!


* = Not true. I'll be stealing her Xanax.

WTF!? Friday PLUS Trivia: Really Bad Hair Edition

If you have welding goggles or some other kind of protective eyewear, you're going to want to put them on right about now, because jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, you are about to witness some truly bad hair. Seriously:

We could talk about the hideousness of this outfit, but I'd rather not just yet, because at the moment I am traumatized by OH MY GOD THAT FRICKIN' HAIRDO. I spent SO MANY of my formative years with my head in sponge rollers, and this is actually photographic evidence of one of the BETTER outcomes. This was considered good! Usually, my hair was flat and limp and stuck to my head within five minutes of the curlers being removed. Clearly, there was a lot of Aqua Net involved for this family portait. Or some kind of evil early Photoshop.

So, in honor of my mother's and my grandmother's dogged insistence on giving me curls (honestly, you don't even want to KNOW how many Ogilvy home perms that I had to sit through, and I actually think I've blocked at least 75% of them out, but suffice it to say that whenever I walk past a hair salon in the mall and I smell perm solution, I have 'Nam-style PTSD flashbacks), this week's trivia quiz is all about: Famous Hairdos Through The Ages. Buckle up! Can you name ...

• Three bald (or mostly bald) guys
• Three female celebrities who were known for their hairdos
• Three actors known (or reputed to be) very hairy
• Three famous haircuts
• Two actresses known for their wig lines
• Two male celebrities known for their facial hair
• Two women with weaves
• Two really awesome TV moments involving hair pulling or wig removal

Standard trivia rules apply: no Google, no cheating, no calling your stylist for hints, etc. I'll post my answers on Monday night after 5pm. Good luck!

Cupcake Calendar: July

Oh, look, we're back to this again: posting the Cupcake Calendar page when the month is more than halfway over. How do you people put up with me? I am such a slackass.

If I had to put a finger on it, I would say that part of the problem is that this page is just so ... uninspiring. I think that part of it is that my mother-in-law is here -- even though I'm not supposed to admit to it, we just don't have the best relationship, and I don't really see it getting better any time soon. "Strained" is maybe an understatement. I try, or at least I used to, but right now I don't have the patience. I know I should, for Shae's sake and for G's, but ... let's sum it up by saying that she and I are very similar in a lot of ways, and very very different in others, and even Tim Gunn couldn't make it work.

But my other issue with this particular calendar page is that I just don't recognize this little girl any more. Last month the only differences I saw were in the fullness of her face, but this month there is so much I see that I can't remember. Here she is a chunky, round, wee little thing in unfortunate orthopedic shoes; now she is a hyperactive giant string bean of a thing whizzing around like a hummingbird on Mountain Dew. The belly and the cheeks are gone. She's not a baby any more -- she's hardly even a little person. She's so different, now.

And I don't remember when it happened.

WTF!? Friday PLUS Trivia: August 1984

The picture you are about to see is real. It has not been altered in any way (except for cropping). It is, in a word, horrifying. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED:

This picture is featured on "WTF!? Friday" this week because of two questions that came to mind when I saw this in an old photo album: (1) why oh why oh GOD IN HEAVEN WHY did our parents allow us to leave the house at any point while we were dressed like this?, and also (2) what exactly are the kids these days smoking that fashions from the 1980's are "in" again? I've got news for you, kiddos -- those clothes were awful the first time. "Reimagining" them doesn't make them any less hideous.

Anyway ... according to the date stamp on the back of this photo, it was taken in August 1984. I'm pretty sure this picture was taken in the 1000 Islands, although I could be mistaken. But I think I recognize that rock. I'm in the back, in the middle, and my husband continues to demand answers as to why anyone thought a perm was a good look for me. I still don't know. Clearly I was pissed off about it, even then.

In honor of the craptaculartude of this picture, I have decided to force all of you to relive unpleasant memories of bad hair and bad fashions as well. Oh yes, it's TRIVIA TIME! Can you remember what was going on back then? I sure hope so! Can you name ...

• Three movies from 1984
• Two TV shows from 1984
• Three Top 40 songs from 1984
• Two famous political people from 1984
• Three Olympians from 1984
• Two cartoons from 1984
• Three "world events" from 1984
• Two bestselling books from 1984

It's OK and in fact encouraged to think outside the box on #7 -- your definition of "world event" and mine might be different (mine are admittedly nerd-oriented). Standard trivia rules apply (don't Google, or don't let me find out about it). Twenty possible points total. I'll post my answers on Monday.

I am telling you: 1984 was pretty much bad all around (although my answers to #7 are pretty awesome, if I may say so myself).

Congenital Bribery

When we were kids, my grandparents and parents and aunts and uncles used to throw money into the pool. Whether it is was for our amusement or theirs -- "how much money are these kids willing to risk drowning for?"* -- I still don't know. But it is either refreshing or horrifying or both that my daughter is susceptible to the same trickery. In shallow water, of course; we're not barbarians.

* = In truth, the answer is $0 -- we dove for quoits. For free. We're insane.