For the most boring first chapter of a young adult novel in the history of young adult novels, read Chapter 1 of my first novel, "Always." I can only excuse myself by noting that I was probably only 13 or 14 when I wrote this. Also, it sort of gets better.
Note that the description of the house in the novel is suspiciously similar to that of my parents' house... Oh, the cringe-inducing hilarity!
Showing posts with label My parents' house. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My parents' house. Show all posts
Monday, October 12, 2009
Discoveries and New Projects
First, the important things - here are pictures of Marcus from my visit to my parents' house this weekend:
With Great Grandma in the car.
On Tante Suzanne's lap in Grandma and Grandpa's living room.
With Daddy and Grandma in the kitchen.
Of course, I think my nephew is perfect. I stupidly wore a sweater that is dry clean only, and he did not spit up or drool on me. Clever baby!
When I was not fawning over Marcus, I looked through a trove of documents that my dad had stashed away. They turned out to have critical testimonies from my grandparents about how they spent their years before, during, and immediately after World War II. I now have a comprehensive timeline of where they were and what they did. This should make my thesis (which is about my family) so much richer. I still have so many unanswered questions, though.
My return home also will allow me to start a new online project. When I was last there in July, I found a notebook containing my first "novel," the writing of which I am dating (through scientific methods like context clue guessing) to 8th grade. It is a hilarious, tragic, cringe-inducing story of friendship, bullying, and crushes. This afternoon I shall create a blog for it, and type up a new chapter every day (or as often as time permits). Yes, my new career as a YA author awaits... ha ha ha.
With Great Grandma in the car.
On Tante Suzanne's lap in Grandma and Grandpa's living room.
With Daddy and Grandma in the kitchen.Of course, I think my nephew is perfect. I stupidly wore a sweater that is dry clean only, and he did not spit up or drool on me. Clever baby!
When I was not fawning over Marcus, I looked through a trove of documents that my dad had stashed away. They turned out to have critical testimonies from my grandparents about how they spent their years before, during, and immediately after World War II. I now have a comprehensive timeline of where they were and what they did. This should make my thesis (which is about my family) so much richer. I still have so many unanswered questions, though.
My return home also will allow me to start a new online project. When I was last there in July, I found a notebook containing my first "novel," the writing of which I am dating (through scientific methods like context clue guessing) to 8th grade. It is a hilarious, tragic, cringe-inducing story of friendship, bullying, and crushes. This afternoon I shall create a blog for it, and type up a new chapter every day (or as often as time permits). Yes, my new career as a YA author awaits... ha ha ha.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
New Mottoes
During class on Tuesday night, I reflected on my inability to write things that are descriptive. I decided that it is because I do not think in images, but in concepts. Por ejemplo, when I think about the tree that grew in front of my parents' house, here is my thought process:
It was taller than our humble abode and a conifer. The pine needles fell all over the driveway and any car that was parked near or under its branches. One day, Dana and I came from home school and found our neighbor chopping branches off our tree. We freaked the fuck out, but my parents were glad that he took matters into his own hands because it had become overgrown and blocked part of the driveway. My sister and I, however, felt that the tree was rendered bald and ugly by the indignity visited upon it. Years after that, my mom noticed that the branches at the crown of the tree looked lame. She asked my dad to call a tree doctor. By the time one of them finally put the call in seven years later, the tree was ridden with some sort of tree disease and past saving. It was chopped down. Now no one can find my house, as my friends used to look for the ginormous evergreen tree as a landmark.
While this is a very nice story, it is not terribly descriptive. Anyway, once I realized that I do not think in images, and images are central to writing that is "literary," I realized that "I am about as literary as a potato sprouting eyes." (Actually, I love that image. Potatoes with "eyes" gross me out and fascinate me.) Without writing images, it is hard to include metaphors in my stories. Seriously, I would not think to include a metaphor if one walked up to me at a cocktail party, introduced itself politely, and then punched me in the face when I did not recognize it. If I was to write a metaphor about the tree, it would be something cheesy like, "The tree was an angel that guarded our house against the darkness of the night that wasn't really all that dark because we faced a busy highway that was brightly illuminated by street lights." No good.
Despite my lack of "literary" credentials, I think I can write well in a few styles. Hence my other new motto is, "This cubic zirconium has many facets." Bwa ha ha ha. Fuck being literary.
It was taller than our humble abode and a conifer. The pine needles fell all over the driveway and any car that was parked near or under its branches. One day, Dana and I came from home school and found our neighbor chopping branches off our tree. We freaked the fuck out, but my parents were glad that he took matters into his own hands because it had become overgrown and blocked part of the driveway. My sister and I, however, felt that the tree was rendered bald and ugly by the indignity visited upon it. Years after that, my mom noticed that the branches at the crown of the tree looked lame. She asked my dad to call a tree doctor. By the time one of them finally put the call in seven years later, the tree was ridden with some sort of tree disease and past saving. It was chopped down. Now no one can find my house, as my friends used to look for the ginormous evergreen tree as a landmark.
While this is a very nice story, it is not terribly descriptive. Anyway, once I realized that I do not think in images, and images are central to writing that is "literary," I realized that "I am about as literary as a potato sprouting eyes." (Actually, I love that image. Potatoes with "eyes" gross me out and fascinate me.) Without writing images, it is hard to include metaphors in my stories. Seriously, I would not think to include a metaphor if one walked up to me at a cocktail party, introduced itself politely, and then punched me in the face when I did not recognize it. If I was to write a metaphor about the tree, it would be something cheesy like, "The tree was an angel that guarded our house against the darkness of the night that wasn't really all that dark because we faced a busy highway that was brightly illuminated by street lights." No good.
Despite my lack of "literary" credentials, I think I can write well in a few styles. Hence my other new motto is, "This cubic zirconium has many facets." Bwa ha ha ha. Fuck being literary.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
More to Love
While I was at my parents' house two weeks ago, I found this photo of Husband and me from 1996 or 1997:
Here we are in July 2009:
There was a hell of a lot more of us to love back then. It is also nice to see that while we are almost entirely different people, not much has changed in my parents' kitchen.
(Thanks to everyone for the advice on photo editing software! I tried Piknik, Picasa, and Paint, and Paint was exactly what I needed to semi-disguise Husband. (I probably didn't block enough of his face out, but it would ruin the point of the picture if I blocked everything.)
Here we are in July 2009:
There was a hell of a lot more of us to love back then. It is also nice to see that while we are almost entirely different people, not much has changed in my parents' kitchen.
(Thanks to everyone for the advice on photo editing software! I tried Piknik, Picasa, and Paint, and Paint was exactly what I needed to semi-disguise Husband. (I probably didn't block enough of his face out, but it would ruin the point of the picture if I blocked everything.)
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
New and Improved
Anyone have any suggestions as to where I can get free photo editing software? I want to post a picture I found of Husband and I from the summer of 1996 or 1997, but he doesn't want his face appearing on CUSS, so I have to find a way to draw a mustache on him or something. The picture is a nice example of how much more of us there used to be to love, so I want to post it.
In other news, we had a friendly toilet installed today:
It has quite the power flush, which is very important around here. Unfortunately, it also is gurgling and won't stop. I'll miss our old deranged toilet seat, but the floor looks a million times nicer:
The contractor told me that they used 700 pounds of concrete to even out the underlying floor and walls in the bathroom. The bathroom is maybe 60 square feet, so that's impressive.
Either the dust or the unhealthy food I consumed today (ate six Oreos for breakfast and two scones for lunch) is giving me a headache and stomach ache. Seriously, I think my parents got it right when they decided to forgo home improvements and just let their house slowly deteriorate around them.
In other news, we had a friendly toilet installed today:
It has quite the power flush, which is very important around here. Unfortunately, it also is gurgling and won't stop. I'll miss our old deranged toilet seat, but the floor looks a million times nicer:
The contractor told me that they used 700 pounds of concrete to even out the underlying floor and walls in the bathroom. The bathroom is maybe 60 square feet, so that's impressive.
Either the dust or the unhealthy food I consumed today (ate six Oreos for breakfast and two scones for lunch) is giving me a headache and stomach ache. Seriously, I think my parents got it right when they decided to forgo home improvements and just let their house slowly deteriorate around them.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Pneumonia Ice Cream
"How are you?" my dad asked me when I spoke to him on the phone earlier.
"Ugh, I'm sick again," I said, coughing and sputtering.
"Oh, do you have a cold?"
"Probably, but my lungs hurt when I cough, and my boss has bronchitis, so who knows?"
"What?" I pictured my dad anxiously running his hand through his thinning hair. "It hurts when you cough? You could have pneumonia! Go see a doctor right away for a chest x-ray!"
This is the type of response I'd expect from my mom (who, incidentally, also told me to see a doctor when I mentioned that I was sick and my boss had bronchitis), but not my dad. My mom is a hypochondriac. She worried that my sister was exposed to mercury a few months before she became pregnant (it's a boy, by the way!) when a long-lasting light bulb broke at my parents' house about a week before my not pregnant at the time sister came to visit them. Usually my dad is calmer about health issues.
"I don't have pneumonia," I told him. Although on Sunday night when I was freezing and wearing 8 layers of clothes and had two blankets and barely warmed up, I worried that I had pneumonia. (I'm a lot like my mom.)
"Remember when I had pneumonia?" I was maybe five or six at the time. "It hurt when I coughed, and I ignored it, and then I was on bed rest for a month. Go see a doctor."
I do remember when my dad had pneumonia. I remember him eating a bowl of ice cream while sitting in the living room, watching TV. I remember getting "pneumonia" and "spumoni" confused, although they don't really sound alike. Spumoni was my favorite ice cream when I was growing up (I still like it a lot), even though it was not often available at the grocery store. When I thought that my dad had spumoni, I was intrigued. How could I get me some of that? I wondered. However, it turns out that pneumonia is not nearly as good as spumoni.
"Ugh, I'm sick again," I said, coughing and sputtering.
"Oh, do you have a cold?"
"Probably, but my lungs hurt when I cough, and my boss has bronchitis, so who knows?"
"What?" I pictured my dad anxiously running his hand through his thinning hair. "It hurts when you cough? You could have pneumonia! Go see a doctor right away for a chest x-ray!"
This is the type of response I'd expect from my mom (who, incidentally, also told me to see a doctor when I mentioned that I was sick and my boss had bronchitis), but not my dad. My mom is a hypochondriac. She worried that my sister was exposed to mercury a few months before she became pregnant (it's a boy, by the way!) when a long-lasting light bulb broke at my parents' house about a week before my not pregnant at the time sister came to visit them. Usually my dad is calmer about health issues.
"I don't have pneumonia," I told him. Although on Sunday night when I was freezing and wearing 8 layers of clothes and had two blankets and barely warmed up, I worried that I had pneumonia. (I'm a lot like my mom.)
"Remember when I had pneumonia?" I was maybe five or six at the time. "It hurt when I coughed, and I ignored it, and then I was on bed rest for a month. Go see a doctor."
I do remember when my dad had pneumonia. I remember him eating a bowl of ice cream while sitting in the living room, watching TV. I remember getting "pneumonia" and "spumoni" confused, although they don't really sound alike. Spumoni was my favorite ice cream when I was growing up (I still like it a lot), even though it was not often available at the grocery store. When I thought that my dad had spumoni, I was intrigued. How could I get me some of that? I wondered. However, it turns out that pneumonia is not nearly as good as spumoni.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Sunday Spazz Sessions
On the way home from a lovely weekend visit with Alex Elliot & family, Steph, Husband, and I discussed cars that our parents had driven when we were kids. Steph mentioned a Cadillac Eldorado that her dad lusted after and finally purchased after years of motoring around in Toyotas, only to have it sit around in the garage after they drove it from Pennsylvania to Disney World one summer. Husband said that his dad installed an 8 track machine so that he could listen to Sesame Street songs in the sensible sedans they drove. I talked about the Bobcat debacle.
I am not sure when my dad bought the Mercury Bobcat two door hatchback or why, but by the summer of 1984, the air condition no longer worked and the driver's side door didn't close properly. (The driver had to pull the door up while yanking it closed, or it would pop back open.) The car had four bucket seats, making it inappropriate for car pooling, and yet my mom inherited it. I fondly recalled sitting on the fuzzy light blue "hump" with no seat belt in the back between the two bucket seats while we sat sweltering in traffic jams on the way to my allergist appointments. The Cubs game blared over the radio. That was probably the best summer I ever had.
As I regaled Steph and Husband with my tale of the Bobcat, I realized that not only was that a great summer, but it was probably the last time I was ever consistently happy. When I went back to school, none of my friends were in my class. I had a horrific asthma attack while running in gym, and was sent to the hospital via ambulance. After that, I wasn't allowed to exert myself in gym, so by the end of third grade, just when I was sliding into early adolescence, I lost touch with my friends, stopped exercising and gained weight, and hid in books.
In fourth grade, I experienced my first bouts of depression, gained more weight, and failed a test in school for the first time. (I got a 49% on a fractions exam.) From then on, it was low self-esteem, and increasing frustration as I began to understand what a horribly unfair place the wider world was. Suddenly, it mattered that I didn't live in a nice house or wear trendy jeans. At the same time, I knew that millions of people had it worse than me, and I was lucky.
Almost 25 years after I cheered for the Cubs with all my heart while my mom hoped that we wouldn't get into a car accident that would send me straight through the windshield, it vexes me to realize that no matter what I attempt to do to improve my situation and be happy, I'll never have the same constant satisfaction with life. Sure, I'm happy at times - and frequently - but underneath it all is the frustration that I can't balance what I want. I can't find a combination of paid work, writing, education, leisure, family, friends, exercise, etc. that satisfies me. It's always too much of something, leaving me stressed, anxious, and worried. And yet I know I've got it good, making me feel guilty for not being happier. The hump on which I perched so cheerfully is long gone, leaving me without a vehicle to get where I should go.* Maybe the summer that the Cubs finally deliver is when it will all come together for me, too.**
*How's that for a metaphor?
**Of course, I happen to think that a Cubs World Series victory is a sign of the apocalypse, but that's another story.
I am not sure when my dad bought the Mercury Bobcat two door hatchback or why, but by the summer of 1984, the air condition no longer worked and the driver's side door didn't close properly. (The driver had to pull the door up while yanking it closed, or it would pop back open.) The car had four bucket seats, making it inappropriate for car pooling, and yet my mom inherited it. I fondly recalled sitting on the fuzzy light blue "hump" with no seat belt in the back between the two bucket seats while we sat sweltering in traffic jams on the way to my allergist appointments. The Cubs game blared over the radio. That was probably the best summer I ever had.
As I regaled Steph and Husband with my tale of the Bobcat, I realized that not only was that a great summer, but it was probably the last time I was ever consistently happy. When I went back to school, none of my friends were in my class. I had a horrific asthma attack while running in gym, and was sent to the hospital via ambulance. After that, I wasn't allowed to exert myself in gym, so by the end of third grade, just when I was sliding into early adolescence, I lost touch with my friends, stopped exercising and gained weight, and hid in books.
In fourth grade, I experienced my first bouts of depression, gained more weight, and failed a test in school for the first time. (I got a 49% on a fractions exam.) From then on, it was low self-esteem, and increasing frustration as I began to understand what a horribly unfair place the wider world was. Suddenly, it mattered that I didn't live in a nice house or wear trendy jeans. At the same time, I knew that millions of people had it worse than me, and I was lucky.
Almost 25 years after I cheered for the Cubs with all my heart while my mom hoped that we wouldn't get into a car accident that would send me straight through the windshield, it vexes me to realize that no matter what I attempt to do to improve my situation and be happy, I'll never have the same constant satisfaction with life. Sure, I'm happy at times - and frequently - but underneath it all is the frustration that I can't balance what I want. I can't find a combination of paid work, writing, education, leisure, family, friends, exercise, etc. that satisfies me. It's always too much of something, leaving me stressed, anxious, and worried. And yet I know I've got it good, making me feel guilty for not being happier. The hump on which I perched so cheerfully is long gone, leaving me without a vehicle to get where I should go.* Maybe the summer that the Cubs finally deliver is when it will all come together for me, too.**
*How's that for a metaphor?
**Of course, I happen to think that a Cubs World Series victory is a sign of the apocalypse, but that's another story.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Slipper When Wet
"Watch out when you go in the shower," my mom said to my sister on Saturday morning. "The tub is slippery."
"Duh! That's how tubs are!"
"No, really. The cleaning people came and removed five inches of soap scum, so it's extra slippery."
That said, I had a very nice visit today. My nuclear unit took in the latest movie starring my long lost twin Adrien Brody, Cadillac Records, which I enjoyed. Lots of food for thought. Then I obtained a new white turtleneck for a mere $7, which I will use to replace the stained one I've had since junior high.
For dinner, we celebrated my birthday at Red Lobster, which was a special treat for me. (Sometimes I just want to promote osmosis my eating salty cheddar biscuits. Ha ha - no really, my peach-bourbon BBQ shrimp and scallops were good.) Afterward, we had cake at home. Usually I love yellow cake with fudge icing from Jewel, the local grocery chain, but the cake I picked out wasn't so moist and the frosting detached from the cake in clumps. I took the opportunity to interview my grandma and bubbe about their families, though, and that was nice for the most part.
Assuming the weather is agreeable (it's supposed to rain), I'm heading back to my own ten inches of soap scum this evening, and I'm sad that it went by so fast, although I look forward to seeing Husband. And I got an upgrade on the flight back, so that will be nice.
"Duh! That's how tubs are!"
"No, really. The cleaning people came and removed five inches of soap scum, so it's extra slippery."
That said, I had a very nice visit today. My nuclear unit took in the latest movie starring my long lost twin Adrien Brody, Cadillac Records, which I enjoyed. Lots of food for thought. Then I obtained a new white turtleneck for a mere $7, which I will use to replace the stained one I've had since junior high.
For dinner, we celebrated my birthday at Red Lobster, which was a special treat for me. (Sometimes I just want to promote osmosis my eating salty cheddar biscuits. Ha ha - no really, my peach-bourbon BBQ shrimp and scallops were good.) Afterward, we had cake at home. Usually I love yellow cake with fudge icing from Jewel, the local grocery chain, but the cake I picked out wasn't so moist and the frosting detached from the cake in clumps. I took the opportunity to interview my grandma and bubbe about their families, though, and that was nice for the most part.
Assuming the weather is agreeable (it's supposed to rain), I'm heading back to my own ten inches of soap scum this evening, and I'm sad that it went by so fast, although I look forward to seeing Husband. And I got an upgrade on the flight back, so that will be nice.
Friday, December 12, 2008
What's Fucking Cookin' in the Windy City
Despite foreboding reports from CNN that due to weather conditions, yesterday was one of the worst days to travel, my flight not only took off on time, but also landed early. The flight was smooth. I was even upgraded to a nice comfy seat!
Both my parents were at work when I arrived, so I took a cab to my friend Hanah's apartment. The cab driver and I had an interesting discussion about Haiti (where he is from), consumerism and how it leads to dissatisfaction with life in general, and text messaging. When I got out of the cab, he thanked me for the nice chat and said that I could call him directly if I needed a ride back to the airport.
In the evening, I went to dinner with my parents and bubbe at a diner called What's Cooking. I was the youngest person in there by at least 25 years. At the table next to ours, two regulars chatted it up at top volume with the staff about the Blagojevich scandal.
"I know one place the Blagojevichs won't be eating tonight!" the gentleman with the coke bottle lens glasses bellowed.
"Yeah, at Anthony's!" his friend with unwashed hair yelled back.
Although I had no idea who Anthony was, my mom and I could not help but join them and the bus boy in laughing. The sort of reminded me of Statler and Waldorf, the two old men Muppets who heckle people.
The TV news is all Blagojevich, all the time. A businessman showed a reporter a picture of himself and Rod as babies. (At least I think that is what was going on. I was not watching the TV, but heard the anchor announce, "Blagojevich is the baby on the right.") No one else seems to want to be in pictures with him right now, as everyone is trying to distance themselves from his taint.
One thing that really riled me up is the flack that Blago's wife, Patti, is taking for a phone call in which she curses like a sailor. I noticed a story about it in the New York Post, a newspaper best used as litter pan liner, but the Sun-Times headline on the topic read, "Foul-mouthed first lady," as if being a woman and using bad language is a crime. Well then, arrest my fucking ass, shitheads, because I don't see anything wrong with swearing it up. This excerpt from the article is pretty fucking hilarious, though:
Yeah, fuck that shit! How fucking dare she?!?! If you are going to fucking advocate for the fucking treatment of fucking lazy eye, don't even fucking think of letting a little f-bomb drop. Seriously, I fucking hope she gets her fucking mouth washed out with fucking soap! Fuck and shit on that!
Both my parents were at work when I arrived, so I took a cab to my friend Hanah's apartment. The cab driver and I had an interesting discussion about Haiti (where he is from), consumerism and how it leads to dissatisfaction with life in general, and text messaging. When I got out of the cab, he thanked me for the nice chat and said that I could call him directly if I needed a ride back to the airport.
In the evening, I went to dinner with my parents and bubbe at a diner called What's Cooking. I was the youngest person in there by at least 25 years. At the table next to ours, two regulars chatted it up at top volume with the staff about the Blagojevich scandal.
"I know one place the Blagojevichs won't be eating tonight!" the gentleman with the coke bottle lens glasses bellowed.
"Yeah, at Anthony's!" his friend with unwashed hair yelled back.
Although I had no idea who Anthony was, my mom and I could not help but join them and the bus boy in laughing. The sort of reminded me of Statler and Waldorf, the two old men Muppets who heckle people.
The TV news is all Blagojevich, all the time. A businessman showed a reporter a picture of himself and Rod as babies. (At least I think that is what was going on. I was not watching the TV, but heard the anchor announce, "Blagojevich is the baby on the right.") No one else seems to want to be in pictures with him right now, as everyone is trying to distance themselves from his taint.
One thing that really riled me up is the flack that Blago's wife, Patti, is taking for a phone call in which she curses like a sailor. I noticed a story about it in the New York Post, a newspaper best used as litter pan liner, but the Sun-Times headline on the topic read, "Foul-mouthed first lady," as if being a woman and using bad language is a crime. Well then, arrest my fucking ass, shitheads, because I don't see anything wrong with swearing it up. This excerpt from the article is pretty fucking hilarious, though:
Patti Blagojevich -- who publicly used her first lady platform to promote food allergy awareness, treatment of lazy eye and a children's book club -- secretly was recorded directing a deputy governor speaking with her husband "to hold up that f- - - - - - Cubs s- - - . . . . f- - - them," according to the complaint.
Yeah, fuck that shit! How fucking dare she?!?! If you are going to fucking advocate for the fucking treatment of fucking lazy eye, don't even fucking think of letting a little f-bomb drop. Seriously, I fucking hope she gets her fucking mouth washed out with fucking soap! Fuck and shit on that!
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The Hubris! The Hubris!
Assuming that I do not get messed up by a blizzard (an actual one, not the political one), I will be in the Chicago area this afternoon for a weekend visit with my family. Initially, Husband was to join me on Friday afternoon, and my sister and her hubby were to arrive on Friday night. However, Husband canceled due to a potential storm at work, and Dana and Ryan nixed their plans out of fear of potential weather conditions. So that leaves little old me.
Thanks to the political tornado that just roared through Chicago, I think it should be an interesting time to be there. Like most denizens of Illinois, I was never a huge fan of Blagojevich, but quite frankly, his Republican opponents for office were pretty much equally corrupt and disgusting. Or at least it seemed so when good ol' Blago was somewhat sane. There is only one explanation I can come up with for why a man who has been under investigation for corruption for three years would try to sell a Senate seat, pressure the Tribune to fire its editorial board, and demand high paying jobs: he's been driven insane by hubris. I sort of picture him in a muumuu in the heart of darkness,* whispering, "The hubris! The hubris!" as Fitzgerald tries to drag him out of his cocoon.**
Anyway, should be an interesting trip. Besides talking about politics,*** I plan to interview both my grandmothers about our family history. I'm sure that this will generate some colorful commentary, which I look forward to sharing.
*Springfield, IL, the state capital - if you've never been there, let me assure you that the best part about it is that the municipal parking garage near the capitol building was extremely cheap the last time I was there, which was spring 1994.
**Man, that would make a good parody movie, wouldn't it? Sort of Tropic Thunder meets All the President's Men.
***When I asked my bubbe what she thought about Blago's corruption, she said it was bad and then began ranting about how corrupt the Bush administration is. Forget falling fruit - sometimes the fruit is still hanging on the tree. I think this has many layers of meaning, but I'm rambling too much already.
Thanks to the political tornado that just roared through Chicago, I think it should be an interesting time to be there. Like most denizens of Illinois, I was never a huge fan of Blagojevich, but quite frankly, his Republican opponents for office were pretty much equally corrupt and disgusting. Or at least it seemed so when good ol' Blago was somewhat sane. There is only one explanation I can come up with for why a man who has been under investigation for corruption for three years would try to sell a Senate seat, pressure the Tribune to fire its editorial board, and demand high paying jobs: he's been driven insane by hubris. I sort of picture him in a muumuu in the heart of darkness,* whispering, "The hubris! The hubris!" as Fitzgerald tries to drag him out of his cocoon.**
Anyway, should be an interesting trip. Besides talking about politics,*** I plan to interview both my grandmothers about our family history. I'm sure that this will generate some colorful commentary, which I look forward to sharing.
*Springfield, IL, the state capital - if you've never been there, let me assure you that the best part about it is that the municipal parking garage near the capitol building was extremely cheap the last time I was there, which was spring 1994.
**Man, that would make a good parody movie, wouldn't it? Sort of Tropic Thunder meets All the President's Men.
***When I asked my bubbe what she thought about Blago's corruption, she said it was bad and then began ranting about how corrupt the Bush administration is. Forget falling fruit - sometimes the fruit is still hanging on the tree. I think this has many layers of meaning, but I'm rambling too much already.
Friday, November 28, 2008
New Title
Starting sometime in June, I will officially be known as Aunt Suzanne to my sister's baby! I am so, so, so, so excited. I am also really sad that my sister lives so far away.
My sister told my parents on Tuesday night. My mom had asked her to print some pictures from my grandmother's birthday party last summer, so she stuck pictures from her sonogram in with the others. As my mom looked through the batch, she came to the sonogram shot.
"What's this?"
"That's your unborn grandchild," my sister replied.
"What? I don't have an unbor.... Oh!" my mom exclaimed. "Wait! How did this happen? I, mean, I know how this happened, but how did it happen?"
Last nght, my dad told me that he has not stopped smiling since he found out. "I go to bed with a grin on my face, and when I wake up, I am smiling." I know how he feels.
My sister told my parents on Tuesday night. My mom had asked her to print some pictures from my grandmother's birthday party last summer, so she stuck pictures from her sonogram in with the others. As my mom looked through the batch, she came to the sonogram shot.
"What's this?"
"That's your unborn grandchild," my sister replied.
"What? I don't have an unbor.... Oh!" my mom exclaimed. "Wait! How did this happen? I, mean, I know how this happened, but how did it happen?"
Last nght, my dad told me that he has not stopped smiling since he found out. "I go to bed with a grin on my face, and when I wake up, I am smiling." I know how he feels.
Friday, November 21, 2008
As Seen on TV
The phone rang at ten to midnight. When the answering machine picked up before I did, my mom's voice filled the living room.
"Nothing to worry about. But I was excited and wanted to tell you..."
I picked up the phone and cut her off. "Hi. What's up?"
"Oh, your dad and I were watching some weird channel on cable that plays home videos. The one on TV was of the hot dog eating contest, and we saw Scott [brother-in-law] and then we saw you!"
"That must be the South Street Seaport qualifying round in 2005," I laughed. I'm sure this was extra exciting to watch on their new-ish flat panel TV. I ate 6.5 hot dogs in 12 minutes, earning me the unofficial title of Best Female Eater in the South Street Seaport Qualifying Round. (The only other woman, a bailiff, could only choke down five hot dogs.) More impressive, I stood next to Eric "Badlands" Booker, a champion eater who sprayed me with bits of wet bun as he consumed his winning quantity of food. If it played in HD, I bet they would have seen that.
My mom told me that the voice over gave all of the non-famous eaters fake names. I was named as June, but I forgot the fake last name. I also forgot the name given to Scott, but he was described as "Blah Blah, a future shingles sufferer," which I found odd and creepy.
The funny thing is that this is not the first time I have been randomly spotted on TV eating hot dogs. The same summer I entered the South Street Seaport contest, I also ate at the West (East?) Hartford, CT qualifier. MTV used that event as part of their documentary, "Real Life: I'm a Competitive Eater." Since I stood near celebrity eater Tim "Eater X" Janus, I made it into the show.
I "retired" from competitive eating attempts that same summer. It seems that my method of eating, which I called the rabbit method because it involved constant nibbling down of food, was not only ineffective, but that the absolute elastic capacity of my stomach is 6.5 hot dogs. While I managed to consume Sno Caps after the Connecticut attempt, I did not do so well after the Seaport, and decided that it was not worth branching out into other foods. Since the party's over for me, it's nice to know that both of my attempts to break into competitive eating are well documented, even if not in my own name.
"Nothing to worry about. But I was excited and wanted to tell you..."
I picked up the phone and cut her off. "Hi. What's up?"
"Oh, your dad and I were watching some weird channel on cable that plays home videos. The one on TV was of the hot dog eating contest, and we saw Scott [brother-in-law] and then we saw you!"
"That must be the South Street Seaport qualifying round in 2005," I laughed. I'm sure this was extra exciting to watch on their new-ish flat panel TV. I ate 6.5 hot dogs in 12 minutes, earning me the unofficial title of Best Female Eater in the South Street Seaport Qualifying Round. (The only other woman, a bailiff, could only choke down five hot dogs.) More impressive, I stood next to Eric "Badlands" Booker, a champion eater who sprayed me with bits of wet bun as he consumed his winning quantity of food. If it played in HD, I bet they would have seen that.
My mom told me that the voice over gave all of the non-famous eaters fake names. I was named as June, but I forgot the fake last name. I also forgot the name given to Scott, but he was described as "Blah Blah, a future shingles sufferer," which I found odd and creepy.
The funny thing is that this is not the first time I have been randomly spotted on TV eating hot dogs. The same summer I entered the South Street Seaport contest, I also ate at the West (East?) Hartford, CT qualifier. MTV used that event as part of their documentary, "Real Life: I'm a Competitive Eater." Since I stood near celebrity eater Tim "Eater X" Janus, I made it into the show.
I "retired" from competitive eating attempts that same summer. It seems that my method of eating, which I called the rabbit method because it involved constant nibbling down of food, was not only ineffective, but that the absolute elastic capacity of my stomach is 6.5 hot dogs. While I managed to consume Sno Caps after the Connecticut attempt, I did not do so well after the Seaport, and decided that it was not worth branching out into other foods. Since the party's over for me, it's nice to know that both of my attempts to break into competitive eating are well documented, even if not in my own name.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
$1,000 Per Plate Obama Fundraiser in Wilmette Not at My Parents' House
According to the New York Times, Sen. Hillary Clinton "appeared at a $1,000-per-plate dessert reception on Sunday at a home in Wilmette, Ill." When I thought about the likelihood of the event hosted in my parents dining room with people hitting their heads on the poorly centered and too low chandelier, I could not stop laughing. I figured that guests would admire the unicorn on a heart shaped plaque hanging on the living room wall that I painted years ago at the Snoop Shop. Other news sources confirmed that my parents were not holding out on me and hosting secret fundraisers by identifying the host as Kevin Conlon. (I tried to remember if I knew anyone with that last name, but I don't think I do.) Man, would I be pissed if my parents really did host something like that and didn't invite me!
Incidentally, if Hillary Clinton had followed the advice that I psychically offered her in 2000, she would possibly be the presidential nominee instead of Obama. At the time, Illinois had a douche bag conservative senator with two years left on his term. He did not plan to run again. I suggested that Hillary move back to her the fine state of her youth and wait a bit to run for his seat, but nope. Like me, the lady did not want to go back home once she saw the glittering lights of New York. Instead, she moved here, became a Yankees fan (boo! hiss! for God's sake, any self-respecting Cubs' fan would know that they should adopt the Mets as their NY home team, which I think reflects her character, but I digress...), ran for Senate, and won. Fine, but had she gone home, Barack Obama would not have run for the open Illinois seat (or at least not won it in all likelihood), thus preventing him from gaining national prominence.
And the rest is history. Go Obama.
Incidentally, if Hillary Clinton had followed the advice that I psychically offered her in 2000, she would possibly be the presidential nominee instead of Obama. At the time, Illinois had a douche bag conservative senator with two years left on his term. He did not plan to run again. I suggested that Hillary move back to her the fine state of her youth and wait a bit to run for his seat, but nope. Like me, the lady did not want to go back home once she saw the glittering lights of New York. Instead, she moved here, became a Yankees fan (boo! hiss! for God's sake, any self-respecting Cubs' fan would know that they should adopt the Mets as their NY home team, which I think reflects her character, but I digress...), ran for Senate, and won. Fine, but had she gone home, Barack Obama would not have run for the open Illinois seat (or at least not won it in all likelihood), thus preventing him from gaining national prominence.
And the rest is history. Go Obama.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Like Mother, Like Daughter
Yesterday I emailed a reminder about my book party on Saturday. This morning I received the following response from my mother:
I querried her as to whether that included interior decorating. Stay tuned.
I'm sorry, but we can't make it. We have better ways to spend our time.
I querried her as to whether that included interior decorating. Stay tuned.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Seeing the Light (For Mom)
While I visited my parents a few weeks ago, my mom mentioned that my dad recently broke one of those newfangled long-lasting light bulbs. Not knowing that there is a special way to dispose of those bulbs, he just threw everything out. Not long after that, the Village of Wilmette sent residents a special kit to use in the event that one of those light bulbs break. My mom freaked.
"There's mercury in the living room!" she fretted as I sat with her at the kitchen table.
"So?"
"So what if..." then listed a long stream of very unlikely detrimental effects to women of childbearing age who actually want children, i.e. - my sister.
"Um, I think you are overthinking this. It's not that big a deal."
"That's what so-and-so said at work," she replied, clearly not believing either of us.
This is why I am so excited that florescent light bulb disposal kits were included in the BlogHer Conference goodie bags. Alex even generously donated hers to me to pass on to my mom. So, mom, when you come to see my in NYC in a few weeks, leave extra space in your suitcase for your light bulb safety kits.
"There's mercury in the living room!" she fretted as I sat with her at the kitchen table.
"So?"
"So what if..." then listed a long stream of very unlikely detrimental effects to women of childbearing age who actually want children, i.e. - my sister.
"Um, I think you are overthinking this. It's not that big a deal."
"That's what so-and-so said at work," she replied, clearly not believing either of us.
This is why I am so excited that florescent light bulb disposal kits were included in the BlogHer Conference goodie bags. Alex even generously donated hers to me to pass on to my mom. So, mom, when you come to see my in NYC in a few weeks, leave extra space in your suitcase for your light bulb safety kits.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Conversations with My Mom
While watching the Cubs lose to the White Sox on Saturday:
"I think I'm constipated," I said.
"So are the Cubs," my mom replied.
"Yeah? Why's that?"
"They don't have any runs!" she beamed.
I went to ask my mom something while she was sitting in the kitchen, staring at her calendar:
"I think you have a milk mustache," I said, noticing a thin white line above her lips.
"No, that Mylanta," she laughed.
Little snippets of conversation with my mom seem to be a good way to begin July's blogging (and fill up what is my 1,600th post). I'm hoping that July will be full of fun and excitement. I'm at my parent's house for the first week, then the BlogHer conference is in the middle of the month, and I'm spending the last week with Husband and 8 gazillion friends at a house we rented in upstate New York. See? Fun. What I am not going to do is obsess over grad school. (No, I didn't hear anything.) Right? Right.
I'm all up for hanging out in San Francisco with bloggers and friends and friends who are bloggers. Not only will I be hosting the Feminism & Gender meet up room, but also the Travel blogging one. Yay! And I'm hoping that things work out and Off the Beaten (Subway) Track debuts at the conference. Then it comes out for everyone. (I really hope people like it.) Yes, lots of fun, little anxiety.
"I think I'm constipated," I said.
"So are the Cubs," my mom replied.
"Yeah? Why's that?"
"They don't have any runs!" she beamed.
I went to ask my mom something while she was sitting in the kitchen, staring at her calendar:
"I think you have a milk mustache," I said, noticing a thin white line above her lips.
"No, that Mylanta," she laughed.
Little snippets of conversation with my mom seem to be a good way to begin July's blogging (and fill up what is my 1,600th post). I'm hoping that July will be full of fun and excitement. I'm at my parent's house for the first week, then the BlogHer conference is in the middle of the month, and I'm spending the last week with Husband and 8 gazillion friends at a house we rented in upstate New York. See? Fun. What I am not going to do is obsess over grad school. (No, I didn't hear anything.) Right? Right.
I'm all up for hanging out in San Francisco with bloggers and friends and friends who are bloggers. Not only will I be hosting the Feminism & Gender meet up room, but also the Travel blogging one. Yay! And I'm hoping that things work out and Off the Beaten (Subway) Track debuts at the conference. Then it comes out for everyone. (I really hope people like it.) Yes, lots of fun, little anxiety.
Monday, May 26, 2008
The Treasure of My Parents' Couch
The first sentence in the personal statement I included with my MFA applications was a lie. I wrote that I never planned to become a writer. (My memory only appears to go back to 7th grade, when, during my bat mitzvah speech, I asked God to provide me with a scholarship to Northwestern University so that I could later go to law school.) However, a document freshly unearthed from my parents' couch last night provided evidence to the contrary.
Among the videos and CDs that my parents stored on their couch was a free promotional Kellogg's cereal promotional clipboard/folder that I received in 1987 at a Cubs game. The clipboard/folder formerly resided in my bedroom, and I have no idea how it wound up on the couch, but when my sister pitched a fit and irrationally insisted on clearing the videos and CDs off the couch so people could sit on it, I noticed it.
Inside, I found several sheets of lined paper containing a story titled, "A Treaser [sic] Hunt with THE Girl Who Wanted to Be In Professional Baseball." In my list of "a million different things" I wanted to be when I grew up, I wrote, "First of all, I want to be an author, second an advertiser, third a baseball umpire." More important, the original story illustrates that I did not, in fact, recently learn the magic of dialog. The ten page story, written in pencil, is chock full of dialog.
As soon as I get home, I will scan this hilarious story and post it on CUSS. (Dana and I damn near busted a gut laughing at it.) When I do, it will prove that:
1. I was a gifted 11 year old.
2. I have become dumber in my old age.
3. I am only now relearning writing skills I began developing over 20 years ago.
Fascinating.
Among the videos and CDs that my parents stored on their couch was a free promotional Kellogg's cereal promotional clipboard/folder that I received in 1987 at a Cubs game. The clipboard/folder formerly resided in my bedroom, and I have no idea how it wound up on the couch, but when my sister pitched a fit and irrationally insisted on clearing the videos and CDs off the couch so people could sit on it, I noticed it.
Inside, I found several sheets of lined paper containing a story titled, "A Treaser [sic] Hunt with THE Girl Who Wanted to Be In Professional Baseball." In my list of "a million different things" I wanted to be when I grew up, I wrote, "First of all, I want to be an author, second an advertiser, third a baseball umpire." More important, the original story illustrates that I did not, in fact, recently learn the magic of dialog. The ten page story, written in pencil, is chock full of dialog.
As soon as I get home, I will scan this hilarious story and post it on CUSS. (Dana and I damn near busted a gut laughing at it.) When I do, it will prove that:
1. I was a gifted 11 year old.
2. I have become dumber in my old age.
3. I am only now relearning writing skills I began developing over 20 years ago.
Fascinating.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Home is Where the Mess - Er, I Mean Heart - Is
When I stepped into my parents' house yesterday for the first time since December, I sensed something was different. A quick scan of the kitchen revealed a bald spot on the wall where the phone used to hang and cover a missing patch of maroon and navy flowered wallpaper. The phone sat on the kitchen table. A splitter jutted out of the phone's previous home, with one wire leading to the kitchen table, and the other snaking around the corner into the living room.
Then I remembered that my parents received a flat panel TV as a 35th wedding anniversary gift from my bubbe. My sister reported from a previous visit home that the TV required a land line connection for some reason. This was my parents' elegant solution.
Moving into the living room, I observed the new TV proudly gracing the top of a classy new glass TV stand. My mom's shrine to our family (framed photos from important family events, primarily but not limited to my sisters' and my weddings) took up the lower two shelves. The Shrine was arranged very well, with all pictures visible.
I flopped down on the couch. It took me a few minutes to notice that the other arm of the rust colored L-shaped sofa was covered with videos that used to occupy the cabinet in the old entertainment unit. I smiled, thinking about how the blue chenille thrift store couch that forms an L with the fading black fabric Ikea couch in my apartment is currently covered in old magazines and papers.
Two lessons: Like mother, like daughter; and, it's nice to be home.
Then I remembered that my parents received a flat panel TV as a 35th wedding anniversary gift from my bubbe. My sister reported from a previous visit home that the TV required a land line connection for some reason. This was my parents' elegant solution.
Moving into the living room, I observed the new TV proudly gracing the top of a classy new glass TV stand. My mom's shrine to our family (framed photos from important family events, primarily but not limited to my sisters' and my weddings) took up the lower two shelves. The Shrine was arranged very well, with all pictures visible.
I flopped down on the couch. It took me a few minutes to notice that the other arm of the rust colored L-shaped sofa was covered with videos that used to occupy the cabinet in the old entertainment unit. I smiled, thinking about how the blue chenille thrift store couch that forms an L with the fading black fabric Ikea couch in my apartment is currently covered in old magazines and papers.
Two lessons: Like mother, like daughter; and, it's nice to be home.
There's No Place Like Home, or Surrender Dorothy!
Taking off for the fourth weekend in a row (which is fun, but exhausting), and heading over to my parents' house in Chicago this afternoon. The Reisman clan shall be celebrating Bubbe's 85th birthday party on Sunday at a Russian restaurant. My dad ordered two bottles of vodka for the event.
"Only the cousins will drink it," he told me on the phone on Tuesday, "and this way they'll still be able to stand up straight when the leave." I could sense his satisfaction.
"Except that if they have only two bottles of vodka, they won't even be tipsy," I noted. These relatives drink a lot of vodka at celebrations; their tolerance level probably exceeds what would kill a normal person.
Other weekend activities include seeing my friend Rachel, her partner, and their adorable daughter on Friday; going to the new Indiana Jones flick on Saturday afternoon (so excited!!! And unlike NYC, theaters in Chicago actually have matinée prices, so it was a bargain to pre-buy tickets); and eating grotesque quantities of BBQ shipped overnight from Neely's Interstate BBQ in Memphis. (When we went on a family outing to Graceland last year, Neely's was the highlight of the trip. It was probably the best meal I've ever eaten.)
Plenty of hijinks to follow.
"Only the cousins will drink it," he told me on the phone on Tuesday, "and this way they'll still be able to stand up straight when the leave." I could sense his satisfaction.
"Except that if they have only two bottles of vodka, they won't even be tipsy," I noted. These relatives drink a lot of vodka at celebrations; their tolerance level probably exceeds what would kill a normal person.
Other weekend activities include seeing my friend Rachel, her partner, and their adorable daughter on Friday; going to the new Indiana Jones flick on Saturday afternoon (so excited!!! And unlike NYC, theaters in Chicago actually have matinée prices, so it was a bargain to pre-buy tickets); and eating grotesque quantities of BBQ shipped overnight from Neely's Interstate BBQ in Memphis. (When we went on a family outing to Graceland last year, Neely's was the highlight of the trip. It was probably the best meal I've ever eaten.)
Plenty of hijinks to follow.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Learning to Be a Compassionate Conservative
For my 7th grade social studies enrichment project, I devised a board game about homelessness. The game was inspired by an article I read in People magazine about four or five people and how they became homeless. Using only their real life stories, people went around the board and tried to find a permanent place to live. I even cut out the people's pictures from the magazine and made them into the men.
After playing the game for a little while, several of my fellow "gifted" classmates became frustrated by all the bad luck that happened on each turn. Just when they thought they were making progress, there would be some set back, again, based on the real life stories told in the article.
"How do you win?" one guy demanded to know.
I frowned. "I don't think it's possible."
"This is the dumbest game ever," he sneered. "I quit."
And that is the type of "compassionate" conservatism that pervaded the community I grew up in. People refused to believe that not everyone was born into an advantaged situation, and thus if they were homeless, it was their fault. Plus, if only someone worked hard enough, they would be fine.
Granted, we were only in junior high, so I can't entirely fault my classmates for their naivety. At the same time, I seemed able to grasp the concept and as one of the dumbest smart people in my school, I barely was admitted into the gifted program, so I'm not sure why the "best and the brightest" were unable to wrap their little minds around the idea that society really screws some people. Now might be a good time to point out that Donald Rumsfeld grew up in that area, so perhaps it is a collective willful stupidity that only a few of us are fortunate enough to avoid.
And, with that little commentary, I am off to get an offensively expensive hair cut.
After playing the game for a little while, several of my fellow "gifted" classmates became frustrated by all the bad luck that happened on each turn. Just when they thought they were making progress, there would be some set back, again, based on the real life stories told in the article.
"How do you win?" one guy demanded to know.
I frowned. "I don't think it's possible."
"This is the dumbest game ever," he sneered. "I quit."
And that is the type of "compassionate" conservatism that pervaded the community I grew up in. People refused to believe that not everyone was born into an advantaged situation, and thus if they were homeless, it was their fault. Plus, if only someone worked hard enough, they would be fine.
Granted, we were only in junior high, so I can't entirely fault my classmates for their naivety. At the same time, I seemed able to grasp the concept and as one of the dumbest smart people in my school, I barely was admitted into the gifted program, so I'm not sure why the "best and the brightest" were unable to wrap their little minds around the idea that society really screws some people. Now might be a good time to point out that Donald Rumsfeld grew up in that area, so perhaps it is a collective willful stupidity that only a few of us are fortunate enough to avoid.
And, with that little commentary, I am off to get an offensively expensive hair cut.
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