I am so queasy. I did really well at work and only had half of a Butterfinger from the Customer Appreciation stash. But when I got home the abdomenal onslaught began. I had a Frito chili pie. This is a long-standing Fiacre family tradition which goes way back as far as I can remember - FCPs on Halloween night before you go trick-or-treating. I am constantly dumbstruck by the number of people who don't know what Frito Chili Pie is, by the way, including Southwesterners like my wife and my neighbor. It is not made out of Wolf or Hormel or any other canned chili. You have to make the chili yourself. That canned stuff is gross. It is also not made in a pyrex dish in layers. It's simple. You make chili, you get a little bag of Fritos - you could use a Big Grab bag, but I wouldn't advise it - smash them up, pour a couple of scoops of chili in the bag, throw in onions and cheese, stir it up and dine exquisitely. These are especially good at high school football games when your hands are freezing and the warm chili bag keeps them warm. OK, so I had a FCP. Then a regular serving of chili in a bowl. Then a pack of Smarties from our giveaway candy.
By now Killer and I have hit the road t-o-t'ing. She's a unique version of Cleopatra. A blue dress with gold rickrack, and eyes decorated in the classic Egyptian way. But she's got much yellower hair and eyeglasses which I never saw on Cleo. But it worked for her and it didn't cost anything, so that works for me. Anyway, I had an Island Orange Mounds bar from her bag. I don't know why I ate this. I mean I like dark chocolate and orange, but why I ate this piratey looking thing with coconut, I do not know. I didn't detect any orange flavoring at all. OK, then a little pack of Skittles. After making a run around our block, we had to come back so that SGK could get a drink and we consolidated her booty. At this point YHWH handed me a tankard of hot cider spiked with a generous portion of Napoleon brandy to cut the chill of the night air. Then I took SGK and our neighbor out for another raid and upon our return we found our old neighbors had decided to drop in on us from all the way out in Edmond. They missed sharing our annual Fiacre family tradition Frito Chili Pies. So I had a Shiner Bock beer they brought along with them. Then I had an Oh Henry bar, a dark choclate KitKat, and a Twix - all tiny-size, mind you. Then I had two small bite size dark choclates to cap it all off.
I had to eat those last two things because they were the last of the good candy left and I felt like I had to horde. It was my own fault, really, because I sat each of the four kids in the living room floor and taught them how to bargain for candy they wanted from each other's stashes. That was always my favorite part of Halloween. So I got the kids started on that and then went into the kitchen with the adults (they let me hang with them) and when I peeked in on them a little while later, I saw that SGK had bargained away all of her chocolate for -- taffy. I have failed somewhere along the way. And what the hell are people doing giving out taffy at Halloween in the first place?
I'm going to pay for all this in the morning I fear.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Candy-O, I Need You
Ugh, I hate Halloween at the library. Unfortunately, it coincides with Customer Appreciation Month and a tradition has evolved here which involves leaving bowls of candy at all public service points. I will avoid rumination on the use of the word customer in a library context as I do value my livelihood, but many people (both customer and employee) are often confused about what exactly we appreciate in October. A brightsider might say that we appreciate the tax revenue tossed our way, and we certainly do, but the jaded would counter that the people who use our particular agency don't appear to be contributors to our millage coffers. Then there's the realist who would say that we appreciate your coming in for free internet and candy so that we can have jobs.
But that's all beside the point. The reason I hate Halloween at the library is the agonizing drip, drip, Chinese water totrture of giving out that stupid candy. Budding anthropologists need to come out and study this annual ritual. Normally, there's a mass of about 30 people waiting to get in when we open. The first bowl does not survive this initial ravishing by the sweet-starved locusts. And once it's refilled, the fun begins. Some people come by and grab as much as they can in one dip, supermarket spree-style. Others mill around the desk making small talk or proposing fake queries and for them I kindly turn away under the pretext of getting something out a drawer or dropping a pencil so that they can snatch a nugget of nougat without having to interact with me on the subject. Then there is The Addict, of whom there are many in residence, who cannot stop themselves once they have taken that first chomp on a Butterfinger. They take one and practically inhale it as they walk away. Seconds later, they are back, hands shaking as they try and hurriedly unwrap it. This goes on for several minutes or until we say, "Take a couple - for the road," and they move on. Then there are those, usually women, who very politley ask may they have one piece. And then may they have one for their husband? Son? Daughter? Niece from out of town? Invalid neighbor? I want to scream, "Just take the whole g-d bowl and have done with it!"
I'm not without pity. I know that most of these people live on wholesome, but tasteless, shelter food and what money they panhandle goes to meth and Jack. But it's really sad to watch these base human behaviors - like children - acted out over what I consider to be a trifle. Perspectivizing, I realize that many of them probably never were children or at least had a childhood approaching anything near that of my children. More than being broke, they are what my mom used to call "poor of spirit". I wish I knew how fix that. I really do.
But that's all beside the point. The reason I hate Halloween at the library is the agonizing drip, drip, Chinese water totrture of giving out that stupid candy. Budding anthropologists need to come out and study this annual ritual. Normally, there's a mass of about 30 people waiting to get in when we open. The first bowl does not survive this initial ravishing by the sweet-starved locusts. And once it's refilled, the fun begins. Some people come by and grab as much as they can in one dip, supermarket spree-style. Others mill around the desk making small talk or proposing fake queries and for them I kindly turn away under the pretext of getting something out a drawer or dropping a pencil so that they can snatch a nugget of nougat without having to interact with me on the subject. Then there is The Addict, of whom there are many in residence, who cannot stop themselves once they have taken that first chomp on a Butterfinger. They take one and practically inhale it as they walk away. Seconds later, they are back, hands shaking as they try and hurriedly unwrap it. This goes on for several minutes or until we say, "Take a couple - for the road," and they move on. Then there are those, usually women, who very politley ask may they have one piece. And then may they have one for their husband? Son? Daughter? Niece from out of town? Invalid neighbor? I want to scream, "Just take the whole g-d bowl and have done with it!"
I'm not without pity. I know that most of these people live on wholesome, but tasteless, shelter food and what money they panhandle goes to meth and Jack. But it's really sad to watch these base human behaviors - like children - acted out over what I consider to be a trifle. Perspectivizing, I realize that many of them probably never were children or at least had a childhood approaching anything near that of my children. More than being broke, they are what my mom used to call "poor of spirit". I wish I knew how fix that. I really do.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Goin' to the Chapel
Finally, day three. Just a note, first, tho. I only have pictures of buildings and cityscapes. We are supposed to get a CD of the partypics which will have more pics of interest to those who commented their requests.
We split up on Sunday. At 10:00am, Mimi came for Super Giant Killer and they hailed a cab and whisked away to American Girl Place on 5th Avenue. Mimi had made a deal with her that if she practiced exceptional finishing school manners she would be rewarded with a spree there and she really was a sparkling little angel the whole time. She got to bring Kit with her and they got matching letter jackets and Kit got some Converse hi-tops and crazy socks. That is sacrilege to hardcore AG freaks because she is dressing 'out of time', but SGK doesn't care. Then they spent the day getting hair and nails done on Park Avenue.
Meanwhile, YHWH and I took C. F. Kats on the Uptown Loop of the sightseeing bus. We got to see all the ornate French Renaissance buildings and Harlem. It was a nice relaxing trip of about 2.5 hours. About the only thing we really did that day was visit the MoMA and we shopped in a couple of little boutiques and an international grocery. MoMa is pretty pricey at $20 each, but every work in there is by a 'namebrand' artist, and most of them are the biggies like Starry Night and the Campbell's Soup Cans and Persistence of Memory, etc.
Then came the great hour. Time to get dressed for the Main Event - Wedding Part Three. The second iterations of the fancy dresses were donned and I put on my average looking gray suit, but I did wear a red tie with eyeglasses on it. Only later did I realize that I was to have worn a dark suit to a wedding. No one made a big deal of it, though. I made the fatal mistake of so many honest men and fell for the question, "How do I look?" No, actually, I was just trying to bring levity to the rather tense three-people-dressing-in-a-small-space scenario. So, I said that C.F. Kats' blouse made her look like a pirate and that YHWH's dress looked like something Mrs. Roper would wear. They weren't amused. But they were just ravishing anyway.
The third wedding was in NYAC itself, so we got there with no hitches. This ceremony was still not something to which I am accustomed. I don't know if it was because it was Catholic or Argentine or what. Evenso, I'm very tolerant of other cultures and customs - I even went to a lesbian wedding back in the early 90s before it was cool (or legal) - so I'm not judging it negatively. One thing I noticed was that there was still more speechifying. The father of the bride got up and read off a list of names of people who came all the way from Dubai and Argentina again just like the rehearsal dinner and then we all applauded. I was kind of thinking that if I wanted to know who was there, I would just go look at the guest book. Actually, we applauded lots of things at the urging of the priest. I'd never heard of wedding applause and it did make the solemn proceedings I'm used to seem a little riotous at times. Of course, SGK did a great job strewing flower petals around in the wake of the bride's steps. There were also lay readings by family members and I'm not used to that, either. That whole thing was pretty painless, though.
The hard part came when the ceremony was over and we had yet another open bar with cheese and hors d'oeuvres (I hope I got that right, I'm too lazy to look it up). I say hard because I was starving again having only had a knish from a stand in the street for nourishment all day and I was waiting in line for my gin and tonic and cheese when I was summoned away for family photos. Endless permutations of "now just the uncles", "let's have everyone over five feet", "all people born on Wednesdays!" were assembled for photos and each lineup was taken with about six cameras and two or three lighting scenarios each. So I had to endure all of that without alcohol assist. Speaking of which, once I had a drink in hand, I let C.F.Kats have a taste hoping that it would discourage her from partaking too soon. She was suitably disgusted by the taste, so hopefully it worked. The coolest part of this phase was when YHWH's uncle (the same from the previous night's speech) sat down next to the piano player, who had just played "Ode to Joy" and "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" moments before, and taught him to play "Boomer Sooner".
At this point another unusual development occured. We were all asked to sit down at our tables for dinner (again, most receptions I've been to do not have dinner). But the food was not forthcoming. And once again, it was about 7:00 and I was starving. So, we all sat down and the dj started playing some anthemic Kool and the Gang or Raydio song and he belts out these booming introductions of the parents of the couple and each of the flower girls. Kind of had the feel of one of those pro wrestling introductions. And then the dj takes over the whole reception and starts playing dance music and we're all supposed to dance. OK. We're starving. Doesn't the dancing come after the dinner? But I'm cool with that. I've had two drinks and some champagne.
Everyone knew I was shy and reserved and would mope over at my table with Big Time Book Editor, but since that was what's expected of me, I did the opposite. I grabbed C. F. Kats and we danced the odd tangoish dance of people who can't dance, then I goofed around with SGK, then I danced with YHWH's sister, then I danced with YHWH's stepmom, and finally I did a Saturday Night Fever routine with YHWH when "Stayin' Alive" came on. Killer was all over that dance floor and in fact, the whole night she wouldn't have anything to do with her family. She wouldn't talk to us or dance with us or anything. She wanted Book Editor and family to adopt her. We did get to see some tipsy dancers fall over, tho, and C. F. Kats got some sage advice from a disgruntled woman hiding in the bathroom from her husband.
We finally got to eat appetizers at 8:30 - shrimp on a bed of some really gross cold grey noodles. No thanks. Then the entrees came out at 9:30. Filet again! And still no bacon. It was ok, but nothing to write home about. Dessert was wedding cake and it was pretty standard fare, even though the couple was too prim to smash the cake in each others faces. Bad sign...
So that was it. Final thoughts - it wasn't that bad. Once I accepted the absurdity of the entire enterprise and just let go, it was fine. I got rave reviews again, this time from the top, so I felt pretty good about it. I even got a verbal invitation to the brother-of-the-bride's wedding in Minnesota in May.
We split up on Sunday. At 10:00am, Mimi came for Super Giant Killer and they hailed a cab and whisked away to American Girl Place on 5th Avenue. Mimi had made a deal with her that if she practiced exceptional finishing school manners she would be rewarded with a spree there and she really was a sparkling little angel the whole time. She got to bring Kit with her and they got matching letter jackets and Kit got some Converse hi-tops and crazy socks. That is sacrilege to hardcore AG freaks because she is dressing 'out of time', but SGK doesn't care. Then they spent the day getting hair and nails done on Park Avenue.
Meanwhile, YHWH and I took C. F. Kats on the Uptown Loop of the sightseeing bus. We got to see all the ornate French Renaissance buildings and Harlem. It was a nice relaxing trip of about 2.5 hours. About the only thing we really did that day was visit the MoMA and we shopped in a couple of little boutiques and an international grocery. MoMa is pretty pricey at $20 each, but every work in there is by a 'namebrand' artist, and most of them are the biggies like Starry Night and the Campbell's Soup Cans and Persistence of Memory, etc.
Then came the great hour. Time to get dressed for the Main Event - Wedding Part Three. The second iterations of the fancy dresses were donned and I put on my average looking gray suit, but I did wear a red tie with eyeglasses on it. Only later did I realize that I was to have worn a dark suit to a wedding. No one made a big deal of it, though. I made the fatal mistake of so many honest men and fell for the question, "How do I look?" No, actually, I was just trying to bring levity to the rather tense three-people-dressing-in-a-small-space scenario. So, I said that C.F. Kats' blouse made her look like a pirate and that YHWH's dress looked like something Mrs. Roper would wear. They weren't amused. But they were just ravishing anyway.
The third wedding was in NYAC itself, so we got there with no hitches. This ceremony was still not something to which I am accustomed. I don't know if it was because it was Catholic or Argentine or what. Evenso, I'm very tolerant of other cultures and customs - I even went to a lesbian wedding back in the early 90s before it was cool (or legal) - so I'm not judging it negatively. One thing I noticed was that there was still more speechifying. The father of the bride got up and read off a list of names of people who came all the way from Dubai and Argentina again just like the rehearsal dinner and then we all applauded. I was kind of thinking that if I wanted to know who was there, I would just go look at the guest book. Actually, we applauded lots of things at the urging of the priest. I'd never heard of wedding applause and it did make the solemn proceedings I'm used to seem a little riotous at times. Of course, SGK did a great job strewing flower petals around in the wake of the bride's steps. There were also lay readings by family members and I'm not used to that, either. That whole thing was pretty painless, though.
The hard part came when the ceremony was over and we had yet another open bar with cheese and hors d'oeuvres (I hope I got that right, I'm too lazy to look it up). I say hard because I was starving again having only had a knish from a stand in the street for nourishment all day and I was waiting in line for my gin and tonic and cheese when I was summoned away for family photos. Endless permutations of "now just the uncles", "let's have everyone over five feet", "all people born on Wednesdays!" were assembled for photos and each lineup was taken with about six cameras and two or three lighting scenarios each. So I had to endure all of that without alcohol assist. Speaking of which, once I had a drink in hand, I let C.F.Kats have a taste hoping that it would discourage her from partaking too soon. She was suitably disgusted by the taste, so hopefully it worked. The coolest part of this phase was when YHWH's uncle (the same from the previous night's speech) sat down next to the piano player, who had just played "Ode to Joy" and "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" moments before, and taught him to play "Boomer Sooner".
At this point another unusual development occured. We were all asked to sit down at our tables for dinner (again, most receptions I've been to do not have dinner). But the food was not forthcoming. And once again, it was about 7:00 and I was starving. So, we all sat down and the dj started playing some anthemic Kool and the Gang or Raydio song and he belts out these booming introductions of the parents of the couple and each of the flower girls. Kind of had the feel of one of those pro wrestling introductions. And then the dj takes over the whole reception and starts playing dance music and we're all supposed to dance. OK. We're starving. Doesn't the dancing come after the dinner? But I'm cool with that. I've had two drinks and some champagne.
Everyone knew I was shy and reserved and would mope over at my table with Big Time Book Editor, but since that was what's expected of me, I did the opposite. I grabbed C. F. Kats and we danced the odd tangoish dance of people who can't dance, then I goofed around with SGK, then I danced with YHWH's sister, then I danced with YHWH's stepmom, and finally I did a Saturday Night Fever routine with YHWH when "Stayin' Alive" came on. Killer was all over that dance floor and in fact, the whole night she wouldn't have anything to do with her family. She wouldn't talk to us or dance with us or anything. She wanted Book Editor and family to adopt her. We did get to see some tipsy dancers fall over, tho, and C. F. Kats got some sage advice from a disgruntled woman hiding in the bathroom from her husband.
We finally got to eat appetizers at 8:30 - shrimp on a bed of some really gross cold grey noodles. No thanks. Then the entrees came out at 9:30. Filet again! And still no bacon. It was ok, but nothing to write home about. Dessert was wedding cake and it was pretty standard fare, even though the couple was too prim to smash the cake in each others faces. Bad sign...
So that was it. Final thoughts - it wasn't that bad. Once I accepted the absurdity of the entire enterprise and just let go, it was fine. I got rave reviews again, this time from the top, so I felt pretty good about it. I even got a verbal invitation to the brother-of-the-bride's wedding in Minnesota in May.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Saturday In The Park
On Saturday, we didn't have any committments until 8:00pm when we were all to meet up at Tavern on the Green for the rehearsal dinner, even though the charming couple had already been married twice already and a rehearsal seemed a moot point. But we must do the proper thing if we are to do anything at all.
So YHWH and I decided to take the girls on one of the double decker sightseeing buses which prowl around the city. We weighed several activity options at first, but we thought this would be a comfortable, safe way for them to see the whole island and pick out things they liked that we could go back to. First we had to navigate our sortie from the NYAC. It is possible for one to wear humane clothing and still enter and exit the building. I called the day before we left to be sure that a secret exit passage existed and brought my tennis shoes and jeans for our daily activities. What you do is take the special secret atheltic elevator down to the third floor and then leave the elevator lobby and amble down a hallway until you find a stairwell marked 'C'. Then take the stairs down to the first level and you can go out the back door. They make it a hassle, but I was glad to have the option.
We had some good bagels to start the day and then made the short walk down 7th Ave to Times Square in order to catch the tour bus. It was very nice and crisp - upper 40s - to start out and we made a brisk walk to several tour stops in order to get the best spot on the bus. C. F. Kats appeared overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of Times Square, so we were reassured in our decision to go easy at first. It was almost like LA oddly enough. At Times Square we saw a car commercial being filmed. Then down by the Flatiron Building we saw Will Smith and crew filming (I later learned) I Am Legend. We got to see some burned out vehicles and trash and all around disasterish looking sets. We got to see a stunt as well where the crew spun a new Mustang around in the middle of the street; saw a bluescreen on the hood, tho, so I guess the zombies will be added later. And still further on we saw a 'model shoot'; some kind of ad I guess. Our only departures were a walk down to Battery Park for a view of the Statue of Liberty and a promenade around the South Street Seaport.
Finally, we got off the bus at St. Patricks Cathedral and walked up 5th Avenue. This walk was like the scenes you see in movies as it was just packed with people. C.F. Kats wasn't too happy with that either. After a quick lunch at Trump Plaza we went on up 5th to Central Park Zoo to see the penguins and polar bears. Finally, it was time to head back to NYAC to dress for Tavern on the Green. But, on the way there we passed Jennifer Anniston and a couple of friends. After their first day in NYC, SGK thought she could stay forever and C.F. Kats was certain she couldn't.
We got back to the room with about an hour to spare and began the frenzy to 'get ready' for the dinner. I wore khaki pants, a black dress shirt and a black and tan checked coat with a 15 cent skinny electric blue tie from a thrift store complete with my monogram in gold. YHWH and C. F. Kats had fancy party dresses and SGK had a pink and black velvet number. We did clean up good, I must admit. We were told to take a cab down to Tavern and not to be late. However, just before we leave the room, we get a call from YHWH's folks that 'you'll never get a cab'. We found this odd that the swankiest part of NYC would want for cabs on Saturday night, but we prepared to walk the six blocks through Central Park. So we get down to the lobby and the bellboy says there are tons of cabs (like we thought). But then we see YHWH's brothers waiting down there for their wives. YHWH mentioned we were going to grab a cab and see them there and they began scoffing at her for taking a '20 minute cab ride instead of a 10 minute walk'. It's pretty sad to watch that family operate. They must be pretty insecure if they think it makes them look macho to goad their older sister into walking through Central Park at night with her children in tow. So we walked. It was a nice walk, tho. Guess who we saw milling around the bar when we walked in? The brothers and their wives - they took a cab because the wives wouldn't deign to walk through the park. Pretty sad.
So it's 8:00pm and we have the open bar with cheese in the Rafters Room first. This was the mingle portion of the night and I was forced into small talk, which I hate. The room we inhabited was long and narrow and replete with mirors and twinkling chandeliers. It was quite tacky in an out-of-touch Victorian sort of way. Here also one of the odd phenomena of the whole weekend began to play out. For some reason, the whole weekend was focused on where everyone was from. Generally, I don't mind this and in fact, I put a lot of stake in where people are from. However, in this case, we practically wore scarlet panhandles on our shirts as all anyone could talk to us about was OU football and cows and flatness. The whole room was full of either New Yorkers or Argentinians and that's all they could come up with. And that is one of my lifelong peeves with New York and foreigners in general (frequently said of Americans abroad, no doubt) is that they purport to be so superior because of where they live (in the case of NYCers) or because they can speak 10 languages (in the case of the Argentines) and yet they are so insular and sadly ignorant of anywhere but where they live or where they vacation. It was like a quiz: "Where are you from?" "Oklahoma." "Oh. Football and oil, right?" "Ding! You got me there! Ten points for you!" I wanted to start saying, "Argentina - ass kicked in the Falklands, right?" or "200% inflation, right?" or "Gunning people down in soccer stadiums, right?" But you know, you can't win when you do that.
So, I had only eaten a dog from one of the street vendors all day and here it was 9:00. My two Tanqueray and tonics on an empty stomach were getting to me, but I stood fast. We finally were seated a little after 9:00. Blessed be, there was a roll there waiting for me. We were seated as a family plus YHWH's sister and a couple from -- Canada. Somebody up there likes me. No, really, they were about the only real people we met even though they didn't know anything about Oklahoma, except that Frank Keating was in the guy's law firm. I was sure we would get to eat then, but no, there had to be speeches made and apparently it's bad form to eat while people are speechifying. One speech was great, tho. YHWH's uncle was raised the son of a doctor in a medium-sized town in Oklahoma, went to military school, was in a fraternity, and has held high-powered jobs in Boston, Washington, and Los Angeles. He's no stranger to these things. So, after all these speeches about Argentina and French people from Dubai and on and on, he gets up and makes an unscheduled speech. It was awesome. To paraphrase, he said, "All this talk about foreign places is well and good. But the bride has chosen to become an Okie and we welcome her into our hearts and homes!" All us Okies (except YHWH's immediates) let out a, whoop and the bride's family got a big kick out of it. He really brought the house down.
So, we sat through about 10 trips down memory lane before the first course came out - at 9:50. It was a large bowl with three small raviolis in it that reminded me of our Franco-American lunches at daycare. We got to choose whether we wanted duck or filet mignon for our entree which was served at 10:30pm. I went for the filet which was definitely the right call because everyone who got the duck said it was horrible and could not even be cut much less chewed. I was kind of bummed about the filet because it came without the nice bacon wrap for added flavor. But hey, what do you want for $175? Later, our Canadian tablemate let on that Tavern isn't known for it's food. This I concurred with as I took my first bite of half-frozen strudel for dessert. But those gin and tonics were really, really good.
So at a little before midnight we got up to leave. After I paid the $8 to get our coats back, I noticed that there was a line of about 30 people to get cabs. So we decided to brave it and walk back, although we went down Central Park West (aka 8th Ave) instead of through the Park. We saw a few street people, but it was safe.
By the way I got rave reviews for my dashing look and charming personality. No, I'm not kidding. I just said I hate going to stuff like that, I didn't say I wasn't good at it!
And that was day two.
So YHWH and I decided to take the girls on one of the double decker sightseeing buses which prowl around the city. We weighed several activity options at first, but we thought this would be a comfortable, safe way for them to see the whole island and pick out things they liked that we could go back to. First we had to navigate our sortie from the NYAC. It is possible for one to wear humane clothing and still enter and exit the building. I called the day before we left to be sure that a secret exit passage existed and brought my tennis shoes and jeans for our daily activities. What you do is take the special secret atheltic elevator down to the third floor and then leave the elevator lobby and amble down a hallway until you find a stairwell marked 'C'. Then take the stairs down to the first level and you can go out the back door. They make it a hassle, but I was glad to have the option.
We had some good bagels to start the day and then made the short walk down 7th Ave to Times Square in order to catch the tour bus. It was very nice and crisp - upper 40s - to start out and we made a brisk walk to several tour stops in order to get the best spot on the bus. C. F. Kats appeared overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of Times Square, so we were reassured in our decision to go easy at first. It was almost like LA oddly enough. At Times Square we saw a car commercial being filmed. Then down by the Flatiron Building we saw Will Smith and crew filming (I later learned) I Am Legend. We got to see some burned out vehicles and trash and all around disasterish looking sets. We got to see a stunt as well where the crew spun a new Mustang around in the middle of the street; saw a bluescreen on the hood, tho, so I guess the zombies will be added later. And still further on we saw a 'model shoot'; some kind of ad I guess. Our only departures were a walk down to Battery Park for a view of the Statue of Liberty and a promenade around the South Street Seaport.
Finally, we got off the bus at St. Patricks Cathedral and walked up 5th Avenue. This walk was like the scenes you see in movies as it was just packed with people. C.F. Kats wasn't too happy with that either. After a quick lunch at Trump Plaza we went on up 5th to Central Park Zoo to see the penguins and polar bears. Finally, it was time to head back to NYAC to dress for Tavern on the Green. But, on the way there we passed Jennifer Anniston and a couple of friends. After their first day in NYC, SGK thought she could stay forever and C.F. Kats was certain she couldn't.
We got back to the room with about an hour to spare and began the frenzy to 'get ready' for the dinner. I wore khaki pants, a black dress shirt and a black and tan checked coat with a 15 cent skinny electric blue tie from a thrift store complete with my monogram in gold. YHWH and C. F. Kats had fancy party dresses and SGK had a pink and black velvet number. We did clean up good, I must admit. We were told to take a cab down to Tavern and not to be late. However, just before we leave the room, we get a call from YHWH's folks that 'you'll never get a cab'. We found this odd that the swankiest part of NYC would want for cabs on Saturday night, but we prepared to walk the six blocks through Central Park. So we get down to the lobby and the bellboy says there are tons of cabs (like we thought). But then we see YHWH's brothers waiting down there for their wives. YHWH mentioned we were going to grab a cab and see them there and they began scoffing at her for taking a '20 minute cab ride instead of a 10 minute walk'. It's pretty sad to watch that family operate. They must be pretty insecure if they think it makes them look macho to goad their older sister into walking through Central Park at night with her children in tow. So we walked. It was a nice walk, tho. Guess who we saw milling around the bar when we walked in? The brothers and their wives - they took a cab because the wives wouldn't deign to walk through the park. Pretty sad.
So it's 8:00pm and we have the open bar with cheese in the Rafters Room first. This was the mingle portion of the night and I was forced into small talk, which I hate. The room we inhabited was long and narrow and replete with mirors and twinkling chandeliers. It was quite tacky in an out-of-touch Victorian sort of way. Here also one of the odd phenomena of the whole weekend began to play out. For some reason, the whole weekend was focused on where everyone was from. Generally, I don't mind this and in fact, I put a lot of stake in where people are from. However, in this case, we practically wore scarlet panhandles on our shirts as all anyone could talk to us about was OU football and cows and flatness. The whole room was full of either New Yorkers or Argentinians and that's all they could come up with. And that is one of my lifelong peeves with New York and foreigners in general (frequently said of Americans abroad, no doubt) is that they purport to be so superior because of where they live (in the case of NYCers) or because they can speak 10 languages (in the case of the Argentines) and yet they are so insular and sadly ignorant of anywhere but where they live or where they vacation. It was like a quiz: "Where are you from?" "Oklahoma." "Oh. Football and oil, right?" "Ding! You got me there! Ten points for you!" I wanted to start saying, "Argentina - ass kicked in the Falklands, right?" or "200% inflation, right?" or "Gunning people down in soccer stadiums, right?" But you know, you can't win when you do that.
So, I had only eaten a dog from one of the street vendors all day and here it was 9:00. My two Tanqueray and tonics on an empty stomach were getting to me, but I stood fast. We finally were seated a little after 9:00. Blessed be, there was a roll there waiting for me. We were seated as a family plus YHWH's sister and a couple from -- Canada. Somebody up there likes me. No, really, they were about the only real people we met even though they didn't know anything about Oklahoma, except that Frank Keating was in the guy's law firm. I was sure we would get to eat then, but no, there had to be speeches made and apparently it's bad form to eat while people are speechifying. One speech was great, tho. YHWH's uncle was raised the son of a doctor in a medium-sized town in Oklahoma, went to military school, was in a fraternity, and has held high-powered jobs in Boston, Washington, and Los Angeles. He's no stranger to these things. So, after all these speeches about Argentina and French people from Dubai and on and on, he gets up and makes an unscheduled speech. It was awesome. To paraphrase, he said, "All this talk about foreign places is well and good. But the bride has chosen to become an Okie and we welcome her into our hearts and homes!" All us Okies (except YHWH's immediates) let out a, whoop and the bride's family got a big kick out of it. He really brought the house down.
So, we sat through about 10 trips down memory lane before the first course came out - at 9:50. It was a large bowl with three small raviolis in it that reminded me of our Franco-American lunches at daycare. We got to choose whether we wanted duck or filet mignon for our entree which was served at 10:30pm. I went for the filet which was definitely the right call because everyone who got the duck said it was horrible and could not even be cut much less chewed. I was kind of bummed about the filet because it came without the nice bacon wrap for added flavor. But hey, what do you want for $175? Later, our Canadian tablemate let on that Tavern isn't known for it's food. This I concurred with as I took my first bite of half-frozen strudel for dessert. But those gin and tonics were really, really good.
So at a little before midnight we got up to leave. After I paid the $8 to get our coats back, I noticed that there was a line of about 30 people to get cabs. So we decided to brave it and walk back, although we went down Central Park West (aka 8th Ave) instead of through the Park. We saw a few street people, but it was safe.
By the way I got rave reviews for my dashing look and charming personality. No, I'm not kidding. I just said I hate going to stuff like that, I didn't say I wasn't good at it!
And that was day two.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Gonna Take That Big White Bird
We are back, the home come heroes. As a small glimpse of how it went, let me first explain that I was not able to update because the luxurious climes in which we were perched charged 75 cents per minute for internet access and even if we'd brought our laptop, we would've been charged 1.00 per minute. I'm sorry, I simply cannot type fast enough to keep it under a monthly paycheck.
I know this is going to be a long post and reading it will be something like watching the much cliched slideshow of someone else's vacation, so you may want to stop here...
The day before we left, we were scurrying around trying to complete our wardrobes, but we finally got it together. Just as I was going to sleep on Thursday, I remembered my last post about my sister's wedding being a true community affair and I realized that this one was, too. Tex loaned me her garment bag; Mr. Tex graciously surrendered his overcoat; Rawdog offered loafers to smooth out the comfy flying attire/easy checkpoint removal/dress code approved footwear problem; Purple Bunny offered sturdy suitcases; Overcoat prepped us on easy airport transitions and transportation and Adjective Queen even gave us a ride to the airport on her day off! And everyone wished us well. So thanks, for being such a nice community everybody!
So, first thing in the morning on Friday, we reenacted the frantic family-to-the-airport scene from Home Alone, tho on a much smaller scale. We were packed the night before, but you still always have those little things here and there; it came off pretty well, tho. I jumped up and quickly got ready and heated some water for instant coffee and oatmeal. Then I helped Super Giant Killer get dressed - brown pin-striped suit pants with gold belt, brown spandex shirt, and pearls - and we just ate breakfast and watched the frenzy reach crescendo until -knock, knock - the Queen was at the door. We got all loaded and pulled away but before we got to the main road, I had to stop. I am in no way OCD, but I am a 'checker' (it's because our house was broken into when I was little and I have never really gotten over it). In all the flurry, I couldn't remember turning off the stove when I heated the water and I had to go back and make sure. The Queen was so nice, although I know I will never live it down.
We got there in plenty of time and got through security just fine. But it soon became obvious to me that I was now old and the times have a-changed. One of the first things I noticed while watching our plane being prepared was that most of the ground crew looked like they had just returned to work from shooting a Kid Rock video and still others may have been at an X-Games event. Where once I watched guys in smart service-type uniforms waving their fluorescent signal lights, I now saw dudes in baggy pants, dreads, and Phish t-shirts whipping around in baggage trucks and refueling planes. Biased on my part to be sure, as here I was complaining about the dress code to which I had to defer, but I still say I'd rather it look like Air Force personnel were prepping my plane than wiggers.
Likewise, I would like to think some former USAF guys are flying the plane. Our 'equipment' out of OKC was one of those Embraer RJ things (aka a flying pencil) and it was full and cramped. I hate those little things. So, we're getting ready to leave and our pilot gets on and he sounds like he's 15. He tells us he's Matt and our co-pilot is Chris. I'm sorry, 'Matt and Chris' sound like two dudes cruising around in a tricked out Mustang, not flying me to Chicago. I want 'Robert and Edward' or better yet, 'Walter and Jack'.
So we start our takeoff and just as we get airborne, SGK squeals, "This is awesome! I've never been this happy in my life!" So, that was worth it. Then the flight attendant announces snacks can be purchased, including cashews for $2. SGK is deathly allergic to cashews. So I turned to YHWH, "did you bring her epipen?" Neither one of us brought it. We sort of panicked because she could die before they could land the plane if she'd gotten a small whiff of cashew dust. So YHWH asked the attendant if she could refrain from serving them, and she didn't want to do it, but she said she would (she even admitted frankly that since they are something the airline makes money on, she isn't allowed to not sell them). It's American Eagle by the way, for anyone who needs to know that they still serve things that can kill people. When we switched to American Airlines in Chicago, we told the crew and they laughed and said they quit serving allergens a long time ago and thought it was stupid for American Eagle to serve them. By the way, on the last leg of our return trip we were back on American Eagle and we told them ahead of time about the allergy and the attendant refused to refrain from selling cashews and said, "We've already told people they can have them! We can't tell them they can't have them now!" Once again, folks that's American Eagle. So, we just begged people around us to not eat their cashews if at all possible and thankfully the three people who purchased a snack pack agreed not to eat their cashews.
Once in Chicago, we had 10 minutes to change planes, which was great. But upon arrival at our gate we learned that rain in the east had cause a ripple effect in the traffic pattern and we were pushed back almost two hours. No problem. You can kill a few hours in the airport. But then we get this phone call. YHWH's folks were letting us know to come straight to their room for a champagne and cheese meet-and-greet in their suite so that the two families can get acquainted. Excuse me, aren't we already going to two weddings, a dinner and a reception? Besides, we already had plans to take the girls to a theme restaurant like Hard Rock or Jekyll and Hyde that first night. So we kicked our dread up a notch there in Chicago.
Eventually, we get to board our flight to LaGuardia, but since the traffic jam still existed on the east coast and an arrival needed our gate, we got to sit on the apron for about an hour and a half waiting to taxi! In front of us was a middle-aged couple from Milwacky who were apparently making their first trip without the kids and their first big weekend getaway to New York. What great fortune befell them as they found themselves seated next to a blowhard who, though not a New yorker himself, knew everything about the city. The Gotham Bloviate regaled them with tales of the wonderous nightlife, rundowns on each and every neighborhood and what to do there. On and on for the four hours it took to get to NYC. All the while the corduroy sport-coated male kept insturcting his secretary/wife to "write that down" whenever the Gotham Bloviate imparted tell of a particularly shiny gem. The Gotham Bloviate was not actually that onoxious by nature, thankfully, and what struck me most was the apparent unpreparedness of this seemingly uptight couple. Do they not have libraries in Milwacky? Or bookstores? Was it that hard to find a guidebook? I thought they might have just been playing nice, but they seemed really uneducated on the subject.
We finally made our approach to LaGuardia about 2.5 hours late, but the remnants of that bad weather were still lingering and our MD-80 was thrown about quite a bit. Even I, who likes rollercoasters and flying, had to lean back, close my eyes and clinch my stomach. We had a glimmer of hope tho, because we were sure the delay made us too late for the soiree. I mean, it was 5:30 and we still had to get over to Midtown in the middle of Friday rush hour. Meanwhile the elite members of my wife's family were attending the only one of the three weddings that 'counted' - the ceremony conducted by the family priest up in Westchester County.
We thought by arriving at our exclusive digs at 7:00 we would've missed the event, but no, they were just arriving themselves. I got through it OK because SGK kind of took over the event by regaling the Argentine Contingent (the bride's familia) with her knowledge of the Pampas and gauchos and also running through two of her karate workouts. As I said, we had promised the girls a trip to a theme restaurant, but YHWH's brother invited us to 'a little Italian place' for dinner and we were much encouraged to go along by the grownups. So, YHWH and I went with her sibs and the bride's to the home of the $30 bowl of spaghetti. In case you're wondering, yours truly did step up to the plate and charm the three people at the table previously unknown to him. He was quickly able to discern their passions and vocations and was able to converse across a wide breadth of topics. And dinner cost $454.
When you go to New York you learn quickly that you will be constantly fleeced of your cash. I'm really not a cheapskate, but it does get burdensome after a while. We had to pay to get our bags to the street at the airport. We had to tip the driver who took us to the New York Athletic Club, we had to tip the bellhop to take them in and the guy who took them to our room. At this 'little place' we had to tip the maitre d', then the wine guy and of course the waitress and the bathroom attendant and the coat check lady. I was constantly handing out dollar bills the whole weekend.
After dinner we collected the kids and returned to our little room. First let me say I am very grateful to the bride's family for putting us up for the weekend. The room didn't cost me a dime so I'm not complaining. But I was shocked that the rooms were so small. We had two double beds with about a foot on either side and a foot between them. There was not much decor to speak of and if I had been knocked unconscious out on the street and awakened in that room I would have guessed I was in a Clarion or Best Western. Not what I would've expected for something in the $400 a night range off Central Park. But like I said, the price was right.
So that was our first night. I'm shutting up now.
I know this is going to be a long post and reading it will be something like watching the much cliched slideshow of someone else's vacation, so you may want to stop here...
The day before we left, we were scurrying around trying to complete our wardrobes, but we finally got it together. Just as I was going to sleep on Thursday, I remembered my last post about my sister's wedding being a true community affair and I realized that this one was, too. Tex loaned me her garment bag; Mr. Tex graciously surrendered his overcoat; Rawdog offered loafers to smooth out the comfy flying attire/easy checkpoint removal/dress code approved footwear problem; Purple Bunny offered sturdy suitcases; Overcoat prepped us on easy airport transitions and transportation and Adjective Queen even gave us a ride to the airport on her day off! And everyone wished us well. So thanks, for being such a nice community everybody!
So, first thing in the morning on Friday, we reenacted the frantic family-to-the-airport scene from Home Alone, tho on a much smaller scale. We were packed the night before, but you still always have those little things here and there; it came off pretty well, tho. I jumped up and quickly got ready and heated some water for instant coffee and oatmeal. Then I helped Super Giant Killer get dressed - brown pin-striped suit pants with gold belt, brown spandex shirt, and pearls - and we just ate breakfast and watched the frenzy reach crescendo until -knock, knock - the Queen was at the door. We got all loaded and pulled away but before we got to the main road, I had to stop. I am in no way OCD, but I am a 'checker' (it's because our house was broken into when I was little and I have never really gotten over it). In all the flurry, I couldn't remember turning off the stove when I heated the water and I had to go back and make sure. The Queen was so nice, although I know I will never live it down.
We got there in plenty of time and got through security just fine. But it soon became obvious to me that I was now old and the times have a-changed. One of the first things I noticed while watching our plane being prepared was that most of the ground crew looked like they had just returned to work from shooting a Kid Rock video and still others may have been at an X-Games event. Where once I watched guys in smart service-type uniforms waving their fluorescent signal lights, I now saw dudes in baggy pants, dreads, and Phish t-shirts whipping around in baggage trucks and refueling planes. Biased on my part to be sure, as here I was complaining about the dress code to which I had to defer, but I still say I'd rather it look like Air Force personnel were prepping my plane than wiggers.
Likewise, I would like to think some former USAF guys are flying the plane. Our 'equipment' out of OKC was one of those Embraer RJ things (aka a flying pencil) and it was full and cramped. I hate those little things. So, we're getting ready to leave and our pilot gets on and he sounds like he's 15. He tells us he's Matt and our co-pilot is Chris. I'm sorry, 'Matt and Chris' sound like two dudes cruising around in a tricked out Mustang, not flying me to Chicago. I want 'Robert and Edward' or better yet, 'Walter and Jack'.
So we start our takeoff and just as we get airborne, SGK squeals, "This is awesome! I've never been this happy in my life!" So, that was worth it. Then the flight attendant announces snacks can be purchased, including cashews for $2. SGK is deathly allergic to cashews. So I turned to YHWH, "did you bring her epipen?" Neither one of us brought it. We sort of panicked because she could die before they could land the plane if she'd gotten a small whiff of cashew dust. So YHWH asked the attendant if she could refrain from serving them, and she didn't want to do it, but she said she would (she even admitted frankly that since they are something the airline makes money on, she isn't allowed to not sell them). It's American Eagle by the way, for anyone who needs to know that they still serve things that can kill people. When we switched to American Airlines in Chicago, we told the crew and they laughed and said they quit serving allergens a long time ago and thought it was stupid for American Eagle to serve them. By the way, on the last leg of our return trip we were back on American Eagle and we told them ahead of time about the allergy and the attendant refused to refrain from selling cashews and said, "We've already told people they can have them! We can't tell them they can't have them now!" Once again, folks that's American Eagle. So, we just begged people around us to not eat their cashews if at all possible and thankfully the three people who purchased a snack pack agreed not to eat their cashews.
Once in Chicago, we had 10 minutes to change planes, which was great. But upon arrival at our gate we learned that rain in the east had cause a ripple effect in the traffic pattern and we were pushed back almost two hours. No problem. You can kill a few hours in the airport. But then we get this phone call. YHWH's folks were letting us know to come straight to their room for a champagne and cheese meet-and-greet in their suite so that the two families can get acquainted. Excuse me, aren't we already going to two weddings, a dinner and a reception? Besides, we already had plans to take the girls to a theme restaurant like Hard Rock or Jekyll and Hyde that first night. So we kicked our dread up a notch there in Chicago.
Eventually, we get to board our flight to LaGuardia, but since the traffic jam still existed on the east coast and an arrival needed our gate, we got to sit on the apron for about an hour and a half waiting to taxi! In front of us was a middle-aged couple from Milwacky who were apparently making their first trip without the kids and their first big weekend getaway to New York. What great fortune befell them as they found themselves seated next to a blowhard who, though not a New yorker himself, knew everything about the city. The Gotham Bloviate regaled them with tales of the wonderous nightlife, rundowns on each and every neighborhood and what to do there. On and on for the four hours it took to get to NYC. All the while the corduroy sport-coated male kept insturcting his secretary/wife to "write that down" whenever the Gotham Bloviate imparted tell of a particularly shiny gem. The Gotham Bloviate was not actually that onoxious by nature, thankfully, and what struck me most was the apparent unpreparedness of this seemingly uptight couple. Do they not have libraries in Milwacky? Or bookstores? Was it that hard to find a guidebook? I thought they might have just been playing nice, but they seemed really uneducated on the subject.
We finally made our approach to LaGuardia about 2.5 hours late, but the remnants of that bad weather were still lingering and our MD-80 was thrown about quite a bit. Even I, who likes rollercoasters and flying, had to lean back, close my eyes and clinch my stomach. We had a glimmer of hope tho, because we were sure the delay made us too late for the soiree. I mean, it was 5:30 and we still had to get over to Midtown in the middle of Friday rush hour. Meanwhile the elite members of my wife's family were attending the only one of the three weddings that 'counted' - the ceremony conducted by the family priest up in Westchester County.
We thought by arriving at our exclusive digs at 7:00 we would've missed the event, but no, they were just arriving themselves. I got through it OK because SGK kind of took over the event by regaling the Argentine Contingent (the bride's familia) with her knowledge of the Pampas and gauchos and also running through two of her karate workouts. As I said, we had promised the girls a trip to a theme restaurant, but YHWH's brother invited us to 'a little Italian place' for dinner and we were much encouraged to go along by the grownups. So, YHWH and I went with her sibs and the bride's to the home of the $30 bowl of spaghetti. In case you're wondering, yours truly did step up to the plate and charm the three people at the table previously unknown to him. He was quickly able to discern their passions and vocations and was able to converse across a wide breadth of topics. And dinner cost $454.
When you go to New York you learn quickly that you will be constantly fleeced of your cash. I'm really not a cheapskate, but it does get burdensome after a while. We had to pay to get our bags to the street at the airport. We had to tip the driver who took us to the New York Athletic Club, we had to tip the bellhop to take them in and the guy who took them to our room. At this 'little place' we had to tip the maitre d', then the wine guy and of course the waitress and the bathroom attendant and the coat check lady. I was constantly handing out dollar bills the whole weekend.
After dinner we collected the kids and returned to our little room. First let me say I am very grateful to the bride's family for putting us up for the weekend. The room didn't cost me a dime so I'm not complaining. But I was shocked that the rooms were so small. We had two double beds with about a foot on either side and a foot between them. There was not much decor to speak of and if I had been knocked unconscious out on the street and awakened in that room I would have guessed I was in a Clarion or Best Western. Not what I would've expected for something in the $400 a night range off Central Park. But like I said, the price was right.
So that was our first night. I'm shutting up now.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Fairy Tales Can Come True, It Can Happen To You
I felt obliged to say that the main reason this wedding thing is annoying me is because it's just so overblown. It's true we all tend to place ourselves at the center of the universe and assume that our way is best, and I am no exception. But I think my sister's wedding is the standard for how it ought to be done.
When she got engaged at 18, my parents weren't really prepared for it. I'm not sure how they felt emotionally, but financially, we were pretty well broke. We always were, but this was the high inflation, no jobs malaise Jimmy Carter presided over and it was pretty tough on the lower middle class.
But they were in love, and so it was going to happen. My sister visited a dozen venues to try and get the best possible value for the event. It was looking like it would have to be a dank church basement until, on a lark, she decide to try Tulsa's swankiest hotel - The Mayo. The Mayo had entertained Tulsa's oilmen and first families for decades and my sister didn't think she could afford it but she wanted to at least dream about having it there. So, she went in to talk to the events person there and after telling her story and chatting awhile, the hotelier said, "You know, Mr. Oilman just canceled a major event in our Crystal Ballroom and I'm really angry about it. I've been thinking about not refunding his money. If you can have your wedding on the 15th, we'll let him rent the Crystal Ballroom for you." And so it was that my sister was married in a place that looked like something out of Beauty and the Beast.
But that wasn't the only thing. We still had to produce this thing. My mom got a dress at a consignment shop and refashioned it into a wedding dress. My mom made the five-tiered wedding cake. She made the sheet cakes. She made the petit-fours and canapes. The groom's mother and sister hand made hundreds of fresh mini-tamales. They made five gallons of frozen margaritas with tequila they got from a guy who owed them a favor. The groom's cousin brought his mariachi band to play. All the young adults in the cult made and hung the decorations. We borrowed all the tables and punch bowls and everything else. Our whole community contributed something to this wedding. To this day, when I run into people from the cult they ask me if my sister's still married. They're relieved to hear she is and say, 25 years later, "That's the best wedding I've ever been to."
Sadly, I don't remember much of it. I spent the first half of the thing practicing heavy underage drinking and the second half curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor of the bridal suite.
So forgive me if I am grumbling about spending hundreds of thousands on a wedding for two people old enough to have kids in high school. It's just not my way.
By the way this will be Killer's fifth gig as flower girl. As you will see below, she is carrying on the family business. For I was a veteran ringbearer, having borne rings to at least a half-dozen nuptials (click for larger):
When she got engaged at 18, my parents weren't really prepared for it. I'm not sure how they felt emotionally, but financially, we were pretty well broke. We always were, but this was the high inflation, no jobs malaise Jimmy Carter presided over and it was pretty tough on the lower middle class.
But they were in love, and so it was going to happen. My sister visited a dozen venues to try and get the best possible value for the event. It was looking like it would have to be a dank church basement until, on a lark, she decide to try Tulsa's swankiest hotel - The Mayo. The Mayo had entertained Tulsa's oilmen and first families for decades and my sister didn't think she could afford it but she wanted to at least dream about having it there. So, she went in to talk to the events person there and after telling her story and chatting awhile, the hotelier said, "You know, Mr. Oilman just canceled a major event in our Crystal Ballroom and I'm really angry about it. I've been thinking about not refunding his money. If you can have your wedding on the 15th, we'll let him rent the Crystal Ballroom for you." And so it was that my sister was married in a place that looked like something out of Beauty and the Beast.
But that wasn't the only thing. We still had to produce this thing. My mom got a dress at a consignment shop and refashioned it into a wedding dress. My mom made the five-tiered wedding cake. She made the sheet cakes. She made the petit-fours and canapes. The groom's mother and sister hand made hundreds of fresh mini-tamales. They made five gallons of frozen margaritas with tequila they got from a guy who owed them a favor. The groom's cousin brought his mariachi band to play. All the young adults in the cult made and hung the decorations. We borrowed all the tables and punch bowls and everything else. Our whole community contributed something to this wedding. To this day, when I run into people from the cult they ask me if my sister's still married. They're relieved to hear she is and say, 25 years later, "That's the best wedding I've ever been to."
Sadly, I don't remember much of it. I spent the first half of the thing practicing heavy underage drinking and the second half curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor of the bridal suite.
So forgive me if I am grumbling about spending hundreds of thousands on a wedding for two people old enough to have kids in high school. It's just not my way.
By the way this will be Killer's fifth gig as flower girl. As you will see below, she is carrying on the family business. For I was a veteran ringbearer, having borne rings to at least a half-dozen nuptials (click for larger):
Monday, October 16, 2006
What I Need Is Everywhere
I just got a call that my aunt - my mom's sister - has died. And yeah, in case you're wondering, I would rather go to a funeral than a wedding.
I've written about my dad's family ties and the curse a couple of times, but my mom's family may really have one. There were eight siblings who survived to adulthood. The oldest has polio, the next died from multiple sclerosis, the third has spasmodic dysphonia (like Diane Rehm), the fourth has chronic back problems, the fifth (the aunt who just died) had cerebral palsy, my mom died of lymphoma, the next has Parkinson's and the last one has severe complications from the ravages of substance abuse. And let me just say they're all saints. I've never heard one of them complain. Never seen anything but smiles and hugs.
This aunt was really a piece of work, though. She was 68 and she wasn't even expected to live into her teens. She had cerebral palsy and lived her whole life in a wheelchair. What I remember from my youthful visits was her crossword mania, encyclopedic knowledge of all genres of music from 1960-1975, incessant smoking and moments when the quiet was punctured by a spastic shudder or kick. But her affliction wasn't genetic. It was man made.
My grandparents lived way out in northwest Oklahoma and medical care is scarce out there even now, but in 1938 with the Dust Bowl at gale force, there was, for all intents and purposes, none to be found. The midwives from a local church (which I will not name) made all the deliveries in their area. This is one of those off the radar type churches which hold among their tenets a refusal to seek medical care.
So when the time came to deliver, my grandpa summoned the midwife. When she arrived she got really agitated and said that God told her the baby wasn't ready yet. Some or another prophecy was at play. So she left the baby partially delivered in the birth canal - nearly a whole day by time it was all over with. I've talked to people in the medical know about this and most believe that the umbilical cord was wrapped around my aunt's neck or something rather common like that and the midwife was probably too inexperienced and panicked or something. My grandpa was so angry that he yelled at the midwife and told her to leave his house and he followed her down the road on foot screaming at her for what she'd done.
He swore he'd never enter a church again. And he damn well didn't. Every wedding picture I have of those kids shows them cutting the cake in the farmhouse kitchen. Which was all well and good because the elders of the church all got together after he'd let fly on the midwife and decided to curse him. Unfortunately, no one could or would tell me what exactly the curse was. All I know is that it really did scare him for the rest of his life.
Here's the clan, except for the yet-born last child. My mom is doing her Home Alone impression (hands on her face) and the aunt in question is the ragdoll in the foreground ( click for larger):
Also there was som discussion of wanting to see me in a suit. Here goes:
I've written about my dad's family ties and the curse a couple of times, but my mom's family may really have one. There were eight siblings who survived to adulthood. The oldest has polio, the next died from multiple sclerosis, the third has spasmodic dysphonia (like Diane Rehm), the fourth has chronic back problems, the fifth (the aunt who just died) had cerebral palsy, my mom died of lymphoma, the next has Parkinson's and the last one has severe complications from the ravages of substance abuse. And let me just say they're all saints. I've never heard one of them complain. Never seen anything but smiles and hugs.
This aunt was really a piece of work, though. She was 68 and she wasn't even expected to live into her teens. She had cerebral palsy and lived her whole life in a wheelchair. What I remember from my youthful visits was her crossword mania, encyclopedic knowledge of all genres of music from 1960-1975, incessant smoking and moments when the quiet was punctured by a spastic shudder or kick. But her affliction wasn't genetic. It was man made.
My grandparents lived way out in northwest Oklahoma and medical care is scarce out there even now, but in 1938 with the Dust Bowl at gale force, there was, for all intents and purposes, none to be found. The midwives from a local church (which I will not name) made all the deliveries in their area. This is one of those off the radar type churches which hold among their tenets a refusal to seek medical care.
So when the time came to deliver, my grandpa summoned the midwife. When she arrived she got really agitated and said that God told her the baby wasn't ready yet. Some or another prophecy was at play. So she left the baby partially delivered in the birth canal - nearly a whole day by time it was all over with. I've talked to people in the medical know about this and most believe that the umbilical cord was wrapped around my aunt's neck or something rather common like that and the midwife was probably too inexperienced and panicked or something. My grandpa was so angry that he yelled at the midwife and told her to leave his house and he followed her down the road on foot screaming at her for what she'd done.
He swore he'd never enter a church again. And he damn well didn't. Every wedding picture I have of those kids shows them cutting the cake in the farmhouse kitchen. Which was all well and good because the elders of the church all got together after he'd let fly on the midwife and decided to curse him. Unfortunately, no one could or would tell me what exactly the curse was. All I know is that it really did scare him for the rest of his life.
Here's the clan, except for the yet-born last child. My mom is doing her Home Alone impression (hands on her face) and the aunt in question is the ragdoll in the foreground ( click for larger):
Also there was som discussion of wanting to see me in a suit. Here goes:
Sunday, October 15, 2006
They Make No Mention of the Beauty of Decay
The wedding continues to dominate our lives for better or worse. We were scheduled to have an all day shopping junket on Sairdy. YHWH, Killer and C. F. Kats are all required to have small, black, formal clutches; I needed a jacket in which I can stroll around the hotel; everyone needed all-weather formal coats; I needed two dress shirts; and it was suggested I get a sweater and some 'nice' long-sleeved shirts.
So, like I said, it was supposed to be an all day affair. But on Sairdy morning, YHWH tells me to just get Killer out of the house all day - she wanted to clean the house. That's bad. That is an ominous sign. Cleaning has psychological implications. Where I have resigned myself to my fate and am now given to mocking the whole thing, she has obviously not gotten to that point.
So, I took Killer to the Zoo. We were there 4.5 hours. I have never been to the Zoo that long in one session in my life. It was great weather and Killer brought a blank journal and declared herself a naturalist. We had to stop and draw loads of plants, flowers, and animals. We read and discussed every plaque. Here's a page from the journal including some of our team work:
After that we decided to hit the northside thrift stores. I thought it would be a nice touch to wear thirft store merch to our snooty events. We didn't have too much success, but we had a lot of fun. We did find one small velvet clutch for 98 cents, though. Finally, we went to Big Lots to get some decent Halloween dex. YHWH tends to decorate with Fall things, but frankly SGK and I never found a cornucopia to be particularly terrifying. I find the glow-in-the-dark velvet skeleton hanging on the doorways of my youth (pre-cult, of course) to be the standard. So Killer picked out some stuff and here are a couple of examples of the result:
The strung-up skeleton has been dubbed Carl by Killer. He actually is very scary out there, especially when a slight breeze makes him sway a little bit.
No word when we'll actually get around to buying all that stuff...
We've also started our Halloween season movie-watching. C. F. Kats prefers the psychological thrillers to slashers, so we have selected accoridngly. We got our film critic friend with the exhaustive DVD library to hook us up with some good ones:
Experiment in Terror
Tale of Two Sisters
Cape Fear (original)
Black Sunday
Planet of the Vampires
Peeping Tom
Carnival of Souls
M
Cat People
Lady in White
Diabolique (original French one)
Cape Fear is still so creepy, among the few that consistently get to me. Talking about the Mitchum-Peck version, of course. One of the key components of it's success of course is in what it doesn't say or depict. They use semantics to lead you to a certain point and then allow you to define (ala 1984) what your own brand of hell might be.
So, like I said, it was supposed to be an all day affair. But on Sairdy morning, YHWH tells me to just get Killer out of the house all day - she wanted to clean the house. That's bad. That is an ominous sign. Cleaning has psychological implications. Where I have resigned myself to my fate and am now given to mocking the whole thing, she has obviously not gotten to that point.
So, I took Killer to the Zoo. We were there 4.5 hours. I have never been to the Zoo that long in one session in my life. It was great weather and Killer brought a blank journal and declared herself a naturalist. We had to stop and draw loads of plants, flowers, and animals. We read and discussed every plaque. Here's a page from the journal including some of our team work:
After that we decided to hit the northside thrift stores. I thought it would be a nice touch to wear thirft store merch to our snooty events. We didn't have too much success, but we had a lot of fun. We did find one small velvet clutch for 98 cents, though. Finally, we went to Big Lots to get some decent Halloween dex. YHWH tends to decorate with Fall things, but frankly SGK and I never found a cornucopia to be particularly terrifying. I find the glow-in-the-dark velvet skeleton hanging on the doorways of my youth (pre-cult, of course) to be the standard. So Killer picked out some stuff and here are a couple of examples of the result:
The strung-up skeleton has been dubbed Carl by Killer. He actually is very scary out there, especially when a slight breeze makes him sway a little bit.
No word when we'll actually get around to buying all that stuff...
We've also started our Halloween season movie-watching. C. F. Kats prefers the psychological thrillers to slashers, so we have selected accoridngly. We got our film critic friend with the exhaustive DVD library to hook us up with some good ones:
Experiment in Terror
Tale of Two Sisters
Cape Fear (original)
Black Sunday
Planet of the Vampires
Peeping Tom
Carnival of Souls
M
Cat People
Lady in White
Diabolique (original French one)
Cape Fear is still so creepy, among the few that consistently get to me. Talking about the Mitchum-Peck version, of course. One of the key components of it's success of course is in what it doesn't say or depict. They use semantics to lead you to a certain point and then allow you to define (ala 1984) what your own brand of hell might be.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Me and You and a Dog Named Boo
The countdown is on. Will the flower girl's ballerina shoes be back from the dying place in time for us to schlep them to NYC? This wedding deal is just getting downright farcical. When I bitched the other day about it, I didn't even spill the half of it. I'm reserved to tell all of it, because there are some out there who probably love weddings and cry and all that and others who don't balk at the arcanery of it all. But you know what - get your own blog.
The best we bumpkins can figure out the current running total of this affair is nearing the GDP of Togo. You could relocate the entire population of Tuvalu to gated communities in Sydney for what is being shelled out. I mean, I'm no Commie, they can spend their money any way they want. The frivolity of it all just galls me, though. Like Killer's dress - we had to take her to a tailor here who took her measurements and called a tailor in NYC who worked out the pattern and called the tailor here to explain how to make the dress in OKC. And then we had to buy ballerina slippers and have them dyed to match the dress. The dress is white. The shoes are white. The room is dim. And the $500 dollar dress is going to have petit fours smeared down the front of it in beautiful pastel hues before 'I do'. Then there's things like 300 people eating dinner at $175 a plate. And there will be three dinners. We're talking over a quarter-mil here, y'all.
It all reminds of the first week of World War I. You remember. France didn't want to defend Serbia, but they thought it looked bad, so they called up a few troops. Then Germany didn't really want to fight France, but they didn't want to look bad for leaving Austria hanging. Then Russia really didn't want to fight, but they needed some French loans. Unfortunately for everyone, Germany (as usual) had a plan. That's how this happened. When the engagement was announced, we automatically told ourselves we weren't going. Then we thought it would look bad, so only YHWH was going to go. But then, like Germans, they said they had to have Killer be the flower girl. This is because she is the only girl they know. I am pretty sure that in the two years we have known the bride she has never once spoken to Killer. Ever. And they want her to be in this thing. Meanwhile, the couple act like they don't even want all this. So, nobody wants this thing to happen and no one wants to go, yet no one will speak up to stop it. It's World War I, people.
We told all this to a friend who plays for the other team and she said, "Married heterosexuals with no kids are the most annoying people on Earth. Except for the ones with no kids and a dog." That's not me, I'm just telling you what she said.
O course, the really sick thing is that I don't see this thing lasting. I always say that, though. Voice of experience. I say you go to the courthouse and sign some papers, put all the wedding money in a CD and then in five years if you're still together you can have a giant party.
Of course, the good thing is that usually things aren't as bad as you fret them out to be, so I'm sure I'll be fine. I'm thinking holed up in the room with ESPN and the mini-bar will do the trick. Yes, I would go all the way to NYC to do that.
The best we bumpkins can figure out the current running total of this affair is nearing the GDP of Togo. You could relocate the entire population of Tuvalu to gated communities in Sydney for what is being shelled out. I mean, I'm no Commie, they can spend their money any way they want. The frivolity of it all just galls me, though. Like Killer's dress - we had to take her to a tailor here who took her measurements and called a tailor in NYC who worked out the pattern and called the tailor here to explain how to make the dress in OKC. And then we had to buy ballerina slippers and have them dyed to match the dress. The dress is white. The shoes are white. The room is dim. And the $500 dollar dress is going to have petit fours smeared down the front of it in beautiful pastel hues before 'I do'. Then there's things like 300 people eating dinner at $175 a plate. And there will be three dinners. We're talking over a quarter-mil here, y'all.
It all reminds of the first week of World War I. You remember. France didn't want to defend Serbia, but they thought it looked bad, so they called up a few troops. Then Germany didn't really want to fight France, but they didn't want to look bad for leaving Austria hanging. Then Russia really didn't want to fight, but they needed some French loans. Unfortunately for everyone, Germany (as usual) had a plan. That's how this happened. When the engagement was announced, we automatically told ourselves we weren't going. Then we thought it would look bad, so only YHWH was going to go. But then, like Germans, they said they had to have Killer be the flower girl. This is because she is the only girl they know. I am pretty sure that in the two years we have known the bride she has never once spoken to Killer. Ever. And they want her to be in this thing. Meanwhile, the couple act like they don't even want all this. So, nobody wants this thing to happen and no one wants to go, yet no one will speak up to stop it. It's World War I, people.
We told all this to a friend who plays for the other team and she said, "Married heterosexuals with no kids are the most annoying people on Earth. Except for the ones with no kids and a dog." That's not me, I'm just telling you what she said.
O course, the really sick thing is that I don't see this thing lasting. I always say that, though. Voice of experience. I say you go to the courthouse and sign some papers, put all the wedding money in a CD and then in five years if you're still together you can have a giant party.
Of course, the good thing is that usually things aren't as bad as you fret them out to be, so I'm sure I'll be fine. I'm thinking holed up in the room with ESPN and the mini-bar will do the trick. Yes, I would go all the way to NYC to do that.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
You Will Never Find a More Wretched Hive of Scum and Villainy.
Okay, in fairness to Edna from yesterday's post, I have a confession to make. The other day at Target I lost it, too. Although, in my defense, it was only two restocking red-shirters who heard me and not a line of ravenous nine-to-fivers.
After only one viewing, SGK lost the Episode VI: The Return of the Jedi DVD from our boxed set. You remember the boxed DVD set that came out a while back? The one that was marketed with the slogan 'available for a limited time only'. And the retail rumor-mill said Lucas was going to take a page from Disney and make the old Star Wars DVDs only available off and on for short periods and you may not have another crack at them for a decade. So I bought them. I bought them with the full knowledge that the movie distributing bast*rds knew they were lying. This I know because they said the same thing when the VHS came out in the mid-1990s to the tune of $200 or so, right before they rereleased all them movies in the theater and reissued the VHS for about half the price.
So, yes, I bought the boxed set of DVDs even though I was extremely annoyed that Lucas only released the stupid doctored-up versions and acted like Episode IV: A New Hope was the same movie I sat through 43 times in the summer of '77. It clearly was not. And don't start in with "It's his movie, he can do what he wants with it." Well, around my family's vicious card table, "A card laid is a card played." DaVinci didn't go back and put sunglasses on Mona Lisa. I don't care if he makes Episode IV: A New Hope so long as I can watch Star Wars any time I want without all of the silly muppets cgi'ed into it. And you had to buy the boxed set because another maxim at the time was that they would only ever be available as a set. And only in the Digitally Remastered version.
So, of course, I was miffed when SGK lost our Jedi. And then last weekend I saw an ad which explained that Eps IV, V, and VI would be available separately for a limited time. I mean what is it with these people? And you know I was there the next morning at Target to complete my set because, gd it, it's only available for a limited time! I got there about the time they were opening and the sleepy stock clerks were overstuffing the shelves for a big Saturday. I whisked my lighter, suit-capable self over to the electronics section and quickly located the Jedis. My approach took me between two unenthused stockers and I quickly extracted my copy, looked it over to make sure I got VI, not IV and then I saw it. The Sticker. There was a prism-backed sticker which gleefully beamed back to me the words "Includes original theatrical release!" I wasn't as bad as Edna but I said very loudly, "What?! They said they weren't going to do this! Why did they do this?!" Because now I have to buy IV, too! I turned in the direction of one of the clerks. She didn't look like she was alive in '77. I turned to the other one and began to plead for...something. And she was like a cop. She actually reached near her hip for her walkie-talkie. I just stopped short and smiled and she smiled back. I tucked it under and as I walked away I threw over my shoulder, "You shouldn't mess with Star Wars."
After only one viewing, SGK lost the Episode VI: The Return of the Jedi DVD from our boxed set. You remember the boxed DVD set that came out a while back? The one that was marketed with the slogan 'available for a limited time only'. And the retail rumor-mill said Lucas was going to take a page from Disney and make the old Star Wars DVDs only available off and on for short periods and you may not have another crack at them for a decade. So I bought them. I bought them with the full knowledge that the movie distributing bast*rds knew they were lying. This I know because they said the same thing when the VHS came out in the mid-1990s to the tune of $200 or so, right before they rereleased all them movies in the theater and reissued the VHS for about half the price.
So, yes, I bought the boxed set of DVDs even though I was extremely annoyed that Lucas only released the stupid doctored-up versions and acted like Episode IV: A New Hope was the same movie I sat through 43 times in the summer of '77. It clearly was not. And don't start in with "It's his movie, he can do what he wants with it." Well, around my family's vicious card table, "A card laid is a card played." DaVinci didn't go back and put sunglasses on Mona Lisa. I don't care if he makes Episode IV: A New Hope so long as I can watch Star Wars any time I want without all of the silly muppets cgi'ed into it. And you had to buy the boxed set because another maxim at the time was that they would only ever be available as a set. And only in the Digitally Remastered version.
So, of course, I was miffed when SGK lost our Jedi. And then last weekend I saw an ad which explained that Eps IV, V, and VI would be available separately for a limited time. I mean what is it with these people? And you know I was there the next morning at Target to complete my set because, gd it, it's only available for a limited time! I got there about the time they were opening and the sleepy stock clerks were overstuffing the shelves for a big Saturday. I whisked my lighter, suit-capable self over to the electronics section and quickly located the Jedis. My approach took me between two unenthused stockers and I quickly extracted my copy, looked it over to make sure I got VI, not IV and then I saw it. The Sticker. There was a prism-backed sticker which gleefully beamed back to me the words "Includes original theatrical release!" I wasn't as bad as Edna but I said very loudly, "What?! They said they weren't going to do this! Why did they do this?!" Because now I have to buy IV, too! I turned in the direction of one of the clerks. She didn't look like she was alive in '77. I turned to the other one and began to plead for...something. And she was like a cop. She actually reached near her hip for her walkie-talkie. I just stopped short and smiled and she smiled back. I tucked it under and as I walked away I threw over my shoulder, "You shouldn't mess with Star Wars."
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Can't You See the Real Me?
This just in from the I'm Not Long For This World File, Restaurant Division:
Today I was at Subway for lunch and this lady (looking very unJared-like) lost it in the line. Wait, I don't mean she vomited or anything. I mean she exploded at the foodworker.
Allow me to set the scene. There were oh, 30 people in line; out the door and down the sidewalk. I was wistfully watching my lunch half-hour ticking away on the clock above which looked very much like a refugee from a Service Merchandise closing-forever-sale. This lady was wearing an atrocious wig; the kind that reminds you why our forefathers began calling them rugs. Because this one looked just like the jet black carpet I always wanted in my room when I was a kid and my mom gave me the I-wish-psychotherapy-wasn't-of-the-devil look. She had on a black tent dress with a cheetah collar and some clashing Easy Spirits. Her sandwich had been breaded, cheesed, toasted, and piled on and was awaiting the dressing. She made her call and as soon as the foodworker squeezed on the Chipotle something-or-other dressing (one day you will bear the full brunt of my opinions on Chipotle (let's just say, I'll bet it originated in Canada)), the lady went ballistic.
"Nooo!!!"
"But ma'am. You said Chipotle crap dressing!"
"Why do you people always spread it on the cheeeese side??!! I don't want it on that side!"
"OK. It's just how we're trained to make them. I'll be happy to..."
"Well that's stupid!! Who would train someone to make a sandwich that way!! It's stupid!!"
I wasn't far from the scene, so I felt compelled to intervene. But on which side? As a working stiff, I was sympathetic to the foodworker and, in fact, I'm in there so much I know the whole gang and occasionally get comped drinks. But at the same time, I felt empathy for the gal. This was obviously not about some Chipotle dressing. I was nudged by an unseen hand (my mom would say The Spirit) to walk over to her and put an arm around her and say, "Is your brother-in-law getting married, too?"
And then it happened. She made a boo-boo. I was all ready to be on her side until she pulled out a checkbook. A checkbook. It's 2006. Nobody writes checks anymore. And if I feel like writing a check out of nostalgia, I don't do it when there are 500 people waiting to eat on their 30 minute lunch break.
Of course, I brightsided it. It made me fell all that much better when the foodworker saw me and smiled and started fixing my lunch without asking what I wanted, knowing I would pay in cash with exact change. But Edna, wherever you are, thanks for a lively afternoon. I hope it got better for you.
Today I was at Subway for lunch and this lady (looking very unJared-like) lost it in the line. Wait, I don't mean she vomited or anything. I mean she exploded at the foodworker.
Allow me to set the scene. There were oh, 30 people in line; out the door and down the sidewalk. I was wistfully watching my lunch half-hour ticking away on the clock above which looked very much like a refugee from a Service Merchandise closing-forever-sale. This lady was wearing an atrocious wig; the kind that reminds you why our forefathers began calling them rugs. Because this one looked just like the jet black carpet I always wanted in my room when I was a kid and my mom gave me the I-wish-psychotherapy-wasn't-of-the-devil look. She had on a black tent dress with a cheetah collar and some clashing Easy Spirits. Her sandwich had been breaded, cheesed, toasted, and piled on and was awaiting the dressing. She made her call and as soon as the foodworker squeezed on the Chipotle something-or-other dressing (one day you will bear the full brunt of my opinions on Chipotle (let's just say, I'll bet it originated in Canada)), the lady went ballistic.
"Nooo!!!"
"But ma'am. You said Chipotle crap dressing!"
"Why do you people always spread it on the cheeeese side??!! I don't want it on that side!"
"OK. It's just how we're trained to make them. I'll be happy to..."
"Well that's stupid!! Who would train someone to make a sandwich that way!! It's stupid!!"
I wasn't far from the scene, so I felt compelled to intervene. But on which side? As a working stiff, I was sympathetic to the foodworker and, in fact, I'm in there so much I know the whole gang and occasionally get comped drinks. But at the same time, I felt empathy for the gal. This was obviously not about some Chipotle dressing. I was nudged by an unseen hand (my mom would say The Spirit) to walk over to her and put an arm around her and say, "Is your brother-in-law getting married, too?"
And then it happened. She made a boo-boo. I was all ready to be on her side until she pulled out a checkbook. A checkbook. It's 2006. Nobody writes checks anymore. And if I feel like writing a check out of nostalgia, I don't do it when there are 500 people waiting to eat on their 30 minute lunch break.
Of course, I brightsided it. It made me fell all that much better when the foodworker saw me and smiled and started fixing my lunch without asking what I wanted, knowing I would pay in cash with exact change. But Edna, wherever you are, thanks for a lively afternoon. I hope it got better for you.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Goin' Home Where the New York City Winters Aren't Bleedin' Me
So, this wedding is killing me. My brother-in-law is scheduled to wed a woman from New York in a few weeks. The blessed couple lives in Oklahoma as does all of his family and so we are all flying to New York, we're all staying in an exclusive Midtown private club, and eating at beyond expensive Midtown restaurants. It isn't going to cost us anything (at least the major stuff). So, what's my problem, right? Why wouldn't I want a most-expenses-paid trip to New York? God knows I could never afford to do it on my own.
The easiest explanation is that it just violates my principles. First of all, they're like 37 years old. When you're that age and you've already been living together and you just bought a half-million dollar house for the two of you, it's an affront to me to have to buy you a shower gift and a wedding gift. On top of that, they're are already married. Her mother would not tolerate a wedding which was not performed by her priest in New York. So my b-i-l had to convert and then the priest said that the laws in New York make it difficult to get married if your from out of state, so they have to get married here first and then he will reenact what has already been done up there. But no one can go to that but immediate family (which inexplicably we are not part of), so they are having a third ceremony at the private club. That all makes me vomit. If you're that old, you should freaking go to Las Freakin' Vegas.
This is all in addition to the incredible hassle of it all. First of all flying period is a hassle. Flying in and out of NYC is ten times the hassle. Getting to Midtown from the airport is a hassle. The exclusive place where we are staying has a sadly arcane dress code which bans denim, sneakers (sic), and t-shirts. Jacket and tie must be worn outside the rooms at all times. So I have to wear a g*dda*n suit. Twice. I do not wear suits. I have one oldish one and I have had to go on a crash diet to get into it (I have done it, though).
Then I found out that because I am a librarian I am to be seated with an editor from Doubleday, who is closely associated with a huge bestselling author. Ok, this is like seating a batboy with a lumberjack. Even worse, my wife is an English teacher. And she hates that author. I think the word she used was 'insipid'. I thought you weren't supposed to sit similar people or couples together. For one thing, librarians ought to be seating chart wildcards. We can talk about anything; we have something in common with everyone.
Now, you're probably like my other b-i-l who said, "Lighten up, man. It's just a party!" But I hate parties. I loathe parties. And I don't understand why extroverts are so intolerant. I realize the obvious answer is, duh, they're extroverted. But why do they take something from introverts or push them? We don't make any demands on them at all except to leave us alone. All they have to do is...nothing.
The final nail in the coffin was this weekend when the celebrant performed one of his occasional but regular verbal assaults on me. He has a drinking problem and when he drinks and gets with his brother, they like to pick on me. Being an introvert, I'm an easy target I guess. They're very cowardly and only do this when there are two of them and usual other people around who I would rather not see the swath of verbal destruction I can leave behind. This time it was my father-in-law and my wife. I'm just not going to retaliate in front of their family members, I could only lose. It might sound strange, but I just won't do it. They don't really say anything offensive; in fact if I were to recount it you would say it was no big deal. But it's the spirit in which it is done that makes it ridiculous. So instead of telling the guy off I'm suffering through his freakin' wedding.
So, I'm thinking about small ways I can screw things up. I think for one thing I'm going to really drag out my drawl and say 'goll-lee'and 'durn' and 'dad-blamed'. And talk about all the 'oll' we have on our spread. Failing that, I'm going to be really, really honest to everyone I meet. And if anyone says anything, all I have to say is, "Lighten up, man. It's just a party!"
I'm getting too old for this sh*t.
The easiest explanation is that it just violates my principles. First of all, they're like 37 years old. When you're that age and you've already been living together and you just bought a half-million dollar house for the two of you, it's an affront to me to have to buy you a shower gift and a wedding gift. On top of that, they're are already married. Her mother would not tolerate a wedding which was not performed by her priest in New York. So my b-i-l had to convert and then the priest said that the laws in New York make it difficult to get married if your from out of state, so they have to get married here first and then he will reenact what has already been done up there. But no one can go to that but immediate family (which inexplicably we are not part of), so they are having a third ceremony at the private club. That all makes me vomit. If you're that old, you should freaking go to Las Freakin' Vegas.
This is all in addition to the incredible hassle of it all. First of all flying period is a hassle. Flying in and out of NYC is ten times the hassle. Getting to Midtown from the airport is a hassle. The exclusive place where we are staying has a sadly arcane dress code which bans denim, sneakers (sic), and t-shirts. Jacket and tie must be worn outside the rooms at all times. So I have to wear a g*dda*n suit. Twice. I do not wear suits. I have one oldish one and I have had to go on a crash diet to get into it (I have done it, though).
Then I found out that because I am a librarian I am to be seated with an editor from Doubleday, who is closely associated with a huge bestselling author. Ok, this is like seating a batboy with a lumberjack. Even worse, my wife is an English teacher. And she hates that author. I think the word she used was 'insipid'. I thought you weren't supposed to sit similar people or couples together. For one thing, librarians ought to be seating chart wildcards. We can talk about anything; we have something in common with everyone.
Now, you're probably like my other b-i-l who said, "Lighten up, man. It's just a party!" But I hate parties. I loathe parties. And I don't understand why extroverts are so intolerant. I realize the obvious answer is, duh, they're extroverted. But why do they take something from introverts or push them? We don't make any demands on them at all except to leave us alone. All they have to do is...nothing.
The final nail in the coffin was this weekend when the celebrant performed one of his occasional but regular verbal assaults on me. He has a drinking problem and when he drinks and gets with his brother, they like to pick on me. Being an introvert, I'm an easy target I guess. They're very cowardly and only do this when there are two of them and usual other people around who I would rather not see the swath of verbal destruction I can leave behind. This time it was my father-in-law and my wife. I'm just not going to retaliate in front of their family members, I could only lose. It might sound strange, but I just won't do it. They don't really say anything offensive; in fact if I were to recount it you would say it was no big deal. But it's the spirit in which it is done that makes it ridiculous. So instead of telling the guy off I'm suffering through his freakin' wedding.
So, I'm thinking about small ways I can screw things up. I think for one thing I'm going to really drag out my drawl and say 'goll-lee'and 'durn' and 'dad-blamed'. And talk about all the 'oll' we have on our spread. Failing that, I'm going to be really, really honest to everyone I meet. And if anyone says anything, all I have to say is, "Lighten up, man. It's just a party!"
I'm getting too old for this sh*t.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Wednesday, Bloody Wednesday
Well, here I sit with a needle in my arm. No, I haven't finally succumbed to heroin to numb the pain of my daily life. I'm donating platelets. They have a new chair which has a computer attached to it and so I'm checking it out. Ought to be interesting -- I can only use one hand and it has a band aid on the end of the index finger; the keyboard is on an overhead springy thing and it's bouncing all over the place when I type; I'm lightheaded; and I'm supposed to be squeezing this thingy to help pump the blood, but the typing-squeezing is causing disorientation akin to rubbing your stomach and top of your head at the same time. But the new nurse is cute and one of the other donors is likewise easy on the eyes, so I'm getting by. The Dodgers are on the ropes, though, and it sucks not being able to pace the floor.
I've started mentally working on a new list. I say mentally because I can't think of anything to write down yet. This one seeks to come up with a theme song for every year of my life that I can remember. It's proving to be nearly impossible. To clarify, I'm trying to find songs for each year that best express my feelings for that year, not my favorite song from that year. I'm avoiding obvious or overt selections. For example 1981 was the best year on record for me, but I'm not selecting Sinatra's "It Was A Very Good Year". It's too literal. In fact I would like it best if it was a sort of emotional imprint, so that just hearing it one could feel how I felt then. I know that's not possible, though. If for no other reason, I might play 1981's song and because you hate that song you may react like it was 1994. I'm also thinking I might have to review the list every five years or so because I might change my feelings - not mention I'm still racking up the years. So far, I'm about to declare "Suburbiac" by Dolour as the theme song for 1996. And New Order's "Sunrise" for 1985. Try it - it ain't easy.
The front half of SGK's sweater is done. I was worried about getting it done before winter, but it doesn't seem like winter will be here any time soon.
I'm getting tired of this pecking.... ta ta from blood central!
I've started mentally working on a new list. I say mentally because I can't think of anything to write down yet. This one seeks to come up with a theme song for every year of my life that I can remember. It's proving to be nearly impossible. To clarify, I'm trying to find songs for each year that best express my feelings for that year, not my favorite song from that year. I'm avoiding obvious or overt selections. For example 1981 was the best year on record for me, but I'm not selecting Sinatra's "It Was A Very Good Year". It's too literal. In fact I would like it best if it was a sort of emotional imprint, so that just hearing it one could feel how I felt then. I know that's not possible, though. If for no other reason, I might play 1981's song and because you hate that song you may react like it was 1994. I'm also thinking I might have to review the list every five years or so because I might change my feelings - not mention I'm still racking up the years. So far, I'm about to declare "Suburbiac" by Dolour as the theme song for 1996. And New Order's "Sunrise" for 1985. Try it - it ain't easy.
The front half of SGK's sweater is done. I was worried about getting it done before winter, but it doesn't seem like winter will be here any time soon.
I'm getting tired of this pecking.... ta ta from blood central!
Friday, September 22, 2006
The Blair Warner Project
OK, I found out you can go to Halloween Express on Friday night and see the same people you can see at the Fair -- for free! Yeah, we went in to see about getting Super Giant Killer a costyoom (she's thinking Cleopatra). Even though the stuff in the store is sold at horrifying prices, I wanted to stick around and witness the scary people that come in there. You think I'm talking about Goth kids or something, but I'm not. I'm pretty sure they drove over after they ran out of money on the Midway.
There was one woman in there looking intently at a row of costumes in the adult section (and I don't mean size-wise) who looked to be over 50 and about 5'2" and wore spandex pants in a blue the color of the old Crayola cornflower crayon and shoes kind of like this. The shirt was unremarkable, but she had on a really, really bad black wig that increased her mass by about 68%. And people, I got the distinct impression that this was not a temporary status, that she was not just trying on a costume and had stepped out of the dressing room for another size. When she moved on I went over to see what she had been perusing and they were these slutty French maid, stewardess, and Catholic school girl costumes. Then I see this lanky guy slathered in average-looking tattoos saunter up and spank her cornflower butt and off they go. Awwwww...
Then there was this bra-busting mother-of-at-least-two squawking at her kids about some $3.00 plastic swords while she was trying to find an M&M costume in her size - to no avail. Another treat was the entrance to the dressing room - and I wouldn't ponder that image too long - the sentinel placed there looked to be passed out. I'm not sure if it was due to exhaustion or long-term exposure to latex. I gave her the benefit of the doubt and concocted a story in my mind that she was probably a single mom who was working three jobs and by Friday night it had simply caught up to her. See, I really am compassionate and empathic.
Here's what we did when we got home:
SGK decided we would make our own almanac by writing down everything we know - but it had to be 'natural'. Unfortunately, bedtime arrived before the tome was complete. The aspen trees phrase was supposed to be included on line 2. Line 3 says 'to a CR a person is 2 inches tall'; a CR is California Redwood. Line 6 is 'Nuuk, Greenland has a subpolar climate' - I have no idea where she got that one.
I want to know why none of the female bloggers I link to has submitted a report on the Lisa Whelchel Womens' Conference which took place last weekend at a First Baptist church in a nearby bedroom community. I know it wasn't because none of you went. We're talking Lisa Whelchel, y'all. You know, Blair from Facts of Life? There could be no more inspiring conferee than she. She scrapbooks; she homeschools; she does conferences for women; she smiles alot; there can be no better guidepost for you gals. In fact, I think she was on the cover of Guideposts back in the early 90s. Oh well, I guess you'll have to catch her next week at the MomTime Get-A-Way in Monroe, Michigan. Or if God has blessed you with the riches you deserve (or healthy residuals from Nick at Nite), you could hire her as a Personal Mom Coach or you could go on the Premier Christian Cruises Music Boat with her. In the meantime the aforementioned church will be hosting Team Impact (and yes, you do have to watch the video). After that, be sure you go see Jesus Camp!! See you there.
There was one woman in there looking intently at a row of costumes in the adult section (and I don't mean size-wise) who looked to be over 50 and about 5'2" and wore spandex pants in a blue the color of the old Crayola cornflower crayon and shoes kind of like this. The shirt was unremarkable, but she had on a really, really bad black wig that increased her mass by about 68%. And people, I got the distinct impression that this was not a temporary status, that she was not just trying on a costume and had stepped out of the dressing room for another size. When she moved on I went over to see what she had been perusing and they were these slutty French maid, stewardess, and Catholic school girl costumes. Then I see this lanky guy slathered in average-looking tattoos saunter up and spank her cornflower butt and off they go. Awwwww...
Then there was this bra-busting mother-of-at-least-two squawking at her kids about some $3.00 plastic swords while she was trying to find an M&M costume in her size - to no avail. Another treat was the entrance to the dressing room - and I wouldn't ponder that image too long - the sentinel placed there looked to be passed out. I'm not sure if it was due to exhaustion or long-term exposure to latex. I gave her the benefit of the doubt and concocted a story in my mind that she was probably a single mom who was working three jobs and by Friday night it had simply caught up to her. See, I really am compassionate and empathic.
Here's what we did when we got home:
SGK decided we would make our own almanac by writing down everything we know - but it had to be 'natural'. Unfortunately, bedtime arrived before the tome was complete. The aspen trees phrase was supposed to be included on line 2. Line 3 says 'to a CR a person is 2 inches tall'; a CR is California Redwood. Line 6 is 'Nuuk, Greenland has a subpolar climate' - I have no idea where she got that one.
I want to know why none of the female bloggers I link to has submitted a report on the Lisa Whelchel Womens' Conference which took place last weekend at a First Baptist church in a nearby bedroom community. I know it wasn't because none of you went. We're talking Lisa Whelchel, y'all. You know, Blair from Facts of Life? There could be no more inspiring conferee than she. She scrapbooks; she homeschools; she does conferences for women; she smiles alot; there can be no better guidepost for you gals. In fact, I think she was on the cover of Guideposts back in the early 90s. Oh well, I guess you'll have to catch her next week at the MomTime Get-A-Way in Monroe, Michigan. Or if God has blessed you with the riches you deserve (or healthy residuals from Nick at Nite), you could hire her as a Personal Mom Coach or you could go on the Premier Christian Cruises Music Boat with her. In the meantime the aforementioned church will be hosting Team Impact (and yes, you do have to watch the video). After that, be sure you go see Jesus Camp!! See you there.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Remember Me To One Who Lives There
We went to the Fair Tuesday evening, we four, and I went with the full intention of gathering fodder for this post. Not that full attention was not given to the family, but, y'know, I was keeping one eye open for blogmatter. I don't know if it was some sort of middle-aged ennui or what but it was definitely a case of plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. Let me say first, I will always go to the Fair. It doesn't matter what it costs, it is just something you have to do as a citizen. Voting and Fair attendance. Queen, you will always be a Texan because you don't go.
But you can only marvel at white trash for so long. A 250-pound woman in a miniskirt and high heels with a jumbo beer and a Marlboro in one hand and a six foot tall chartreuse coyote tucked under the other is remarkable at Penn Square Mall. At the Fair, in her natural habitat, it's not even a head-turner. When I was in college (in apparent marked contrast to Queen's and Gouldie's time there), my friends and I made sport of overtly ogling some gal, begging her beau to offer up the Holy Grail of smart-ass-response-invoking questions, "Whudderyoulookinat?!" Or the equally enticing, "Yougottaproblem?!" (That was only if it looked like he wasn't armed or had any friends in proximity) At first I thought, "I pretty well see that everyday at work, so it's no longer a treat." But then I realized, no, this is different -- they're wearing their dress-up clothes to the Fair, not their all-day-chatting-on-the-internet clothes. Even so, while I saw many slutty outfits, I'm not compelled to go on about it because it's been done. I myself wrote a piece every year on the Fair for the college newspaper. And whichever alternative-to-the-alternative newspaper is still in print on any given September is likely to have a white-trash-at-the-Fair piece. But...I...really...want...to... I noticed several gals had these potbellies and insisted on wearing bare-midriff shirts about two sizes too small. No. I'm not going to do this. But... I'm stopping now.
We had fun, though. We were there for four hours and we didn't even get to see everything. Our first stop was under the bigtop where we saw De'Anna, The Hypno-Chick. Her delivery was so loud and obnoxious I was pretty sure no one could possibly fall under hypnosis; a fact which was confirmed as the show progessed because most of her 'subjects' did not do a good enough acting job to sell this rube. But she was very attractive with her flouncy skirt and six inch heels... OK, I'm stopping. So we left. Of course, later on YHWH saw De'Anna leaning on a fence after the girls rode the Okie Zip and she had to go up and chat with her. That's why I married her, folks. She's everything I'm not. YHWH, I mean, not De'Anna. I mean De'Anna may also be everything I'm not, but I'm not married to her is what I mean. YHWH will usually extract the contact's origin story and academic credentials, so there's no end to the fascinating details she reports (because I had to stand off to the side). Of course the first thing she said was, "She doesn't look nearly as good up close. You can tell she's older than she looks on stage." Ah, women. Always looking out for each other. I'm always amazed at how even blue-state gals do this. No matter how refined, liberated or enlightened, they still put so much stock on appearance. But the Hypno-Chick was very friendly and very nice and she offered to shake the Killer's hand, but since the Killer had earlier seen her grab someone's hand and make them fall asleep, she was not wont to take it.
We also visited the various international peddlers and everyone purchased a small trinket. I'm still bummed that I didn't go back and buy some incense from the Tibetan booth. I waited because I wanted to see what the Indian booth had and then I forgot to go back. Killer was trying to be big time and did all of her own negotiations and purchases. The next morning she held up this little cloisonne box she got from one of the Andean booths and said, "Two dollahhh..." If that's not an educational payoff, what is?
But you can only marvel at white trash for so long. A 250-pound woman in a miniskirt and high heels with a jumbo beer and a Marlboro in one hand and a six foot tall chartreuse coyote tucked under the other is remarkable at Penn Square Mall. At the Fair, in her natural habitat, it's not even a head-turner. When I was in college (in apparent marked contrast to Queen's and Gouldie's time there), my friends and I made sport of overtly ogling some gal, begging her beau to offer up the Holy Grail of smart-ass-response-invoking questions, "Whudderyoulookinat?!" Or the equally enticing, "Yougottaproblem?!" (That was only if it looked like he wasn't armed or had any friends in proximity) At first I thought, "I pretty well see that everyday at work, so it's no longer a treat." But then I realized, no, this is different -- they're wearing their dress-up clothes to the Fair, not their all-day-chatting-on-the-internet clothes. Even so, while I saw many slutty outfits, I'm not compelled to go on about it because it's been done. I myself wrote a piece every year on the Fair for the college newspaper. And whichever alternative-to-the-alternative newspaper is still in print on any given September is likely to have a white-trash-at-the-Fair piece. But...I...really...want...to... I noticed several gals had these potbellies and insisted on wearing bare-midriff shirts about two sizes too small. No. I'm not going to do this. But... I'm stopping now.
We had fun, though. We were there for four hours and we didn't even get to see everything. Our first stop was under the bigtop where we saw De'Anna, The Hypno-Chick. Her delivery was so loud and obnoxious I was pretty sure no one could possibly fall under hypnosis; a fact which was confirmed as the show progessed because most of her 'subjects' did not do a good enough acting job to sell this rube. But she was very attractive with her flouncy skirt and six inch heels... OK, I'm stopping. So we left. Of course, later on YHWH saw De'Anna leaning on a fence after the girls rode the Okie Zip and she had to go up and chat with her. That's why I married her, folks. She's everything I'm not. YHWH, I mean, not De'Anna. I mean De'Anna may also be everything I'm not, but I'm not married to her is what I mean. YHWH will usually extract the contact's origin story and academic credentials, so there's no end to the fascinating details she reports (because I had to stand off to the side). Of course the first thing she said was, "She doesn't look nearly as good up close. You can tell she's older than she looks on stage." Ah, women. Always looking out for each other. I'm always amazed at how even blue-state gals do this. No matter how refined, liberated or enlightened, they still put so much stock on appearance. But the Hypno-Chick was very friendly and very nice and she offered to shake the Killer's hand, but since the Killer had earlier seen her grab someone's hand and make them fall asleep, she was not wont to take it.
We also visited the various international peddlers and everyone purchased a small trinket. I'm still bummed that I didn't go back and buy some incense from the Tibetan booth. I waited because I wanted to see what the Indian booth had and then I forgot to go back. Killer was trying to be big time and did all of her own negotiations and purchases. The next morning she held up this little cloisonne box she got from one of the Andean booths and said, "Two dollahhh..." If that's not an educational payoff, what is?
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Don't Do What Your Big Sister Does
If it had been about 40 degrees cooler yesterday I could've used my favorite word in the English language: blustery. I don't know exactly why I love that word so much. Probably because it describes my favorite atmospheric condition. It more than describes it; you can just feel it by saying it. As it was we had a scirocco.
I'm not positive when I first fell in love with that word, but I'm sure my first encounter of it was in something related to Winnie the Pooh. I looked a few things up and the movie called The Blustery Day came out in 1968, so I'm sure I didn't see that in the theaters (pre-VHS days), so there was probably a book or some attendant marketing to the movie I was handed-down. One thing I do remember is listening to a Disney lp of Now We Are Six. It was a 33.3rpm vinyl with a booklet inside and it may have had the Blustery Day in it. It's weird -- I suddenly recall that being my earliest memory of melancholia. I remember the line goes something like "Now I am six and clever as ever; I think I shall remain six forever". I guess I figured out I was going to have to grow up someday. Maybe it was the songs. Who knows. I'm a sensitive guy, y'know.
If you felt the Earth quaking a little today it was not the bullsh*t refereeing at the OU-Oregon game. It was a visit from the Saint's sister. It was the first time I'd seen her since November and the first time she'd been in my home since 2002. She came to see her grandson, but I did wheedle a visit out of her on the grounds that the gaze of her visage had not fallen upon our domicile. We had a very nice visit and I learned my grandnephew's new home is proximate ours, so at least I will have some family nearby, even though it will likely be a net-loss in effort. And by the way, I myself am not that old. I have a grandnephew because my sister married waaaay too young and her eldest child likewise followed suit, resulting in the benefit to her of people saying in awe that she simply looks waaay too young to be a grandmother and the proportionate nuisance to me of people saying, "You have a grandnephew? How old are you?"
I loved seeing my sister. I really miss her.
Check out Purple Bunny next time you see her. She has the glow....
We ate at the freakishly named Qdoba this evening because we had heard it was good. Ehhh...can't recommend it. For one thing, when we walked in we were disoriented and owing to the design of the menu and fixtures, we weren't entirely sure if we were in Qdoba or Pei Wei or P.F. Chang's. We made a promise to each other to trace the corporate heritage in an effort to delineate the three. Anyway, Qdoba admittedly had to work hard to impress us because we adore Moe's and go there every weekend. Qdoba is essentially a soulless version of Moe's (and no, I don't know which one came first). My skepticism quickly became assured as the server (you go cafeteria style like at Subway and 'build' your burrito) and I faced a Tex-Mexican standoff. I simply refuse to initiate any retail transaction and so there was a panful silence of 30-45 seeconds while I looked her in the eye and waited to be asked if I wanted pinto or black, hard or soft, etc. They do that at Moe's, y'know. And then at the end of the line, I learn that I am expected to pay 1.79 for chips and salsa. A cash register ring for C&S may as well be a death knell for my entertainment dollar in any establishment no matter how good the food. I do not pay for C&S. The food tasted OK, though. But you pay the same price as Moe's for a burrito and don't get any chips. So I pity the fool who eats there. Are you not psyched about Mr. T's new reality show, "I Pity the Fool"? It's s'posed to be a Dr. Phil-type advice show.
I'm not positive when I first fell in love with that word, but I'm sure my first encounter of it was in something related to Winnie the Pooh. I looked a few things up and the movie called The Blustery Day came out in 1968, so I'm sure I didn't see that in the theaters (pre-VHS days), so there was probably a book or some attendant marketing to the movie I was handed-down. One thing I do remember is listening to a Disney lp of Now We Are Six. It was a 33.3rpm vinyl with a booklet inside and it may have had the Blustery Day in it. It's weird -- I suddenly recall that being my earliest memory of melancholia. I remember the line goes something like "Now I am six and clever as ever; I think I shall remain six forever". I guess I figured out I was going to have to grow up someday. Maybe it was the songs. Who knows. I'm a sensitive guy, y'know.
If you felt the Earth quaking a little today it was not the bullsh*t refereeing at the OU-Oregon game. It was a visit from the Saint's sister. It was the first time I'd seen her since November and the first time she'd been in my home since 2002. She came to see her grandson, but I did wheedle a visit out of her on the grounds that the gaze of her visage had not fallen upon our domicile. We had a very nice visit and I learned my grandnephew's new home is proximate ours, so at least I will have some family nearby, even though it will likely be a net-loss in effort. And by the way, I myself am not that old. I have a grandnephew because my sister married waaaay too young and her eldest child likewise followed suit, resulting in the benefit to her of people saying in awe that she simply looks waaay too young to be a grandmother and the proportionate nuisance to me of people saying, "You have a grandnephew? How old are you?"
I loved seeing my sister. I really miss her.
Check out Purple Bunny next time you see her. She has the glow....
We ate at the freakishly named Qdoba this evening because we had heard it was good. Ehhh...can't recommend it. For one thing, when we walked in we were disoriented and owing to the design of the menu and fixtures, we weren't entirely sure if we were in Qdoba or Pei Wei or P.F. Chang's. We made a promise to each other to trace the corporate heritage in an effort to delineate the three. Anyway, Qdoba admittedly had to work hard to impress us because we adore Moe's and go there every weekend. Qdoba is essentially a soulless version of Moe's (and no, I don't know which one came first). My skepticism quickly became assured as the server (you go cafeteria style like at Subway and 'build' your burrito) and I faced a Tex-Mexican standoff. I simply refuse to initiate any retail transaction and so there was a panful silence of 30-45 seeconds while I looked her in the eye and waited to be asked if I wanted pinto or black, hard or soft, etc. They do that at Moe's, y'know. And then at the end of the line, I learn that I am expected to pay 1.79 for chips and salsa. A cash register ring for C&S may as well be a death knell for my entertainment dollar in any establishment no matter how good the food. I do not pay for C&S. The food tasted OK, though. But you pay the same price as Moe's for a burrito and don't get any chips. So I pity the fool who eats there. Are you not psyched about Mr. T's new reality show, "I Pity the Fool"? It's s'posed to be a Dr. Phil-type advice show.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
The Ol' College Try
Last night YHWH and I attended a work function of hers. It's one of the few large-scale gatherings of it's kind I have ever been able to suffer through. I've been going for about a decade now and even though I still don't feel a part of the group (mainly because I'm not), last night was the first time I realized it may be the closest thing I have to an extended family.
From my vantage at Table 7, I panned around and saw people I have known for 20 years now in various capacities. There was Mr. and Mrs. Tex at the power table (No. 5). At this table was a couple I'd traveled thousands of miles across the country with. At that table was a woman I'd gone to school with who is now a professor. Over there was one of my major profs who inexplicably will not speak to me (he's Canadian, tho) and next to him was the guy who taught Queen and me (maybe Gouldie, too) creative writing who also won't speak to me. My ex-wife's sister was there. A Jeopardy!-style game on stage featured Mr. Tex, Tex's friend, and a woman I had a date with once as contestants. And when I extended it out, I realized that pretty much everyone I associate with for better or worse can be traced back to someone in that room. I don't know what all that means. Maybe it'll turn in to another post sometime in future. All I can say for now is, "Choose your college wisely, kids!"
Just finished some legwarmers for SGK:
Have to get on that cable knit hat now...
From my vantage at Table 7, I panned around and saw people I have known for 20 years now in various capacities. There was Mr. and Mrs. Tex at the power table (No. 5). At this table was a couple I'd traveled thousands of miles across the country with. At that table was a woman I'd gone to school with who is now a professor. Over there was one of my major profs who inexplicably will not speak to me (he's Canadian, tho) and next to him was the guy who taught Queen and me (maybe Gouldie, too) creative writing who also won't speak to me. My ex-wife's sister was there. A Jeopardy!-style game on stage featured Mr. Tex, Tex's friend, and a woman I had a date with once as contestants. And when I extended it out, I realized that pretty much everyone I associate with for better or worse can be traced back to someone in that room. I don't know what all that means. Maybe it'll turn in to another post sometime in future. All I can say for now is, "Choose your college wisely, kids!"
Just finished some legwarmers for SGK:
Have to get on that cable knit hat now...
Saturday, September 02, 2006
A Map of the Human Heart
OK, well that lasted about a week. I admit it. I overreacted to local conditions. So now I have decided to act on the best advice I got during my embarrasing hiatus which came in the form of a comment on my last post from someone I don't even know - Barbarina. And Barbarina is apparently Canadian so, great, now I have to revise my list again. At any rate, thanks, Barbarina.
So what was that all about? The thing is, if I told you then I'd be doing the same thing that got me into trouble in the first place. It's a problem as old as blogs themselves - or as Gouldie may soon realize, as old as written communication. Misunderstanding.
I wasn't aware that my blog was secret. I was pretty sure everyone in my family knew about it even though I know they never actually read it. Until last weekend. Last weekend the Child Formerly Know As The Self (C. F. Kats) decided to gorge herself on six months of the Empty Room. She didn't like her nickname. She didn't like that I implied that she needed to go see the slums or that she needed to intern with Gouldie. And I didn't realize it, but as the single official representative of the millions of teens in the United States, she is insulted when I mention teens in any context. So, after a few hours of catharsis in the wee hours of the morning, we reached an agreement wherein I would stop using the name and use a name of her choosing. I didn't even point out the irony that someone could read 63 posts containing valuable insight into family and friends and a parent's quasi-inner life (I would kill to read a blog my dad wrote in the 70s) and zero in on four or five sentences as an indictment of the whole enterprise and then complain that their nickname was Self. I won't go into anymore details there, but the end result was that by Sunday, it became apparent that no M*A*S*H unit was going to heal these wounds so I just figured it would be better to stop. So over the course of the weekend despite denial of such, the lamentations increased and I finally just pulled the plug because it wasn't worth the discord.
Because I always have to know the damnable why, I tried to explore the situation this week and figure out where the breakdown is. Starting with the obvious, no one likes to be humiliated and even though from my perspective I didn't write anything humiliating at all, it was to her and I acknowledge that and apologize for that. But as I pushed ahead and consulted Tex and Queen I realized the breakdown had to do with The Approval Syndrome. Apparently, and I was unaware of this, your children need your approval. I had no idea. The way it works is that you're supposed to say nice things to them and then it makes them feel good about themselves and then they build on that to become well-adjusted adults. But wait! There's more! Girls need lots and lots of this stuff and they need it from their dads! Constantly!
And therein lies the problem. I can't do that. If it even occurs to me to compliment someone, the words dissipate somewhere between the tip of my tongue and my lips. Like Johnny Depp's Willy Wonka trying to say "parents" or Rowan Atkinson's priest trying to say "St John" on Four Weddings and a Funeral. In my memory, I don't really remember needing a lot of approval as a kid. The way I figured it, if you behaved, you didn't get in trouble; if you did your school work, you got good grades. Not getting grounded and getting A's were sufficient approval for me. I didn't get a lot of praise. In fact when I became the first person in the recorded history of our clan to graduate from college, my folks were on the couch watching TV and I produced my diploma and said, "Well, I'm a college graduate. 3.98 GPA." Their reply was, "We knew you could do it."
So, not having learned to give approval and having a low threshold of need myself, I'm at a loss here. I see first hand how important it is because YHWH still talks about how 40 years ago she brought home a straight A report card and her dad said, "Couldn't you do any better than that?" I thought that was funny when I heard it, yet she has been scarred by this her whole life and it was a joke. So I have to figure this out obviously.
While struggling with why I can't give compliments, I was tempted to blameshift. Part of the problem, I reasoned, was that for awhile I rarely ever saw C. F. Kats and when I did it often involved her not completing a chore or just being generally difficult. I wasn't witnessing 'the good things'. So I couldn't be blamed for not approving that, right? But that situation has improved, so there goes that argument. Then, as if the omnious warning from the Ghost of YHWH's past or the Ghost of C.F. Kats' Present weren't enough, on Thursday night I got a visit from the Ghost of SGK's Future.
This kid has been approved of and praised from the beginning. In fact, she runs the risk of being a little egotistical. If that sounds contrary to what I've said above, it's only because she is much smaller and you can coo over babies without much difficulty. Well, anyway, Thursday night we were driving home from an event and she starts in insulting our new home. Never one to miss an opportunity for character development, I told her that she should be grateful for her home. She persisited in her comments and I said that I was going to make her sleep out in the backyard and that YHWH and I work really hard to provide our home and it hurts our feelings to hear her say those things. Before long she breaks into these deep sobs and says, "I'm afraid you're going to be happy when I'm dead." I know what you're thinking - it was manipulation, she was working me over - but no, this was pretty deeply felt. So years of approval can be undone with one stroke of disapproval.
So here's what I have learned: kids need approval; girls need mountains of approval; no amount of approval is enough.
So, until I can speak the words:
I'm am proud of C.F. Kats because:
She bravely strode into her new school without looking back.
She bravely wears any outfit she wants.
She bravely discloses alot to her parents.
She does the dishes without being told.
She watches her sister without being paid.
She watches her sister without complaining.
She is loyal to her friends.
She is willing to improve herself.
She is diligent about her school work.
She gets herself ready for school without being told.
She is willing to watch TV with an old fat guy in glasses.
She reads alot.
She cries alot.
She tries not to hurt other people's feelings.
She is active in her church.
She is a trooper.
I love her.
I'm Saint Fiacre and I approve of this message.
So what was that all about? The thing is, if I told you then I'd be doing the same thing that got me into trouble in the first place. It's a problem as old as blogs themselves - or as Gouldie may soon realize, as old as written communication. Misunderstanding.
I wasn't aware that my blog was secret. I was pretty sure everyone in my family knew about it even though I know they never actually read it. Until last weekend. Last weekend the Child Formerly Know As The Self (C. F. Kats) decided to gorge herself on six months of the Empty Room. She didn't like her nickname. She didn't like that I implied that she needed to go see the slums or that she needed to intern with Gouldie. And I didn't realize it, but as the single official representative of the millions of teens in the United States, she is insulted when I mention teens in any context. So, after a few hours of catharsis in the wee hours of the morning, we reached an agreement wherein I would stop using the name and use a name of her choosing. I didn't even point out the irony that someone could read 63 posts containing valuable insight into family and friends and a parent's quasi-inner life (I would kill to read a blog my dad wrote in the 70s) and zero in on four or five sentences as an indictment of the whole enterprise and then complain that their nickname was Self. I won't go into anymore details there, but the end result was that by Sunday, it became apparent that no M*A*S*H unit was going to heal these wounds so I just figured it would be better to stop. So over the course of the weekend despite denial of such, the lamentations increased and I finally just pulled the plug because it wasn't worth the discord.
Because I always have to know the damnable why, I tried to explore the situation this week and figure out where the breakdown is. Starting with the obvious, no one likes to be humiliated and even though from my perspective I didn't write anything humiliating at all, it was to her and I acknowledge that and apologize for that. But as I pushed ahead and consulted Tex and Queen I realized the breakdown had to do with The Approval Syndrome. Apparently, and I was unaware of this, your children need your approval. I had no idea. The way it works is that you're supposed to say nice things to them and then it makes them feel good about themselves and then they build on that to become well-adjusted adults. But wait! There's more! Girls need lots and lots of this stuff and they need it from their dads! Constantly!
And therein lies the problem. I can't do that. If it even occurs to me to compliment someone, the words dissipate somewhere between the tip of my tongue and my lips. Like Johnny Depp's Willy Wonka trying to say "parents" or Rowan Atkinson's priest trying to say "St John" on Four Weddings and a Funeral. In my memory, I don't really remember needing a lot of approval as a kid. The way I figured it, if you behaved, you didn't get in trouble; if you did your school work, you got good grades. Not getting grounded and getting A's were sufficient approval for me. I didn't get a lot of praise. In fact when I became the first person in the recorded history of our clan to graduate from college, my folks were on the couch watching TV and I produced my diploma and said, "Well, I'm a college graduate. 3.98 GPA." Their reply was, "We knew you could do it."
So, not having learned to give approval and having a low threshold of need myself, I'm at a loss here. I see first hand how important it is because YHWH still talks about how 40 years ago she brought home a straight A report card and her dad said, "Couldn't you do any better than that?" I thought that was funny when I heard it, yet she has been scarred by this her whole life and it was a joke. So I have to figure this out obviously.
While struggling with why I can't give compliments, I was tempted to blameshift. Part of the problem, I reasoned, was that for awhile I rarely ever saw C. F. Kats and when I did it often involved her not completing a chore or just being generally difficult. I wasn't witnessing 'the good things'. So I couldn't be blamed for not approving that, right? But that situation has improved, so there goes that argument. Then, as if the omnious warning from the Ghost of YHWH's past or the Ghost of C.F. Kats' Present weren't enough, on Thursday night I got a visit from the Ghost of SGK's Future.
This kid has been approved of and praised from the beginning. In fact, she runs the risk of being a little egotistical. If that sounds contrary to what I've said above, it's only because she is much smaller and you can coo over babies without much difficulty. Well, anyway, Thursday night we were driving home from an event and she starts in insulting our new home. Never one to miss an opportunity for character development, I told her that she should be grateful for her home. She persisited in her comments and I said that I was going to make her sleep out in the backyard and that YHWH and I work really hard to provide our home and it hurts our feelings to hear her say those things. Before long she breaks into these deep sobs and says, "I'm afraid you're going to be happy when I'm dead." I know what you're thinking - it was manipulation, she was working me over - but no, this was pretty deeply felt. So years of approval can be undone with one stroke of disapproval.
So here's what I have learned: kids need approval; girls need mountains of approval; no amount of approval is enough.
So, until I can speak the words:
I'm am proud of C.F. Kats because:
She bravely strode into her new school without looking back.
She bravely wears any outfit she wants.
She bravely discloses alot to her parents.
She does the dishes without being told.
She watches her sister without being paid.
She watches her sister without complaining.
She is loyal to her friends.
She is willing to improve herself.
She is diligent about her school work.
She gets herself ready for school without being told.
She is willing to watch TV with an old fat guy in glasses.
She reads alot.
She cries alot.
She tries not to hurt other people's feelings.
She is active in her church.
She is a trooper.
I love her.
I'm Saint Fiacre and I approve of this message.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
A Noble Experiment
You may remember that I forecast that I wouldn't be able to keep this thing going for more than three months. Now into its sixth month I have to say it's been fun, but it's been fun, but I just don't have the will anymore. It's gotten to be a political minefield and not worth the trouble. Our cult leader once pulled me up in front of the congregation and said God told him I had been blessed with a keen ability to see and speak the truth. He may have been right and if he was, I'd have to say it's more of a curse than a blessing. So since I don't want to be less than truthful or constantly look over my shoulder, I'm puttin' her to bed.
Thanks for your support over the months, dear reader.
Good night. Good luck.
Saint Fiacre
Thanks for your support over the months, dear reader.
Good night. Good luck.
Saint Fiacre
Monday, August 21, 2006
Once Upon A Time There Were Three Beautiful Girls Who Went To The Police Academy
In our house we have back-to-school season. All three of the gals start their various school activities in a stagger - first SGK last Wednesday, then Self yesterday and YHWH on Thursday.
The first step, of course, was the annual school supply odyssey. Mid-July of every year the big box retailers close out the flip-flops and inflatables and concentrate all the school supplies for one stop shopping. At least that's the theory. There's always one specific item you can never find. Sometimes they forget to put the kleenex over there, or if they did put it there, they have a bundle of three 150 count, but you're supposed to get two 225s. Or they only have the .5 oz glue stick, but you're supposed to get the 1 oz. A sane and rational person would conclude that you could get two 100s of something instead of a 200, but that person has obviously never spied the look of anxiety in their child's eyes as thoughts of being the only kid in class who brought undersized gluesticks race through their minds projecting the year-long horror of seeing their name Sharpied on the tubes lying unused at the bottom of the community supply cache to be opened only in case of an emergency.
The other part of Supply Day is the ritual selection of the backpack and lunchpail. I myself looked forward to selecting a new lunchpail (never lunchbox by the way) every August almost more than I anticipated my birthday. I lunched in the Aladdin era, just after the introduction of plastic Thermoses to replace the glass-innard ones, but before those stupid soft puffy plastic ones they have now. The ones I remember were GI Joe, Six Million Dollar Man, Charlie's Angels (rowwwrrr), Land of the Giants, and in 1977 I got one that had all the NFL helmets on it - AFC on one side, NFC on the other. It was the bane of my year, though, because the Seattle Seahawks and Tampa Bay Buccaneers had switched leagues that season and my lunchpail did not reflect that. It drove me crazy. I must post about the reason I only ever took my lunch to school and avoided the cafeteria. Anyway, I was sure the Killer would take forever, but she gravitated immediately to her new backpack. There was no other backpack for her. This was it. She was sure. She was even willing to shun Hello Kitty, Bratz and Barbie lunchpail and get a generic one so that it would match her backpack. Here it is:
That is so SGK.
So, Super Giant Killer started last week on half days. Her sister had the same teacher SGK is getting this year. The Self was miserable with Ms. Legend as a teacher and said she was mean and grabbed kids by the neck or yelled at them for no reason. I'm not positive, but I think I remember Tex's eldest had the same experience. So, I didn't want to poison the well, but I tried to prepare SGK a little bit:
"Now, your new teacher is very serious, but if you behave and do your work, there won't be any problems."
She shrugged her shoulders and said, "I heard she was mean, but I can handle you, Dad, so I know I can handle her! In fact, you and Ms. Legend make a much better couple. So, if Mom can find a cute guy, you can be with Ms. Legend." She basically called me mean and ugly in the same sentence.
So on the first day, I told her if she jumped up and got dressed I would take her to Dunkin Donuts for breakfast. Actually, what happened was a week or so before her first day, YHWH and I worked out the transportation issues and since YHWH was not back to work yet, she was going to take SGK to school. Then at bedtime the night before, YHWH says, in front the Killer:
"Don't you wish you could take her to school on her first day?"
I felt the rush of rush of emotion flow through me like syrup and cola at a soda fountain - Bad Dad Cola and Backstabbing Wife Strangle Syrup.
"Well, maybe if I you had told me earlier I could've made arrangements at work to be late..."
"You've known when her first day is for months..."
I really wanted to blaspheme the Holy Ghost and invoke half of the seven words, but instead I was inspired (maybe by the Holy Ghost) to reply, "Well, since you probably won't be ready to leave on time, I thought I would take her to Dunkin Donuts before school to celebrate! How 'bout that Killer? Huh? A little Double-D to kick off the year?!"
She selected a Marble Frosted and we got YHWH a giant iced mocha (see, I'm forgiving). On the way back the Killer said, "I think they made a typo on the menu. It should be maple frosted."
She seems to be loving school so far but she misses her best friend from last year (Gouldie's niece) who didn't end up in her class.
Soon, I will relay the first day of High School. You won't want to miss it. I wish I had.
The first step, of course, was the annual school supply odyssey. Mid-July of every year the big box retailers close out the flip-flops and inflatables and concentrate all the school supplies for one stop shopping. At least that's the theory. There's always one specific item you can never find. Sometimes they forget to put the kleenex over there, or if they did put it there, they have a bundle of three 150 count, but you're supposed to get two 225s. Or they only have the .5 oz glue stick, but you're supposed to get the 1 oz. A sane and rational person would conclude that you could get two 100s of something instead of a 200, but that person has obviously never spied the look of anxiety in their child's eyes as thoughts of being the only kid in class who brought undersized gluesticks race through their minds projecting the year-long horror of seeing their name Sharpied on the tubes lying unused at the bottom of the community supply cache to be opened only in case of an emergency.
The other part of Supply Day is the ritual selection of the backpack and lunchpail. I myself looked forward to selecting a new lunchpail (never lunchbox by the way) every August almost more than I anticipated my birthday. I lunched in the Aladdin era, just after the introduction of plastic Thermoses to replace the glass-innard ones, but before those stupid soft puffy plastic ones they have now. The ones I remember were GI Joe, Six Million Dollar Man, Charlie's Angels (rowwwrrr), Land of the Giants, and in 1977 I got one that had all the NFL helmets on it - AFC on one side, NFC on the other. It was the bane of my year, though, because the Seattle Seahawks and Tampa Bay Buccaneers had switched leagues that season and my lunchpail did not reflect that. It drove me crazy. I must post about the reason I only ever took my lunch to school and avoided the cafeteria. Anyway, I was sure the Killer would take forever, but she gravitated immediately to her new backpack. There was no other backpack for her. This was it. She was sure. She was even willing to shun Hello Kitty, Bratz and Barbie lunchpail and get a generic one so that it would match her backpack. Here it is:
That is so SGK.
So, Super Giant Killer started last week on half days. Her sister had the same teacher SGK is getting this year. The Self was miserable with Ms. Legend as a teacher and said she was mean and grabbed kids by the neck or yelled at them for no reason. I'm not positive, but I think I remember Tex's eldest had the same experience. So, I didn't want to poison the well, but I tried to prepare SGK a little bit:
"Now, your new teacher is very serious, but if you behave and do your work, there won't be any problems."
She shrugged her shoulders and said, "I heard she was mean, but I can handle you, Dad, so I know I can handle her! In fact, you and Ms. Legend make a much better couple. So, if Mom can find a cute guy, you can be with Ms. Legend." She basically called me mean and ugly in the same sentence.
So on the first day, I told her if she jumped up and got dressed I would take her to Dunkin Donuts for breakfast. Actually, what happened was a week or so before her first day, YHWH and I worked out the transportation issues and since YHWH was not back to work yet, she was going to take SGK to school. Then at bedtime the night before, YHWH says, in front the Killer:
"Don't you wish you could take her to school on her first day?"
I felt the rush of rush of emotion flow through me like syrup and cola at a soda fountain - Bad Dad Cola and Backstabbing Wife Strangle Syrup.
"Well, maybe if I you had told me earlier I could've made arrangements at work to be late..."
"You've known when her first day is for months..."
I really wanted to blaspheme the Holy Ghost and invoke half of the seven words, but instead I was inspired (maybe by the Holy Ghost) to reply, "Well, since you probably won't be ready to leave on time, I thought I would take her to Dunkin Donuts before school to celebrate! How 'bout that Killer? Huh? A little Double-D to kick off the year?!"
She selected a Marble Frosted and we got YHWH a giant iced mocha (see, I'm forgiving). On the way back the Killer said, "I think they made a typo on the menu. It should be maple frosted."
She seems to be loving school so far but she misses her best friend from last year (Gouldie's niece) who didn't end up in her class.
Soon, I will relay the first day of High School. You won't want to miss it. I wish I had.
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