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.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
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 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.
Friday, October 3, 2008
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.
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.
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