The Velveteen Hedgehog

Over Christmas, I visited some friends whose chaotic household includes three pets: a cat, a shepherd mix, and a Great Dane-black lab mix (who distinguished herself this holiday season by graphically failing to digest six dozens' worth of cookie dough all over the kitchen floor in the midst of the annual nog-oriented festivities - but that's another story). During the several days I was there, the pets seemed hell-bent on destroying their Christmas toy. They were already in the final phases of their efforts: all I could make out of the toy in question was an indiscriminate, slobbery lump of red and green plush loosely swathing an electronic device that still feebly played "We wish you a Merry Christmas" upon each toothy impact. It was funny and incongruous to see the beloved furry pets turn into fierce beasts determined to rip those cheery little pre-recorded carolers to shreds.

Several days later the neighbs's mother, in keeping with tradition, received - with the usual disappointment - the silliest present in the family gift exchange (the kind where you draw numbers, open one present, swap, steal, et cetera). It was a tiny plush chimpanzee wearing a cape and a Zorro mask. When you pulled back his elastic arms you could fling him, slingshot style, a fair distance, and once in the air he emitted a wild monkey screech. Hilarity ensued.

The neighb's mom hoped she could interest her cat in Christmas Chimp, but Gus scampered off during the initial at-home trial launch. Grendl, on the other hand, perked up his ears and bounded to where Christmas Chimp had landed, picked him up, pranced over to me and laid Christmas Chimp on my feet with an expectant smile. Naturally, Christmas Chimp now resides in our pantry, where he is kept safe from evisceration between nightly play sessions.

As funny as he is, and as much delight as Grendl takes from him, Christmas Chimp makes me sad. Intended for human enjoyment, he has instead gone straight to the dogs. Undoubtedly he was made in faraway lands by tiny, tiny hands who probably coveted a Christmas Chimp of their own to slingshot. He was conceived to stuff the stocking of some affluent tot, or at least to evoke occasional merriment from atop someone's computer monitor. Instead, he bypassed such dubious purposes altogether, destined to be drooled upon by a fanged creature incapable of appreciating his adorable little chimp face and the rakishness of his cape and mask.

I, of course, do appreciate these things; but then again, I'm the one who threw him to the wolves in the first place, so to speak. The anthropomorphic side of me cringes every time I throw the poor little guy. His recorded monkey screech sounds less playful and more plaintive with each passing day. I dread the moment that the screeching stops altogether, and the floppy, saliva-drenched, silent form gets deposited in my lap as Grendl once again says, make it go, Mama!

Also, I can't help but feel sorry for Hedgehog, who once enjoyed pride of place in the pantry amid the abandoned frisbees, tug toys and woolly footballs. Her earthy grunt no longer sounds in our hallway, having dulled in comparison to Christmas Chimp's electronic charms. She languishes in crusty solitude, waiting for that cursed battery to expire.

And that, friends, is why I am not allowed so much around the inanimate objects.

happy happy

I just came back from the movie theater in our neighborhood, just a couple of blocks away. I’d never gone to the movies by myself but I’m glad I did, and I’m especially glad I did so for the movie “Happy-Go-Lucky”. There are a couple of reasons, really. First, it was really nice, after spending several days with my family, to do something entirely for and by myself – especially since it consisted in seeing a film about making one’s own fun and happiness in this life. Second, the main character in this film, Poppy Cross, would have annoyed the crap out of anyone whom I could have dragged along.

Poppy even annoyed me at first -- which is saying something, considering how much I liked her from the movie’s trailer. Played by Sally Hawkins, she’s an unlikely heroine for a film: she’s all nervous laughter, zero attention span, kitschy wardrobe and constant wisecracks. You begin to appreciate her wiry, unconventional beauty only when she occasionally holds still. Poppy can find a silver lining where other people would never think to look for one, and her capacity for empathy puts others to shame. She’s no insipid Pollyanna, though: she gets drunk, makes fun of people who have it coming, and sometimes underestimates the extent to which her actions affect others.

Irritating qualities aside, she’s kind of my hero. Her undaunted good humor, her unflagging interest in others and her unwavering determination to seek out the best in people often make her the brunt of awkward encounters. But thanks to her general desire to engage with the world surrounding her, she doggedly challenges the negativity and torpor that surround her on all sides – all the while flatly refusing to take herself, or anyone, too seriously.

Everywhere, Poppy watches violence, anger, resentment, fear and disappointment become the filters through which others interact with the world and with one another. Meanwhile, people keep suggesting that she become an adult by “taking responsibility”. This movie reassured me that someone other than me is out there asking an important question: have we really reached a point at which the conscious cultivation of happiness is regarded as a less wise and serious approach to life than the suppression of one’s innate anger and cynicism? I think what I liked so much about this film, more than Poppy herself, is its suggestion that happiness is a responsibility, too.

Why I hate Rachael Ray

At least I suspect it was Rachael Ray.

Of all the items for the grocery store to run out of on the day before Thanksgiving, pancetta was the last thing I was worried about. Oh, I had these big aspirations about making my stuffing with figs and pancetta along with all the staple Thanksgiving foods, but the grocery store ran out of pancetta on Wednesday morning. Plenty of turkey and canned pumpkin and whatnot, but pancetta? Forget it.

"Ay-yup," said the guy at the deli counter. "I reckon there was some recipe on the Food Network that everybody was all excited to try". His guess was Paula Dean, though personally I think she would have dismissed pancetta in favor of straight up bacon. Stuffed with lard. With a side of butter. No, I think it was probably Rachael Ray.

Mostly because I love to hate her. I mean, who spells "Rachel" like "Michael"? So should I pronounce it "Raykle"? Gimme a break. Also. Men are fascinated by her, and for the simplest of all reasons: she has lots of cleavage and wants to cook them burgers. She's exactly halfway between sexy hot party girl and maternal nurturer who will take care of you for the rest of your life. She sets unreasonable and terrifying standards for the rest of us girls who can think of a better way to spend the day than winning a wet T-shirt contest and then baking you cookies (note - the foregoing sentence was much more lyrically effective and also much more crude in its first incarnation. Inquire for details).

So what do we do? We march straight down to the grocery store and we buy up all the pancetta, yes, because sexiness is not enough anymore, we must be sexy and cook bacon, and not just any bacon, no, but sexy Italian bacon, because this icon of womanhood has ordained that thou shalt cook pancetta and give lap-dances this Thanksgiving, and as a consequence my un-Rachael-related made-up recipe (which I suppose I may have unconsciously leaked to her busty minions when I came up with it all by myself months ago) had to be prepared with the homelier, Paula Dean-endorsed inclusion of humble hickory-smoked bacon.

Epilogue: it was delicious. But I have not forgiven Raykle, nor do I intend to.

I live to sing my #1 pop song versions

So I woke up laughing out loud this morning, and here's why:

I had this dream that I was hanging out in Newport News with my Egyptian friend, Heba; my stepmom, and my aunt. We were giving Heba a ride home, but where she lived was this apartment complex dedicated to Middle Easterners. It was all yellow and orange stucco, extremely hip, and she wanted to show us around. My stepmom was being really schoolgirlish, wanting to pull pranks and stick her head in people's apartments to see if she could meet them.

At one point, she and I broke off from where everybody else was exploring and stumbled onto this lounge which had a pool table, a bar, a big-screen TV and maybe a dance floor. We felt a little trepidation about going inside, and sure enough, a man at a table behind us soon called out in a heavily accented voice, "Excuse me, but you cannot go een zere."

"Oh, it's okay," we said. "We were just peeking."

"What ees thees 'peeking'?"

"You know," I said, covering my face with my hands and then squinting out between them. "Like this. Peeking."

He explained that there was a private party about to start. Heba found us, and the man invited us to sit down with him and this extremely-European-looking lady. It became clear that his accent was not Middle Eastern, but French: a total cartoon French accent.

"Do you want some of zees?" He pointed to a dish on the table. "Eet ees -- how you say -- not ze hummus, but like ze hummus."

"Baba Ghanouj?" I suggested. The man nodded, and we all ate some Baba Ghanouj.

He informed us that he was the caterer for the party, and seemed eager to give us all his business card, which was a really chintzy ivory-colored card with black cursive lettering on it. "You are in a not-so-nice neighborhood? Eet's okay. I go anywhere. I make your party." He lifted up his pant leg to show us his shoes, which were patent leather except for the toes, which were iridescent white. When he flipped a switch on the side of his shoe, the white part lit up and made this great "bezwowowowong" kind of science fiction-y sound.

"In Bolivia," he explained, "you can hear ze shine on ze people's shoes. You can hear ze shine and ze POWER."

It was at that moment that I looked more closely at his business card. I couldn't make out the name, but underneath his name and 'caterer' was a diagonal banner which read 'I live to sing my #1 pop song versions.'

I swear to you that I made this whole thing up, but none of it while I was awake.

All is well.

The democratic process is alive and kicking in the USA.

The candidate who won the popular vote will become the 44th president in January.

The candidate who won sufficient votes in the electoral college will become the 44th president in January.

The candidate who appealed to Americans' better nature won the election.

The candidate who appealed to Americans' fear and cynicism lost the election.

A generation of young Americans believes again that their votes make a difference.

A generation often condemned -- or worse, dismissed -- for its apathy went out yesterday and elected a president.

An ethnicity often condemned -- or worse, dismissed -- for its apathy went out yesterday and elected a president.

In the privacy of the voting booth, with no one watching over, a generation raised prior to desegregation searched their souls -- and in them, found our next president.

A man who overcame the kind of undeniable hardships related to class, race and family familiar to many of us will soon occupy the highest political office in our country.

A man who successfully negotiates his multicultural identity will soon occupy the highest political office in our country.

A generation of African American children has a role model who will soon occupy the highest political office in our country. 

A generation of African American children will aspire not to a lucky break in professional sports or the entertainment industry, but to a college education.

America elected a man who is both well-spoken and intellectual.

America elected the man the whole world wanted us to elect.

America elected a man who believes in statesmanship regardless of one's sphere of influence, a principle upon which this nation was founded.

America elected a man who believes in the importance of community activism, a principle upon which this nation was founded.

America elected a man who believes that dissent and criticism are responsibilities of patriotic citizens, a principle upon which this nation was founded.

My children will not know a world in which a black man has never become President of the United States of America.

And Sasha and Malia Obama get a new puppy.

This just gets better and better.

happy haunting

I love Halloween. It's probably my favorite holiday, in fact. I've always been the kind of person who starts cooking up next year's costume on about November 10th. My only regret about my current residence is that it's on the second floor and any potential trick-or-treaters will undoubtedly get automatically routed to downstairs.

I can already tell I'm going to love Halloween even more in Virginia. If I stick around here long enough, my someday children will never have to know the disappointment of being compelled to throw a bulky winter coat over a carefully-concocted costume due to prematurely sub-zero weather, or have to plan their costumes around fitting twelve pairs of sweatpants and eight pairs of socks underneath.

I think you can tell a lot about people by their approach to Halloween. Perhaps I overgeneralize, but I think that people who scoff at dressing up on Halloween are simply not my kind of people. For Pete's sake, we have this one socially-endorsed chance each year not to take ourselves so bloody seriously and to indulge our creativity to the fullest. So what if your moustache falls off every ten minutes? Who cares if you can't sit down all night? Dressing up in a silly costume isn't a chore, it's a privilege.

It isn't childish, either. In his essay On Three Ways of Writing for Children C.S. Lewis remarks: "To be concerned about being grown up, to admire the grown up because it is grown up, to blush at the suspicion of being childish; these things are the marks of childhood and adolescence [...] to carry on into middle life or even into early manhood this concern about being adult is a mark of really arrested development." On Halloween, the only thing more ridiculous than wearing a disguise is feeling ridiculous about wearing one. And who the hell told you that even on a good day you're not as ridiculous as the rest of us, anyway? Adolescent preoccupation with your dignity only makes you an easy target.

There does seem to be a sub-category of Halloween-haters who piss and moan about wearing a costume, but who, once in one, remain in character until they take it off. This I respect. For these people, Halloween is a commitment to this less-often-indulged aspect of their character. It takes energy and perseverance to keep it up for hours at a time.

What it comes down to is that, in some ways, Halloween is the only holiday when you don't have to pretend to be something you're not. I love my family, but I'm well aware of the entrenched roles that dictate our interactions at Christmas, Thanksgiving, etc. We're expected to behave in certain ways, speak in certain codes, and convey the best of ourselves. Halloween is about throwing down those masks and disguises and being part and parcel who we really are.

So I hope you're out there enjoying it.

supercalifragilistIKEAlidocious

I am happy to report that the apartment is now more or less fully equipped for your visit, thanks to my prodigious visit to IKEA last week. For example, there are now lots of jauntily colored bins for the purpose of containing The Madness, by which I mean the inevitable, staggering explosion of small, random objects that suddenly surrounds you when you live with a boy. There is a bed for you, with proper pillows and blankets even, but you may have to kick us out because the second bedroom is now our favorite place to hang out. The office has been clearly delineated by bookshelves and I have a semi-permanent sewing area, which is itself beginning to show signs of its own Madness. I'm confident that I can contain it in this case without the need for further jaunty bins. Anyone who came over for dinner to my last apartment will rejoice in the knowledge that it is no longer necessary to use the arm of the couch as a dining-room chair. We have four normal chairs now, plus two folding ones that we can use at the table I bought at a garage sale.

We also added an armchair, a bed, and two bedside tables. Damn you, IKEA! Damn your low prices and clever design and renewable resources in your Magical Scandinavian Furniture Wonderland! You're like Legos for grown-ups! I am powerless against your wiles.

The nearest IKEA store is roughly three hours away, and in case you're wondering how I managed to furnish the entire apartment in a single day, yes, I really did fit all of the above items, plus houseplants and picture frames, in a 2007 Kia Rio 5 Hatchback. I was dubious at first, so much so that I scrapped the idea of buying the bed and nightstands. That is, until I discovered that, evidently, nobody gets hired to work in the loading area of IKEA without a degree in engineering. This kid packed everything so competently that I was compelled to go back into the store and run up my credit card just a bit further. The only thing we didn't manage to get inside the car was the bed rails, which he strapped to the top.

As if IKEA weren't enough of a modular mecca by itself, I dined on gravad lax and sparkling loganberry juice while watching my favorite childhood movie in their cafeteria. I took time out from my shopping extravaganza to watch Julie Andrews tsk-tsk Dick Van Dyke for soaring up to the ceiling on a wave of one-liners in Mary Poppins. I tell you, this place has my number. I fell in love with Mary Poppins at roughly age three; so much so, that I began to feign a British accent. I tormented my father by insisting on watching this movie daily when I was little, and I must admit that the effect has never really worn off. I still get choked up when I hear the innocence mission cover that classic reverse-psychology lullaby, "Stay Awake." The day I heard Julie Andrews go into character on air in response to a call from a listener whose three-year-old had detected Mary Poppins's voice on the Diane Rehm show, I called my mother sobbing just to tell her I loved her. Last weekend, listening to the best nanny ever give a stern talking-to to Jane and Michael Banks provided the perfect reprieve from both the three hours on the highway and the mind-numbing retail-fest.

Never, though, have I more wished for the company of Mary Poppins (or at least of her ginormous tapestry bag) than on the way home from IKEA of Woodbridge, VA. About five minutes after leaving the store, the straps holding my bed rails began to sing like the world's largest coffee percolator. Soon, I heard an ominous ka-ZING smack smack smack and when I pulled over, one of the straps had broken, leaving me 1.) in the dark, 2.) a woman alone, 3.) on HWY 95 somewhere south of Washington D.C. with my hazard lights on, 4.) desperately shoving cardboard boxes around in my already dangerously-, probably illegally-overpacked car trying to make space for just... one... more... thing.

I ripped the boxes off of the bedrails and shoved the rails down the passenger side. Then, chanting under my breath "I..must...not...litter" over and over, I scooped up the torn pieces of cardboard and wedged them into the remaining six square inches of space before driving home on pure adrenaline, vowing never again to succumb to the allure of the one big-box store that I paradoxically forgive.

Unless Julie Andrews says it's okay.

woof

Since we moved, many people have asked, "how is Grendl doing in his new home?" and since apparently Snuggly Kibble Biped can't be bothered to create a blog post about it, I feel at liberty to do so myself. I apologize in advance for any typographical errors; you'd be surprised how difficult it is to type when one lacks opposable thumbs.

I must say that I have been very happy here. This apartment has required much less of my redecorating talents than the previous one, although the carpet is woefully bereft of intriguing odors. I am happy to say that the sunshine we brought with us has made its new nest in the dining room, making this a very convenient place for napping.

There is a long hallway, which makes for excellent sessions of Hedgehog, although Snuggly Kibble Biped and Sleepy Frisbee Biped sometimes come home too tired to appreciate the rare and exciting opportunity presented by such amusements. At times I myself am too tired from keeping them in line to play Hedgehog. Now that they have all these rooms to be in, it's much more difficult to keep them tightly herded; often, I am forced to stretch myself along the hallway wall to ensure that their comings and goings do not escape my supervision.

There is much to sniff, as well as any number of ornamental plants upon which I must pee between home and the park. At first, Snuggly Kibble Biped and Sleepy Frisbee Biped had trouble locating this hub of canine activity and would take me on interminable walks around the neighborhood, but now they have the hang of it I think that they will not again make the mistake of attempting to direct me somewhere else. I admit,I am not above giving them a gentle reminder when they get off track.

At the park, my work is never done. Dogs arrive and leave with their bipeds in tow, and while they are there I do my best to keep them safely together (with me, their fearless leader, running out ahead, naturally). For some reason, Snuggly Kibble Biped is mortified each time I am compelled to proclaim my feelings for one of the fine lady-dogs who frequent the park. Some people simply have never been able to stomach public displays of affection, I guess.

It must get terribly stuffy and boring in the pantry, so sometimes I like to take Hedgehog on our walks with us. I carry him to the park in my mouth, gently of course, but I do let him roam loose while we wait for passing traffic at cross streets.

My bipeds spend more time at home these days. They seem a bit lonely, which I think is ridiculous, frankly, since I have already made loads of friends: Mojo, my preferred shepherd-minx; Olaf, the Newfoundland; and George, the pug. The first time I saw George I wasn't sure he was a dog, so I barked him thoroughly, but since then we have come to an understanding.

Well, my friends, I am sorry to say that I must leave you now, having a pressing engagement to place a soggy scrap of rawhide in some unpleasant location.

I'm tired. Also sick.

And I can't seem to get better. I think I am finally getting the hang of my new gig, which is wonderful. It doesn't seem as overwhelming as it did for a while. Still, I blame this lingering cold on the relative lack of downtime I've had in recent months. I suspect my body is enforcing Operation Chill the Hell Out You Freakin' Lunatic.

Oh, and the writing has suffered. School, even three days a week of school, leaves me feeling beaten and left for dead. It's my own damn fault for wanting to be UberSpanish TeacherLady who turns herself into a one-woman circus for three hours a day. She sings, she dances, she draws silly pictures, all in an effort never to engage her students in that forbidden language, English.

But being a professor is more than showing up with corduroy patches on your elbows and smoking a pipe while shaping young minds. You also have to publish and...dunt dunt DUNNNNNNNNNNN...serve on Important Committees (insert B-movie scream here)! The days I teach, I'm good for little else. The other days, I'm gearing up for the days I teach, or serving on an Important Committee, or playing the requisite number of hours of video games to unwind from having written that book I wrote. DID I MENTION I WROTE A BOOK THIS YEAR? Yeah, I wrote a book. Don't get all excited or anything. It's nothing that more than a handful of incredibly tweed-ridden people will ever read. Still, that shit will TIRE your ass OUT.

In conclusion, last-into-this year, I:

wrote a book
graduated (sort of)
changed states
intensified my relationship
started a career.

My point, I guess, is that I'm tired. Maybe tireder than ever, and perhaps even tireder than most. Cough.

new savvy

I'm noticing that being new definitely has its advantages.

On the one hand, it's terribly frustrating to be new in town.  For one thing, it's hard to get good advice, or to recognize it when you get it.  For instance, I was concerned about drinking my tap water, what with living so close to the ocean.  Most everyone I asked was like, "oh, no!  I only ever drink bottled water."  Then again, it was sometimes difficult to gauge whether the person I was asking was more like me, or more the kind of person who would drink only bottled water whether they lived in Calcutta or in British Columbia.   

It takes time and energy to ask questions and gauge answers in getting to know your new town. A lot of times you spend more money, time and gas than is strictly necessary, just because you don't know how else to do things.   It's an exhausting, frustrating and at times downright depressing endeavor.  But I've made a startling discovery: you don't have to get to know your community.  No matter where you live, it's surprisingly easy to float from big box to big box, never once setting foot in a local business.  Sure, I could walk to the grocery store on the corner, but it'd be so much cheaper to drive out to the Super-Target where I know my way around the coupon flyer and where I'm sure they'll have all the items I need.  That restaurant two blocks away looks great, but when I'm feeling tired of everything being new and unfamiliar, I'd rather just pick something up at Panera: I know how much the food will cost, how it will taste, and how many minutes until I get to put it in my mouth.  It's so much easier, most of the time, to coast over the surface of things.  I have to admit, now that I have a grown-up job and grown-up responsibilities in unfamiliar territory, I'm beginning to understand the appeal such a franchise-to-franchise existence has, at least as a short-term antidote to the insecurity and uncertainty of setting up shop far from any place that feels like home.  Nonetheless, it alarms me how easy and seductive it is to stay in franchise-land forever, and how many people seem content to do so.  As a lifestyle, it's frankly horrifying.

On the other hand, being new exempts you from the local dogma.  For instance, every fifteen minutes on public radio, the traffic report broadcasts loud and clear: "No traffic on the Monitor Merrimac bridge-tunnel.  Highway 664 is, as usual, wide open." Yet, when I tell people that I work north of the tunnel, they are horrified.  How do you stand the traffic?!  They all want to know.  Because while the greatest traffic danger on the Monitor-Merrimac continues to be the overwhelming din of cricket-song, its sister, Highway 64, is bumper-to-bumper for miles in either direction.  When I asked a colleague of mine how she accounted for this, she mentioned that 664 hasn't been open for nearly as long as 64, and that perhaps it hasn't caught on with commuters yet.  How long has it been open?  I asked.  Oh, she said, only about ten or fifteen years.

Another example: the frilly Virginia coastline makes for an exceptional amount of beach-front.  The neighbs and I were looking forward to living so close to the ocean, so we were dismayed when our new friends and neighbors told us that, if we wanted to go to the beach, we should drive the twenty minutes to Virginia Beach.  It's much nicer there, they all said.  So we went, and found the predictable strip of souvenir and ice cream shops, as well as a boardwalk and beach teeming with people.  The next time, we broke with popular opinion and went to Ocean View in Norfolk.  It was fine: lacking in fine white sands and bikinis, perhaps, and certainly in tie-dyed goods available for purchase.  It was also conspicuously lacking in people, who were presumably stuck in traffic on the way to (or looking for parking at) Virginia Beach.  So we had our beach, and we had it mostly to ourselves.

In sum, I'd say that, although being new makes it harder to get things done in the short term, with just a bit of curiosity you can ride your unfamiliarity beyond the preconceived local notions.  In short, as the neighbs keeps reminding me, it's an adventure.

a new song

Y'all come!

What follows is a virtual tour of the new digs, starting with the downstairs neighbor, Philip. He's quiet, mostly keeps to himself. We haven't seen much of him lately, and suspect that he may have been eaten by his girlfriend, Henrietta.

Here's where you'll put your shoes when you come visit. Unless you are the neighbs, in which case you will put your shoes immediately adjacent to the fancy-ass shoe cubby, leaving a maximum amount of space for...you know, other shoes. Don't ask me, man. It's a mystery.

More hyper-organization on the way to the living room. Damn you HGTV!

This is the part of the living room that allows us to show off how intellectual we are. Notice the carefully chosen camera angle that creates the illusion that the alcove is full of books rather than boxes, lamps, and assorted moving shrapnel.

Aaah, yes. A quiet space in which a neighbs and his dog can escape the mundane pursuits of the workaday world and relax with a book chosen from the aforementioned copious library. Also watch Aqua Teen Hungerforce, as it turns out.
My Renaissance man, abstracted in his serenade. Either that, or he's enjoying the perpetual garlic breeze emanating from Cogan's Pizza, just a stone's throw away.

Heading down the hallway in the opposite direction, a portrait of the neighbs's mother casts a watchful eye over Laundry Central.

For the record, the neighbs wanted this to be a naked picture, so I made him take off all his clothes before snapping this shot.

The bad news is, what looked like our yard in the initial photos we saw of the place turned out not to be ours at all.

The good news is, holy dining room! Seriously!

And on to the kitchen, where we have a dishwarsher so we don't have to warsh our own dishes every thirty-five seconds like in our last place.

"Holy crap! Is that a Lazy Susan?" you're probably asking yourself. Why, yes! It is a Lazy Susan.

They make some really hot water down here, lemme tell ya.

We built this cookbook-and-hangy-utensil shelf ourselves. Out of shelf brackets and a piece of shelf and what we crafty types sometimes refer to as "hangy things".

Don't be coy, neighbs. It's okay. You can come out of the pantry. Come on, now. Come on out of the pantry.

There are some other parts of the apartment, but you'll just have to come see them for yourself.

#1: my twenties

I was going to miss you, dear reader, most of all about Kalamazoo. But then I realized that a.) not everyone who reads this blog is from/in Kalamazoo, b.) I haven't really lost you the same way I've lost Martini's antipasto salad, and c.) acknowledging how much I'll miss you sets up this precedent that you won't come visit, call, etc. vs. the precedent that you will come visit, call, etc, which I prefer to believe. So instead, I've decided to go the self-pitying route of bemoaning the loss of my twenties.

There's a magic to being twenty-something. Old enough to know better, young enough not to care too much yet about the consequences. Finally, enough expendable income to do some of what you want to do, yet your desires generally possess a certain modesty of scope that makes them at least somewhat attainable. Friends so close they feel like family, always ready for anything that smacks of an adventure. The kind of friends you can call in the middle of the night with the certainty that they will still be awake, and if they aren't, will think nothing of the fact that you're calling at such an ungodly hour. The interest people show in you as a young woman about to make up her mind to do...something, and maybe even something grand.

I could have lived out my twenties anywhere, and it probably would have been the same magical, transforming time no matter where I lived. I would have loved, been hurt, hurt back, learned, grown, laughed, embraced and been embraced, rejected and been rejected, failed and succeeded and dared the same way in some other town. It just so happens that I did it in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and Kalamazoo will be forever the place I associate with that sweet and painful stage in my process of becoming.

It's probably good that I left when I did, because my twenties are over. If I'd stuck around, I might have tried to prolong them long after I was relevant. I'd be that sad, old person at the hip twenty-something party. I'd pass, for a while, but I'd know and soon other people would start figuring it out too, see me dancing to their music, drinking their booze, laughing at their jokes, and they'd ask "dude, don't you have better things to do with your life?" (which, they hope against hope, is a reasonable assumption, because they don't want to consider that they have seen their future and their future is me). I'd be oblivious to the fact that I was an anacronism, like those sit-com actors from the seventies who come back and do infomercials. Like those bands who get a new lead singer and try to pass themselves off as the same band.

Nope. It's time to sing a new song.

#2: Asylum Woods and Kleinstuck

Sorely lacking in my new digs is any kind of wooded place where I can let the hound meander. One of the things I love about Kalamazoo is the abundance of places where you can escape the strip malls and concrete and be completely surrounded by nature, yet without having to drive an hour to get there. Heck, without having to drive at all. Technically, you're not supposed to have your dog off-leash at either of these places. But there seems to be a tacit understanding among dog owners that sometimes those critters just need to be at large, and 90% of the non-dog-having crowd out there on the trails seems to acquiesce*.

Kleinstuck, behind the YWCA on Maple Street, is a 3/4 mile loop (plus some other trails) that surrounds a bog, and thanks to the recent efforts of local volunteers it is being reclaimed from invasive species. The vines that were swarming the trees have been cut back so you can see the swamp, which hosts noisy frog parties in the evenings. A sweet, sun-baked, heady resiny fragrance emanates from the pine grove on one stretch of the trail, particularly in the afternoon. On a hot summer day, it's always about five degrees cooler back under the shade of those gnarled old trees.

Asylum is -- well, to be honest I don't know what it used to be, other than that whatever it was is being steadily reclaimed by nature. A network of cement roads crisscrosses the preserve, all of them infiltrated by persistent roots and weeds that shove themselves unceremoniously up through the cracks. There's a lake and a stream and a swamp and glades and woods and a huge field that brims with ticks and wildflowers in the summer. There's a tree that juts out over one of the fields just like the prow of a ship, and this has long been my favorite place to watch -- and feel -- the seasons change.

The hound loves it all. These are his places to socialize. I love to watch him lose himself in the tall grass and make these clumsy, dolphin-like leaps over the heads of the Queen Anne's Lace to get his bearings, or lose some doggie friend by dodging and weaving between the trees, wherever his low center of gravity will take him. We met Molly, a compact and energetic black lab mix, and her dad. There was the snarky Pabliano, a beagle, and his verbose mom who always wanted to engage me in conversation while her dog bared his teeth at my oh-so-sociable hound. Then there was the lady with the long, wavy grey hair and crooked teeth whose golden retriever would take you out at the knees out of sheer exuberance.

What makes these places so special is that they're such an unexpected sanctum, which means that there may well be some similar place down here that we have yet to discover. Still, I'm already nostalgic for the cool tinge that the end of August brings in my home state, and I miss my near-daily walk in the woods.

* people have been ticketed in the past for walking pets off-leash in Asylum Woods. Do so at your own risk.

#3: Martini's antipasto salad

Not long ago the neighbs pointed out to me that I don't have favorite restaurants. I have favorite dishes that one has to go to certain restaurants to get, and my taste in restaurants follows from this "if it ain't broke don't fix it, I'll have the usual" ordering strategy. Although nothing I have ever ordered at Martini's has disappointed me and, yes, I enjoy the atmosphere there and, yes, it was very convenient walking distance from my last several apartments, this salad deserves its own entry in the ever-increasingly ill-named Kalamazoo countdown to my departure.

I love a good antipasto salad and this one is the best I have ever tasted. It's not like at some places where you get lettuce lettuce lettuce, lump of red onion over here, lump of tomatoes over there, rolled up cold cuts on top of here, a couple olives and a token banana pepper. At Martini's, there's no assembly required. It's all jumbled together and tossed in a vinaigrette that is just vinegary enough, just oily enough and just herby enough.

They don't chintz out on the lettuce. It always has enough of its own flavor and it's chopped down to about the same size as everything else so you can get everything in every bite. Same goes for tomatoes, cucumbers, meats, cheeses, black olives and banana pepper rings. They make it on the spot in a big stainless bowl and serve it with a healthy hunk of crusty bread. Order one right now and you can pick it up in ten minutes.

I have tried, dear reader, to replicate results on my own. I've used the same ingredients and even come close to the dressing, but my efforts still somehow pale in comparison. For now, my quest for the consummate antipasto salad of my new home town continues.

#4: the Vine neighborhood in the summertime

Just last night the neighbs and I took the hound for a walk around his new digs. We walked down to the river and sat a while, then we walked under the spreading trees through the elegantly-landscaped and cobbled median of our favorite boulevard, then past all the old apartment buildings and craftsman homes back to our yellow stucco with the big slice of window. It was dark and still hottish warm outside, some of my favorite weather, and we bumped into several friendly people and their (mostly)friendly dogs.

I'm not telling you this, dear reader, to gloat about how awesome my new neighborhood is. Okay, so maybe I am, a little. I still feel like a kid on Christmas morning the year she unwrapped her first-ever bicycle. I can't believe this place belongs to me...at least for a year. But the thing is, I'll still miss the Vine neighborhood in the summertime. After all, I've lived there on and off for the last eleven years, and it's a pretty charming place (I'll leave out the condescending "in its own way" out of love and respect for my long-time home).

A substantial part of what I love about my new place is how new it feels. It reminds me of being nineteen and moving into a place on Oak Street, the first place that felt like my own. I'm washing my dishes in my sink. I can entertain people in my living room. It didn't matter that it was shared, because she was my roommate, my consciously chosen companion whom neither genetics nor university bureaucracy had compelled to string along with me.

Upstairs at Oak Street was only the beginning, though. For example, later would come downstairs at Oak Street. To this day, when I walk by that old place I am taken aback at how huge the tree in front of the house has become. There's nothing to make you feel older like discovering how much a tree has grown. After Oak Street came some time in other neighborhoods, but then it was back to Merrill, then on to Pioneer, and finally Park Place.

I love biking around Vine on summer evenings. I love how all the houses are glorious and dilapidated, how the elderly live side by side with obnoxious college students. I love seeing people's gardening and their dogs on tie-outs and behind fences. I love how, the first truly warm day (or even before, if the winter has been a bad one), the streets fill up with kids playing frisbee in their flip-flops.

I love having a number of friends who live within walking distance of my place, and knowing that when they move it'll probably be within a three-block radius. I love that, when I walk down a number of streets in the neighborhood, I know what the houses look like on the inside because that's where so-and-so used to live. Although, here's a funny something: I lost a house. About three years ago I was driving home really late one night and my eyes came to rest on a house on Wheaton and I knew with entire certainty that that was the house where I had first hung out with my long-time boyfriend. The next morning I couldn't have told you which one it was, and to this day I have no idea, despite the fact that I have scrutinized every house on Wheaton every day for the past two years on my way home from school trying to remember.

It isn't a perfect neighborhood, it has traffic and junkies and trash and creepy people, but I'll miss it for more reasons than just the familiarity. I remember one afternoon -- it was getting on towards fall, I guess -- a family on Oak between Vine and Walnut had pulled some old mattresses out to the curb for bulk trash day, and three or four little kids were jumping up and down on the mattresses out by the curb, with the leaves just turning bright colors and beginning to fall, one late afternoon and the light was so yellow, and I remember that moment just as if it was preserved in that liquid amber just slanting through the treetops.

Yeah, like that.

#5: the Farmer's Market

Well, I'm here in Ghent, the neighborhood in Norfolk where I'm destined to live for the next year, or perhaps for the rest of my life to judge by how much I love it so far. The grocery store is about a block and a half away, and the produce section has gooseberries for only $2.99 (thank goodness! Just imagine if gooseberries were not in abundant supply!). They call their produce section "The Farmers Market", which has sent me scampering back to the keyboard to finish my countdown.

I am confident that in a neighborhood like this one I will eventually find a farmer's market of some worth. And I can't say that I went to Kalamazoo's Bank St. Market as often as I thought about going, nor nearly as often as I should have. But there are aspects of the Farmer's Market in Kalamazoo that I can confidently say I'll miss. What makes it unique, of course, is that it's been my farmer's market. I know which vendors I like to buy from and where to buy what, and I can typically count on bumping into three or four people I know and don't often see over the course of a Saturday morning's transactions.

This may all sound like laziness about getting to know new places and meeting new people, but it's not. I see the Farmer's Market I've been enjoying (too seldom) for the past number of years as emblematic of so many things that make the North American Midwest special. First of all, it's a place where you can enjoy the sheer bountifulness of the place: in spring, the new potatoes and early peas; summer blueberries, strawberries and sweet corn; in fall, the concord grapes, squash and apples. You can watch the seasons change not only in the products for sale, but in the humidity or crispness of the air, the fogginess or the clarity of the late-morning light. You can take your time and greet your neighbor, stand outside and drink in the fact that it isn't cold (anymore or yet). Its sublimity resides in its simplicity.

On the east coast, midwesterners have a reputation for being simple, plain folks. Yet, how often have you seen a bar on the shores of Lake Michigan cluttered with potted palms and Hawaiian-shirt uniforms, trying to pass itself off as Caribbean? Remember the restaurant recently opened in a prominent downtown hotel that touts itself as a "New-York-style bistro"? Why do we midwesterners struggle so hard to pretend to be something we're not? Even we are forgetting how wonderful and fulfilling our own simple, sublime place in the world can feel on a brisk, late-August Saturday morning.

#6: The Heritage Company

Now that I have an apartment – roughly twice the size of my current one – that I must outfit, I foresee really missing the Heritage Company. I’m hoping to find a similar outpost in Norfolk, but it’s hard to imagine that any place will be able to capture the unique and musty chutzpah of Kalamazoo’s premier architectural salvage shop.

I could spend – indeed, have spent – hours poking around in the Heritage Company; imagining fixing up this, repurposing that, letting the other just continue to rust gracefully to bits in some corner of my home. I love the chaos in there, seeing old shutters haphazardly propped up on claw-footed bathtubs filled with corroded iron egg baskets, or test tubes rescued from some moldering factory displayed on the shelves dragged out of an old hotel laundry. I love seeing where the 1930’s theater marquee ends up as downtowns all over the place become more gentrified one storefront at a time, love imagining how I might incorporate it into my design if I were, say, opening a restaurant or in need of a new headboard.

I love how just heaping it all up in three dusty, adjacent rooms is at the same time a completely unpretentious and totally reverent act. Everything at the Heritage Company is casually present: you are welcome to rifle through whatever you want, nothing is being promoted. There’s never this hackneyed sense of “our merchandise is very special. We, the civic-minded experts, took the pains to pull it out of someone's basement, so you can pay a premium for it." Nonetheless, everything that is for sale there is heavy with history and intentionality; seldom immaculate, yet most always perfect. There is beauty in each hinge, screw and scrape, and if you can’t see it, then you’re looking at it wrong. This probably explains the dismissive “You want cheap and serviceable? Go to Home Depot” you get from the staff until you become a familiar face.

The prices can be off-putting at first glance, but they seldom stick. I don’t think I’ve ever paid the sticker price for anything at the Heritage Company (except for a Fiesta ware butter dish…the Fiesta ware is non-negotiable). Nor have I ever had to barter. I’d just bring something to the ancient cash register, prepared to pay the asking price, and the guy behind the counter would go, “meh, gimme twenty bucks for it” and that was that.

I love coming home with my new-old light fixture, or ammunition box, or library card-catalog cabinet, and envisioning the semi-local place it came out of. My mom used to say that seeing old, dilapidated houses slowly crumbling made her sad, thinking of what might have become of the families that once scrubbed the floors shiny, of the bride carried over the threshold on the first day of a fresh life, of the children pounding up the staircases. There must have been such snug promise in those houses before they fell into neglect and disrepair. Thanks to the Heritage Company, there is promise in them again. Each time I push aside the three old screen doors that currently corral my wall of closet inserts into something vaguely resembling a closet, I’m glad Idea triumphed over Ikea and that I put those guys back to work. If I have to jiggle the occasional handle, it’s only because I’m speaking the language of that ghost house, one that was maybe two doors down, maybe three blocks up.

#7: bluegrass breakfast

The prospect of leaving the town where I've lived for twelve years feels a bit like dying, and I keep coming up with a few more things I want to experience one more time before I go. Beyond that, even, there are favorite haunts of mine that I wish to see pass into someone else's knowledge so that I know someone will be appreciating them after I leave (thereby selfishly ensuring their survival for when I come back to visit). One such happening is the Bluegrass Breakfast at the Cooper Café in Cooper Township, which lucky for me still happens every Wednesday and Saturday morning from about 9:30 to 11:30.

Yogi Berra once said something about a restaurant that was "so crowded nobody ever goes there anymore", which is how I felt about the Cooper Café for a while. In fact, I hadn't been there in so long that I was afraid the place wouldn't be doing the Bluegrass portion anymore, in which case I would have felt obligated to sit down and have the Breakfast anyway -- a sacrifice, since the service used to be abominable and the food insipid. Actually, our waitress was quite good last time. The food is still indifferent (unless you like monster cinnamon rolls, which I don't, although my friends tell me they're amazing by any standards), but the coffee's good and they keep it flowing.

It's hard to understand how such a mediocre dive out in the middle of nowhere becomes standing room only two days a week, until the Lonesome Moonlight Trio starts cranking out the bluegrass. There's a sad-eyed guy in a gray T-shirt named Pete, who plays guitar and sings in a gruff, hound-dog howl; the pale, pleasant, sandy-haired man who plays mandolin; and Abraham Lincoln Guy, who sings very sweetly in an unexpected tenor and used to play a Dobro he fashioned out of a metal washtub. They cover everybody from Wilco to Hank Williams (Sr., thank you very much), and sometimes a big guy who's name I believe is Dave accompanies them from his breakfast table on harmonica.

There's a toy choo-choo that runs around the top of the wood paneling around and around the restaurant, and the waitress with the tattoo circling her elbow will lift you up to pull the string on the train whistle if you're too little to reach it yourself. The coffee mugs are the heavy white kind printed with advertisements for local businesses. The crowd is an even split between elderly Cooperites and hip young audiophiles (and occasionally me and my friends, of course). They're not too uptight about you taking the seats closest to the band and nursing a cup of coffee for half an hour after you eat, but when the music starts and the place fills up, the tiny kitchen gets backed up with orders anyway so you can just enjoy the music while you wait for your food without feeling like you're depriving anyone of a table.

Still, if you're going to go, go on the early side of the music or you may have to wait for a table. When you get one, offer to share it with an old person or two. And make sure to take Old Douglas Avenue to get there (go by bicycle if you're feeling particularly adventurous) so you can take in one of the most scenic roads around Kalamazoo.

Do this some time, or I'll be haunting you next.

#8: The Corner Bar

I haven't been to the Corner Bar in a long time, but if you asked me yesterday, today and tomorrow where I felt like spending the evening and eating a crappy burrito, my answer would be the Corner Bar a thousand times over. Then, you'd wrinkle your nose at me and say, seriously?! And then I would shake my head and say, go on now, run along to Cheeseburger in Paradise, I'll catch up with you later. Now, after two or three consecutive years of trying and mostly failing to get people to go to the Corner Bar with me, I would like to make the official, written case for it (that is, of course, if my blog can be construed in any way as "official") in the hopes that just this once, I can make you people understand.

This place is a total hole in the wall. Its parking lot, last I checked, is one ginormous pothole. Inside, it smells partly like cigars and partly like carpet that has been steeping in beer spillage for several decades. The walls are adorned with vintage beer and booze posters -- not the shi-shi Guinness ones that have become de rigeur in Irish-themed pubs these days, but original tin ads for Schlitz and the like. All the tables are covered with wood-patterned melamine. There's an arcade game about bear-hunting. There's also an extensive beer list and a Humidor.

The deli sandwiches are tasty -- they make a mean Reuben -- but the burritos are glorious. There's nothing remotely Mexican-flavored about them, just a big lump of chicken and rice rolled into a flour tortilla and sopped in Pace picante sauce. The service is reliably terrible, just staggeringly awful, but so what? It was at the Corner Bar that I played my first game of Worst Song on the Jukebox on one of those new-fangled digital jukeboxes, where you get several friends to play the worst song they can think of (the object is to get everyone to acknowledge that your song was even worse than the one they chose). Funny, though, the crowd at the Corner Bar didn't seem to mind, or even notice.

The place is 100% unpretentious. There's not a trace of irony or self-referential smirking about it. It's just good beer, good cigars (if you're into that), and passable bar food served -- whenever the waitress remembers she's on the clock -- in a wholly un-flashy environment. The cocktails don't cost eight dollars, nobody has to go skulk outside to smoke, and you can hear yourself think. This is all I could ever ask of a bar. Usually, there's an element of "the only thing I don't like about that place is..." but with the Corner Bar, I can't think of a single thing.

#9: Just Good Foods

When I first started making this list I realized that I could easily come up with Ten Restaurants I Will Miss Most About Kalamazoo, which only made me feel fat, so I had to eliminate at least a couple of restaurants from the equation. Just Good Food made the cut not only because of the food, but for the role it has played in my life from about 1997 onward.

I should have been fired after my first event, when I spilled red wine all over this lady's green linen suit during Tapas Night at the Gilmore Keyboard Fest. Instead, I got called back again and again for banquet service, which is why to this day I can tell you with a 3% margin of error the playlist at your cousin's wedding next month. This is the job I tried to leave time after time, selling or donating my uniform, because I was - finally - moving on to bigger and better things. Bless their hearts, they always acted sad to see me go and never once acted smug when I came back over and over again...just like everybody else.

Just Good Foods, alternatively known to those of us who have been there forever as "Just Food" or "Just Bad Moods", has a spectacular revolving door policy. "Once an employee, always an employee" seems to be a tenet of their business. That's why this is the job that got me through 2.5 college degrees, on and off. Of course, it isn't hard to understand why they have to welcome back their old, seasoned crew with open arms; they're mysteriously afraid to hire anyone new, ever. Perhaps it is out of fear that the never-ending list of idiosyncrasies pervading their business model is just too daunting for anyone who hasn't already been exposed to it for too many years to count. They're like, "So, you want to work for a wacky pair consisting of a Salvadoreñan diabetic and a Northern Michigan NPR junkie with a heart of gold, eh? Well, in that case, you must polish these glasses, first with a towel to remove water spots, next with a cloth napkin to remove the towel fuzzies, and next...oh, to hell with it, can't we just get Christine in here who worked for us three years ago? Anybody know if she's still living in her van?"

I loved that job. If you were a hard worker, it didn't matter what a weirdo you were, you'd fit right into the family. The big, kooky, dysfunctional family. And if you sucked, you were swiftly ostracized until you made up your mind to quit. And the food is just as eclectic as the staff. And the regular customers are just as eclectic as the food. Highlights for me are the ginger sesame tofu and the vegie burritos, the "missing egg" salad and Olinda's home-made pesto, easily the best I've ever tasted. That's all in the deli; from catering, mostly I'll miss watching paunchy white people overeat, get drunk and do the chicken dance. Or maybe the moment when they first arrive and they're all lined up at the door waiting to be seated, and the catering staff is not-so-secretly sizing them up as if it's the red carpet at the Oscars.

There was the wedding where the floating candles melted across the necks of the hurricane vases and sealed off the oxygen to the goldfish and all the centerpieces not pilfered by children went belly up (the ones pilfered by children, of course, ended up flopping all over the floor when someone went to sit in the chairs under which they were hidden). There was the Kenyan wedding reception held in a barn, where they served a roasted goat just one floor up from where a live goat must have been asking himself, "what the hell...?" Then there was the one where several cousins lifted Grandma out of her wheelchair for a special waltz around the dancefloor poised on top of her husband's feet (Anne Murray: "Could I Have This Dance for the Rest of my Life"). That one pretty much brought the house down.

All told, Just Good Food is a central thread running through my time in Kalamazoo and I'm glad that I one day stumbled into that particular funky basement.

#9.5: The Two-Hearted

A top ten list seemed like a good idea, until I made my list and came up with eleven indispensable, irreductible items I couldn't remove. So, in the spirit that rules are made to be broken, I give you #9.5 of the Ten Things I Will Miss Most about Kalamazoo: Bell's Two-Hearted Ale.

Delicious on draft, even better in a bottle, but I'm getting ahead of myself: let's start with the label, shall we? Two watercolor ying-yanging trout, just as you would see them if you were looking straight down on them from the surface of a stream. Named for the Two-Hearted River, which Hemingway named a story after (although the river in the story isn't the Two-Hearted at all, as it turns out). For the longest time I thought they were morel mushrooms instead of trout, but we'll chalk that up to I can't get near the label without drinking copious amounts of the beer it's identifying.

I won't pretend that I've got some expert palate that can tell hops from barley or whether a beer has a crisp finish and whatnot. I've never much gone in for that sort of talk. All I know is that this beer is, to my mind, damned tasty. It possesses just the right balance of spicy, tingly, rich, toasty and sweet. It's a playful grizzly bear cub of a beer. It's a 1920's bungalow of a beer. It's a man in the shirt printed with tiny flowers whose masculinity nobody questions of a beer.

And, at 7%, one pint is enough to get me pleasantly, inconspicuously buzzed.

I was beginning to feel a bit depressed about having to abandon my favorite beer, until I learned that the B-movie-themed pizza parlor and beer emporium on the corner of my new street in Virginia has Two-Hearted Ale on draught. Which means that, once I move away, my proximity to Two-Hearted Ale will actually be greater than it is even now. Although I have to confess, I experienced a twinge of disappointment that it was there, once I had taken the trouble to squeeze it onto the Top Ten List at position 9.5. I am happy to report that, on draft and 750 miles away from its origin, it tastes a little thin and bitter. I wouldn't want it to be as good as it is here at home, but instead a reasonable simulacrum that leaves me an excuse to come back.

in other news

It's strange, not to mention a bit desolate, sitting in this empty apartment. People have been good about stopping by, some with external hard drives chock full of media to keep me entertained until the big moving day actually arrives. The lack of sensory stimulus in my barren three rooms makes it easy enough to concentrate on finishing my thesis, anyway, but somehow it still isn't even beginning to sink in.

I turned in my introduction and conclusion late last night, which means that for the next week all I have to do is revise and wait, wait and revise. I am not yet conscious of having written a book, another moment of realization that I'm curious to see when it arrives (if you reread that and find it grammatically lacking, SCREW YOU! Which one of us just wrote a BOOK?!)

I miss my neighbs. It was wonderful and important and maybe even necessary to see him surrounded by my furniture in our new apartment -- which is lovely, moreso than we had ever anticipated, and when I'm standing there I really feel that somehow I've finally arrived, in that grownup sense of the word. But so far it's just separation and distance and lack of furniture. He's got the posh apartment and the home goods, and it has not registered that the reason for that is that certain events in my life led us to choose Norfolk, Virginia as a common destination, and that he just happened to get there first.

Surprisingly, so far I've missed relatively few of my material possessions. If you've ever been to my apartment you'll probably remember that it was chock-full of furniture, somewhere between cozy and cramped, and that there was scarcely a vertical surface without something strategically positioned to detract attention from the walls (which are painted a delectable shade called "Oyster"). I now have two TV tables, a desk chair, a suitcase, an air mattress and a loveseat which will soon be turned out to stud on the front lawn. Occasionally I reach for something where it used to be, visualizing for example my favorite pen inside its desk drawer, then realize that the desk, therefore the drawer, therefore the pen, now reside across several state lines. Only then does it hit me that, within a matter of weeks, so will I, and I have a moment of vertigo.

In the meantime, for reasons I can only imagine exist in some unexplored part of my mind, I feel a little as though this is my full reality, as though this is all the stuff I have ever owned, life has always been like this and will continue indefinitely this way. It's not bad, really. I don't feel lost or confused. It's as if I'm going through a breakup without all the pain. It's hard to motivate myself to do domestic stuff like grocery shopping, cooking and laundry; much easier now that it's just me and the dog to be like, oh well, I'll just eat Frankenberry and sit in the dark.

Okay, back to work.

the kalamazoo countdown begins (#10: 10th floor)

So, in an effort to begin reconciling myself to the fact that I almost don't live here anymore, I've decided to use the next three weeks or so to count down the top ten things I will miss about Kalamazoo. Although there are so many things happening all at the same time in my life right now, most of them worthy of at least one lengthy blog post, I feel that publicly discussing the aspects of Kalamazoo I will most sorely pine for will be a therapeutic means of letting go of the town where I've been living for twelve (gasp!) years.

It is my intention to post ten times in the three weeks I have left here, counting down my days and my experiences, giving you a brief description of what it is I find so wonderful about each of the places or things that made the list. So, without further ado, I give you the beginning of the end, and it seems the most auspicious of beginnings for this countdown that the 10th floor of Sprau Tower on WMU's campus is #10 on my list.

Now that I think of myself as being from Kalamazoo, it's hard for me to remember at times that college is what originally brought me here. Despite my lack of school spirit, I suppose I've spent more time at WMU than several of my professors and certainly more than most of my friends. For that reason, something from Western needed to be on my list, and Sprau Tower is probably my favorite thing about WMU.

It's pretty simple, really: from the 10th floor of Sprau Tower you can see the whole town. You get this amazing panorama with downtown pretty much visible behind the football stadium, across East Campus and the Crazy-Persons' Tower, down Stadium Drive, over to Video Hits, across the Valley dormitories and over the treetops of what's left of the Basswood preserve, and over all the little turrets and domes of K college. It's particularly spectacular in the fall because it's town, except with these incredible swathes of orange, red and yellow bursting out in every direction. At night it's usually deserted, and the Little Skyline That Could looks almost formidable from up there in the dark. In a good snowstorm, the town totally disappears and you feel like you're in a giant snowglobe, and during a lightning storm you feel like the gatekeeper and the keymaster rolled into one.

There's a kitchenette and comfy chairs, and nobody really ever goes up there except for the occasional janitor or English professor. Plus, you have to have keys, so I get to be the one who bestows this view upon the uninitiated, one of the few perks of being a graduate assistant sharing an office that used to be a storage closet with four other people.

So that's it, I guess, for #10. Stay tuned.

The trouble with me

So he wants to know, this former old friend of mine, whether I'm up for a "brief, potentially clumsy chat".

No, I am not.

The last time we spoke I was painfully aware that he was giving me some kind of last chance to prove myself. As a friend I had been placed on probationary status. Whatever it was he needed to hear for me to be redeemed I must have failed to deliver it. Somehow when we talk it always ends up with him saying, "you know what the trouble with you is?"

Yes, as a matter of fact I do.

The trouble with me is that I sometimes forget that I have a right not to like certain people. I go through life as if because of my many imperfections I have a responsibility to like people, to disregard their unkindnesses, to be the bigger person, the one who always forgives and gets along with everybody. I forget that I am not the only person with faults. I forget that I can choose which people I keep closest to me. I forget that I do not owe each and every person in my life my unswerving friendship and unconditional love.

The trouble with me is that, for years now, I have listened to each and every person who wanted to tell me what the trouble with me is and damn it, I've believed every single one. The trouble with me is that, if you tell me that I'm horrible, ugly, stupid and useless, I will walk away from this conversation believing you, and in every encounter I have I will wonder whether this is what everyone is secretly thinking.

The trouble with me is that I can hear your opinion about your favorite band, a Chinese restaurant or politics, and I can decide whether to agree with or dismiss it, but I cannot simply dismiss your opinion about me. I will trust any theory advanced about me, even by people peripheral at best to my life, even by people who need me to play the villain in the stories they tell themselves, before I will trust my own sense of who I am and what I stand for.

That is the trouble with me, old friend, and that is what I have decided to change: a transformation that begins, unlike most, with not returning a phone call.

Keeping up with the Jeanses

Say that, for the last two years running, you have spent your summers basically getting paid to live with your best friend in a desert paradise. Next say that, this year, you can’t, because you’re too busy with your thesis even to post on your blog every once in a while and far too poor to fly to Mexico. Now say that she announces she’s going to Montréal to study English for the summer, a city you’ve always wanted to see and which you’ll soon be living twelve extra hours away from. Grammatical quandaries aside, tell me, what would you do?

Here in Montréal, people are incredibly stylish. There are poor people, of course, but in general it seems that poverty is considered extremely unfashionable. Even the Mormons are setting aside the ubiquitous black backpack for a sleek satchel, and schnazzing up the white-button-down-and-black-pants look with a snappy necktie. It’s intimidating at first, but it turns out that people here are very very very friendly. They love their city and want you to love it, too, no matter how you’re dressed, and they’ll even tolerate your crappy French if you speak crappy French (which I do).

For instance: tonight we were exhausted after, oh, I dunno, six solid hours of walking (on top of yesterday’s twelve), and we wanted to grab some dinner someplace close by. We asked a girl walking down the street if she knew of a good Indian place nearby, and she said no, but tell you what: go into that hotel over there, and ask for Joey, the concierge. Tell him Maria sent you, and he’ll find you a restaurant. So we did that, and Joey magically procured the business hours for “the best Indian restaurant in the city” for us, then gave us directions. “You see that bank there, on the corner?” he asked. Sure, we said. “Okay,” he said. “Turn down that street, go past the bank, and it’s the first restaurant on the left.”

The first restaurant on the left, people.

Montréal is a city of baby-daddies. I haven’t scanned my photos thoroughly, but I’m confident that in the background of at least a couple I will find young professional fathers pushing their kids in strollers or carrying them around on their shoulders, because you couldn’t throw a rock in Montréal without hitting a baby in the arms of some tall, stubbly francophone. It’s infuriatingly sexy.

The next time I film a zombie movie, I will definitely set it in Montréal. Due to the long, miserable winters, an entire parallel urbanscape has developed underground. It haphazardly connects the Métro stations across the city, and in the event of zombie attack you could just seal it off and live down there for months and still shop at American Apparel whenever you wanted. Of course, with so many entrances and exits it would be impossible to keep the zombies out forever, lucky for my plotline.


Nohemí and I have walked all over this city, and we have brought one another up to date, and like always, it feels like no time has elapsed since the last time we were together. And, like always, we have talked about a million things that make me think, and make me think that maybe I think more than other people do sometimes, and that I like that about myself and about my friends. We swapped memories about our friend who died last year, and somehow it felt as though by evoking him from a café-térrace hundreds of miles from his or her or my home, we put something important into the world for a moment.

Breezewood

In his book Non-Places: Introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity, French anthropologist Marc Augé explores the proliferation in contemporary society of spaces such as airports, supermarkets, hotel rooms -- the sort of transient regions that fail to impress upon us a sense of individual or local identity. I have to admit that I have always found non-places sort of fascinating. I was never any good at my first job as a chambermaid; at age fifteen I would already linger too long in each hotel room, seeking out the tiny traces of uniqueness left behind by the previous night's guests. If I were anything of a photographer, I'd love to hang around non-places and photograph everyday life there.

Not long ago, I had occasion to visit one non-place that, it occured to me while I was there, has figured relatively prominently in the last several years of my life: Breezewood, Pennsylvania. I say relatively prominently, because as a girl from the Midwest I seldom have reason to end up in Breezewood -- I don't even know anyone from Pennsylvania -- yet I realized that I've been there four times in the past decade, and that my joy in arriving there each time has been surpassed only by my joy of leaving. The reason I have visited Breezewood so many times is that it is almost exactly halfway between Kalamazoo, Michigan and Williamsburg, Virginia. It was only on my last trip through Breezewood that I began to reflect on exactly how often I have made this drive.

I am not the only one who stops in Breezewood. In fact, people flock to it. As near as I can tell, the entire town's identity coalesces around the fact that it is halfway between everything, and possesses the most diverse array of gas/food/lodging for miles in any direction. This non-town is full of non-places where travelers can fulfill basic needs at a staggering number of franchises. Or, if they prefer, they can dine on the traditional local cuisine, scrapple: après hot-dogs, a dispirited blob of gray non-meat served with eggs and choice of toast or grits. Here's the thing: although everything in Breezewood is characterized by that numbing mediocrity that makes me ill at ease wherever I encounter it, I am nonetheless grateful for the chance to empty my bladder, stretch my legs, fill my gas tank, rehydrate and choose from a greater variety of unwholesome road food options, knowing that I am either slightly less than halfway there or slightly more than halfway home. And somehow, it's my memories of Breezewood that contextualize all my other memories of trips southeastward.

I've never been to Breezewood alone. The first three times I was there, I was with my ex and had no way of knowing when I would be there again or to what end. This last time I was with the neighbs, who had come down to Virginia to apartment-hunt with me, to look for a job, and to see if he could get his mind around being there with me indefinitely. As the two of us sat across from one another in a booth at the travel plaza, munching on overpriced submarine sandwiches and regarding one another with dazed highway eyes, it hit me: while Breezewood already figured disproportionately in my imagination, it was about to figure even more prominently as the place I pass through on my way back to Michigan for Christmases, Thanksgivings, graduations, weddings and funerals for years to come; my own, anonymous geographical and emotional way-station between the old life and the new one.

I wondered aloud to the neighbs what it must be like to live in Breezewood, to work at a franchise restaurant, to watch people come and go. It must feel a little like being suspended in midair, I guessed. You'd never really want to talk to anyone over long; you wouldn't want to get attached. All around you, people are on their way somewhere, and after a while their faces run together and they all seem the same: frowsy, grouchy and a bit detestable and self-important. I imagine you'd get defensive if you were from Breezewood and heard somebody like me running it down; you'd feel compelled to show that it isn't a non-place at all, that there's life and vibrance and direction. You'd try to make yourself believe that existence in this in-between had meaning and purpose, and you might even succeed, but you'd always ask yourself: where do they all come from, and where are they all going?

He has made up his mind to come with me. I think he has made up his own mind, and no one has forced him to it. I don't have to wonder what it's like to spend too long in Breezewood: it's Hell.

'cause everybody hates a tourist

So here's a tasty international news nugget for you, which I first heard about on - where else? npr - and which was later corroborated for me by my friend and fave keen cultural commentator, Raúl Argyr Tapia:

Apparently, in Querétaro, Mexico (where I lived for a short time on a couple of occasions), a group of emo kids was plaguing la Plaza de los Perritos (so named for the totally lovable fountain with puppies squirting water out of their mouths which graces the shady Plaza). First there were twenty or so of them congregating there on a regular basis. Their ranks slowly grew to fifty or so before some other counter-culture adolescents started the Movimiento Anti-Emo Querétaro. I believe I don't have to translate this for you, yes?

Via MSN Messenger, Facebook and Hi-5, Querétaro's punks, goths and stoners organized a bit of a rumble for this hipper-than-thou crowd. Never did they suspect that some 800 people between the ages of 14 and 17 would turn up to shove around los emos, but that's what reportedly happened. Now, it may seem like a low blow to beat up someone who would, by way of retaliation, most likely write a vengeful song about it, but here's the best part: they didn't bring guns, or knives or chains, or even use their fists. They just pulled hair and bitch-slapped los emos until they scattered like so many startled antelope in skinny jeans, their long, androgenous bangs obscuring their tears. Later, the unease spread from Querétaro to Mexico City, where events turned more violent.

Naturally, at this point, this tempest in a teacup attracted a good deal of media attention, which raised a question for many blissfully ignorant, mainstream Mexicans: what the hell is "emo"? Several emo kids were interviewed in the national media in an attempt to arrive at a conclusion about what, specifically, motivated these disenchanted youths. The latter insinuated that they were participating in a cultural movement of some kind, but not only were they unable to agree amongst themselves about what defined un emo, not one of them was able to offer a satisfactory explanation of what that cultural movement might consist of. So intriguing was this topic that the UNAM (Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México) conducted a study in an attempt to determine what, if anything, it meant to be "emo". This study has tentatively concluded that "emo," in Mexico anyway, amounts to little more than a fashion trend and possesses no mores to speak of. Meanwhile, los emos protested and marched in diversity parades up and down La República.

Where to even begin with this? First off, I love that, in Querétaro anyway, teenagers had the good sense not to beat the crap out of those fifty (dis)affected kids. And I think it's fascinating that in this case the trend started in a provincial city and radiated to the Distrito Federal, which is kind of like something becoming all the rage in Wisconsin and having it take off with kids in Los Angeles.

The emo kids I met in Querétaro were, beyond a doubt, modder than mod. They had definitely perfected the look and assembled a credible dossier of obscure North American bands. But anyone from my country whom I might, in certain moments, have been tempted to designate as "emo" would eschew that classification absolutely and would certainly never, ever go on national television or march in a parade in order to justify his/her choice to dress like an extra from Revenge of the Nerds. Not that I have ever really checked, mind you, but last I checked, "emo" arose from the independent music scene, based on people just kind of going about their own business and expressing themselves, albeit at times a particularly whiny, mopy aspect of themselves. Not exactly a cohesive group, nor something you can particularly mobilize around except by putting out another 7-inch. Unless you're 14 years old and Mexican, in which case you wouldn't think of doing anything without 42 or so of your closest friends.

My sources have confirmed for me that there are no - count them, zero - Mexican emo bands. And I think that, deep down, what bothers Mexicans so much about los emos (while punkies, hard-cores, ravers and "darks" form a relatively peaceable kingdom) is that this is a hothouse flower of a trend that never could have sprung from Mexican soil. Mexicans aren't fundamentally outraged by being all alone in the universe. In fact, the nation's most famous cultural commentator, Octavio Paz, wrote that Mexicans inhabit a "Labyrinth of Solitude". Of course we're all alone in the universe, they seem to say. So what? That doesn't mean we have to act all alienated about it. In fact, it's precisely our shared solitude that makes us all the same. So the emo's angsty assertion of North American-style individuality, plus the North American music and androgenous, anti-macho looks -- all this backed by a lack of discernible ethos -- make them the consummate manifestation of all that is un-Mexican.

This whole thing is just the flipside of the whole U.S.-cultural-imperialism pizza token. This time it's gringo sub-culture being emulated. At first glance it may look anti-hegemonic, but there it is: it's gringophilia all over again.

my newfound craig's list poetry generator

[Selections from the Hampton Roads, VA "missed connections" section for April 2008, edited by yours truly]

you were working at knuckleheads, wearing a purple t-shirt
you walked by and touched me on the shoulder
and told me that it's ok to smile
you left before i could talk to you.
i would like the chance to do so.

You were insisting that we had kissed and we hadn't, then
you just grabbed my face and we made out.
I was wearing the Mets hat.

To the Hula lady at the Wal-Mart
I yelled and asked if you were trying to set a world record
Then I saw you again
I was with my 9 year old daughter, but I stopped
and watched you walk away
enjoying the sway of your hips......

i told you that the parking was free. It was a mistake
they have a box there
i saw as i was leaving.
I hope you did not get a ticket.
Paul

Looking
for the attractive busty brunette
i held hands with
at the saturday night A.A. meeting
at thalia
side door.

I was out your house in Norfolk Last night
your husband called the cops
he said you were going to hurt yourself....but after talking
it was obvious you weren’t going to.
We talked and flirted. The other officer
was outside with your husband. We both know
your reasons for what you did and
I really was attracted to you and
liked you and was so close
to giving you my number
but it was too risky
because of the other cop there (who we both agreed
was kinda weird,
lol).

I work with you and you drive me nuts.
You are in the HR dept at South and just finished college,
leaving soon to go away. I just wanted to let you know
I love the somewhat scratchy voice you have.

I was talking to my boss on the phone when you came in to pick up your big pizza order.
Your change was $5.55, which i said was ironic, and you laughed. You had on
a green/brown shirt, sweatpants, and a beautiful smile.
Let me know
Show me it was you...

J, Why?
How?
Did it not mean anything?
Do not expect sympathy!

You dress so sexy in your burnt orange car.

hello your name is ofelia
you work at dunkin donuts on battlefield
i think you are so sweet
maybe dinner or a movie

You were driving down Bland Blvd in a black wrecker
with Aces on the side of it.
I don't know if you are married.
You have brown hair and you were on the phone,
turning right onto Warwick


I saw you get into your red car at a 7-11 in Hampton.
You were Hispanic with handsome dark brown hair, thinning in the front, and dark eyes with long lashes, wearing leather pants, a duster, and a black t-shirt.
What kind of ring were you wearing on your right hand?
You looked like the devil.
I would've ridden to hell between those thighs.

Dear mexican guy with a hitler mustache...
You made me laugh
when you flipped that bald fat white guy off
who swerved in front of me when we were both heading east
on Shore Drive. I so much want to thank you.

How did you celebrate?

It was the Pope's birthday yesterday. I know because I was listening to NPR and I heard that he spent his birthday on the south lawn of the White House. And then I heard them sing him The Birthday Song. President Bush and 9,000 of the Pope's closest friends and relations sang:

Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you.
Happy Birthday...

And at this point, all hell kind of broke loose, so to speak, because really, what do you actually call the Pope when you sing him The Birthday Song? I mean, it seems like a kind of silly proposition anyway. You might wish him Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag I suppose, or maybe the equivalent in Italian or even Latin. You might invite him to bathe in ambergris or anoint his feet or something, but eighty-one is a lot of candles to blow out, and whoever had to bake 9,000 cupcakes better be going to Heaven.

So there was this huge and hearty version of The Birthday Song -- ridiculous enough in and of itself -- but it seems like it wasn't rehearsed in the slightest, because everybody just balked when it came to the third line. Several people, I think, sang "Happy Birthday, Pope Benedict." My favorite, though, was actually the most prominent voice, which sang "Happy Birthday, Holy Father."

I was listening to this delectable sound-bite in my driveway with my car windows down and cackled just in time for my next-door neighbor to hear me and ask if anything was wrong. I tried to explain, but evidently, as so often happens I am the only one who thinks this is funny.

cruel to be kind

Dear next-door neighbor,

I don't remember being invited to your nine a.m. dance party this morning, so thank you so much for reminding me by blaring bad rap music through your living room/my bedroom wall and waking me up. By the way, I feel it is my neighborly duty to unburden you of a certain notion you seem to have: YOU ARE NOT A GANGSTA. Since I know that you're not listening to gangsta rap because it's musically interesting, I can only assume it's because of the heartfelt lyrics. You don't seriously identify with that stuff, do you? Because...yyyyyyeaaaahhhh. Not a gangsta. Those basketball jerseys? Not fooling anyone. You're just a pudgy, fuzzy white college dude with a contrived Blaccent. Would you please turn that shit down, please? A couple weeks ago, we asked you twice, over the span of about ten minutes, and nothing has changed on our end since then.

While you're at it, can you turn down your girlfriend? We've been privy to every knock-down drag-out the two of you have had for a year. We know that you can't be bothered to help out around the house. We know that you don't try and that you take her for granted. We know, because she proclaimed it to the four winds a couple of months ago, that you're the first boy who ever hit her... back. We know that you categorically did NOT hang out with Her on New Year's Eve, since you reiterated this -- verbatim -- about four dozen times by way of compelling argument. For future reference, offering to call Her up on the spot to provide you with an alibi is not the best way to convince your girlfriend that you did not spend the night with Her. In fact, we recommend that you leave Her out of it altogether. It might behoove you to brush up on your rhetorical skills, since your girlfriend has definitely got you beat in the vocal projection department. Jesus, where did you find her? That girl has the pipes of a circus caller.

Now, about the trash. Seriously, where does it all come from? In one week, the neighbs and I can generate roughly three plastic grocery bags plus one recycling bin of refuse (if we're really trying), yet by the end of the week you not only fill up a whole Herbie Kerbie but also the landing down to the basement with garbage of all varieties. Nary a bulk trash day goes by that you don't expel a piece of furniture or carpet or a couple of boxes of random waste. How many couches do you have in there, and what are you doing to them? If I only knew, perhaps I could offer you some tips on where you're going wrong with the furniture.

Evidently, whatever you're throwing away, it's not your empty detergent bottles, because you've taken such a liking to my detergent that I can't leave it in the shared basement any longer. And while we're at it, next time you borrow someone's vacuum cleaner, make sure you empty the canister of all chunks of drywall before you attempt to claim you have no idea why it's broken. These incidents did not start us off on the most auspicious of neighborly relationships, you see.

Just one more thing: can you please spend a little bit more on weed? Because if my apartment has to smell like the ganja from time to time, I'd prefer that it be just a skosh {sp} less skanky.

Thank you for your prompt attention to the above matters. I'm sorry for the mean-spirited sniping. You know, I think I could tolerate it all and even withhold judgment if you were just basically considerate people who listened to bad music and didn't get along so great. But since you're not, all bets are off.

Yours truly,

The Girl Next Door