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.