the pieces of my life

We went last night to Kevin and Shannan’s where they made chili in preparation for the section’s Super Bowl chili cook-off. Mmmm, good chili. Being the good Minnesotians they are (is that what you call people from Minnesota?), they made this appetizer that looked yummy. It was a puff of mashed potatoes on top of something. We asked what it was and they said, “Just try it!” so I dutifully popped one in my mouth. “Not bad, ” I said, as I tried to figure out what the heck the flavor was. Sausage? No, not quite. Ham? Not exactly. The Minnesota part should have given it away. You all know what it was, don’t you? Shannan laughed as she said, “They’re Spam cupcakes!” Truly not bad. I ate two more. Apparently, it’s a prize-winning Spam recipe. I’m just excited that I, who’s so extolled the pleasures of the Spam museum, is no longer a Spam virgin.

But that wasn’t what I wanted to talk about. Last night we walked into the party, and Shannan said, “What kind of beer do you want?” I said, “No beer, thanks. How about some water?” Everyone stopped to stare at me like I was crazy. I suddenly felt very defensive and I said, “I’ve sworn off beer until I lose another six pounds.” Everyone expressed wonder at my willpower. I can’t imagine what it must be like for someone who truly can’t drink. Don’t get me wrong–no one made me feel uncomfortable about it, but I definitely felt like the odd person out as the only one without a drink in her hand. But I’ve put on ten pounds since coming to Boston and in the past month or so, I’ve dropped four of them. Drinking just adds weight on to me, not just for the calories but because I lose my food inhibitions when I’m drinking and I would have scarfed an entire plate of Spam cupcakes. It’s going to be tougher as Adam’s semester starts and all the drinking events begin again. But until Jazz Fest, I’m drink free.

Keeping that book and movie blog makes me realize how lame I am when it comes to watching movies and reading books. I read every night before I go to bed, but really that’s the only time I get quality time with my books. I need to carve out more time, but I’m not sure when to do that. That’s one of the benefits of the single life–much more time to curl up with a book. Not that I’d trade curling up with Adam for curling up with a book, but reading is nice too.

Reality junkies like me live to see how low the networks will sink next. I just watched the first episode of Joe Millionaire, which most of the TV watching world knows is a series about an average Joe construction worker, earning $19,000 a year, pretending to have inherited $50 million dollars as twenty women compete for his affections. In the last episode, he’ll reveal that he’s truly just a regular guy, barely making ends meet to see if the woman is really a gold digger or if she likes him for himself. I won’t even go into the blatantly obvious flaws with the whole premise of this show, but I will be watching all the way through, if for no other reason than it’s fun to watch the women cry when they don’t get picked (does that seem cruel? Well, what did they expect going on a show to compete for their dream millionaire husband). All these women talked about how excited they are to get to be with a rich guy and how they all want to be provided for. I’m sure many women and men would love to be provided for, but they don’t blabber about it on national TV, getting starry eyed as they excitedly talk about money. No fewer than eight women made comments involving the words “fairy tale” or “princess,” as in “I’m a princess and this is the life I deserved” (an almost exact quote).

But Joe Millionaire wasn’t the point of this. The point was the furor being raised over The Real Beverly Hillbillies, a series CBS would like to produce in which they take a true family from the Appalachians and plop them in Beverly Hills a la the old sit com. (Hey, does this sound like Frontier House in reverse to anyone else?) As the biggest opponent says, “The joke is that this family won’t know how to live with money, servants, modern appliances, prepared food, and other conveniences of 21st century life… CBS’s show will ridicule and mock people based on stereotypes and economic status.” Valid points. I actually think this does cross a line because it takes advantage of those who may not know what they’re getting into. (I’m judging this on the book that we’re actually discussing in book group tonight, Rick Bragg’s All Over but the Shoutin’, which I wouldn’t necessarily recommend, but apparently I’m the only one who wouldn’t.) Anyone in this day and age who chooses to go on The Bachelor or, starting next week, The Bachelorette or The Real World or whatever knows exactly what they’re getting into. If they get the family they really want, odds are they’re not spending luxurious evenings sitting around a television, getting their fill of Survivor and Who Wants to Marry a Multimillionaire. This is out and out mockery. But should we expect more from the same networks that are bringing us The Will (families fighting for the family fortune)? (By the way, check out ABC’s casting page to find all the reality shows they’re looking to fill: want plastic surgery? to try on a new family? prove you’re the All American Girl? This is the place.)

Of course, you know this all just makes me one big fat hypocrite. Because if they do get this show on the air, you know I’m going to be the first one to set up the Replay to make sure I get every episode.

This doesn’t really count because it’s not about work per se, but about an interview I just did. For a piece on how education has changed, I interviewed an alumna from the class of ’41–she’s almost 89 years old. I have never spoken to anyone who had such a wonderful, upbeat attitude. Everything was fabulous to her, and sincerely so (as opposed to those you meet where everything is faaaabulous, dahling). She ran a private kindergarten after high school to make money to go to college, and she charged kids 50 cents a week (she said to me, “That was during the deep depression. You’re awfully young, dear. Did you know we had a depression?”). She picked them up in her 1927 Ford Beech wagon in the morning, worked with the kids till 3:15, then hopped a bus and was in class in Boston (she lived way out) by 4:30. When we got of the phone, she sang me a line from a song, as she says she always does. If a positive attitude will keep you going, this woman will live forever. I’m trying to remember her as I go through my frustrations of the day, and it does help somewhat. (I’ll be sure to scan in the article I write about her, so you can see what I mean.)

A lot of times I don’t blog, not because I don’t have anything to say, but because I don’t have anything I can blog. Big difference. There are days I’d love to go off on rants about people I know (are you reading this, wondering if it’s you? Honestly, it’s probably not you), work, or things are too personal for a blog (and, yes, there are things too personal for a blog). That’s how I’ve been feeling of late. Lots to say, nowhere to say it except my newly resurrected private journal. Times like this I understand the joy of an anonymous blog–but then someone always finds it, don’t they, and then it’s definitely not anonymous anymore (hmmm, could this be an interesting plot point for my novel? Could work…).

For a few years, just after grad school, I kept a log of all the books I’d read with just a sentence or two about them. When I went traveling, and I had to pare down what I carried with me, I stopped doing it (which is remarkably similar to my vegetarian ways: for five years no meat, but then when traveling, poof, I found I needed to pare down my restrictions and I started eating meat again). I’ve missed doing that, if for no other reason than I have a bad memory, and often I’ll pick up a book and think, “Have I read that already?” To that end, I’m going to try again with a book–and movie–log. My self-imposed rules are 1) I can only include it if I read/watched it all the way through (none of those good-intentioned reads that I only make it halfway through) and 2) all movies and books make it no matter how embarrassing to me. I’m starting fresh with the new year–no back filling for me. There’s a permanent link on the right nav if you’re ever curious about what’s entertaining me.

I was trying to come up with the sound of snow for the heading of this entry, but I’m at a loss. There’s definitely a flutter or a whisper. Of course there’s the crunch of it beneath your feet, the whoosh of it when I’m throwing of hunk of it at Adam, and the groan of it as it’s melting and sliding off the roof. I’m still amazed by the snow. Just the sheer fact of it. Today was a pajama day all around. In Seattle, you had crappy day after crappy day of rain, but it was the kind of rain you could still be productive in, the kind of rain that just made you vow that this would be your last year in Seattle as you went about your normal run/work/errands/play (and, of course, once the sun poked out in July, you once again swear your eternal devotion to the most beautiful, most glorious city anywhere on earth). But here, the weather is entirely different. Today, so far, we’ve had about six inches of snow, and it just keeps coming. I sat at my desk in my flannel p.j.s (a Hanukah gift from Adam), alternately finishing up a freelance job and staring out the window at the wintriness of it all. Snow in New York was a completely different experience–it wasn’t as complete. Here, the limbs of our tree in the front year are bowed nearly to the ground under the weight of the snow. Mounds, as tall as me, line our front yard where the plow piled it up. After I finished work, Adam and I bundled up and walked down to civilization to pick up a DVD and buy food for dinner. Swaddled in so many clothes made me vaguely remember my mother dressing me in layers and layers when we lived in Westchester, and how I would waddle around, feeling itchy beneath the clothes. I still feel itchy beneath the clothes.

Okay, even though I promised a posting of my New Year’s resolutions, I’ve changed my mind. First of all, they’re all pretty prosaic. Second of all, well, I guess there was only first of all. Blah blah blah, less sugar. Blah blah blah, less alcohol. Blah blah blah, write more. Really it was all too Bridget Jones to repeat here. So take my word–I have ten beautiful resolutions that I shall keep this year. And if I succeed, perhaps I’ll tell you about them next December.

December 31 seems to scream for declarations. For this is what I’ve done and this is what I’ll be doing. I’m quite susceptible to this and every year dutifully make up a list of resolutions, most of which, of course, never pan out. But it doesn’t stop me. Tomorrow I’ll go over my list for the coming year. Looking over my resolutions from last year, I completed… not a one. And yet, why do I persist? Because they were still goals I had that I worked for, and while they changed over year, the idea was still there in the back of my head. And many of the resolutions weren’t fulfilled for very good reasons.

Last year’s resolutions and where I stand on them:

1. Get to the point where I can do three pull-ups in a row–Nope, not even close. However, I do still work out on average three days a week, and while I’m not as fierce about it as I was before the wedding, I still do ten weight-assisted pull ups (and dips) once a week. I can’t do three in a row, and I probably won’t by the end of this year either, but I’m doing better.

2. Revise my novel–Definitely fell by the wayside, especially given that I’ve started a new novel this year. But this one isn’t escaping from my to-do list yet. I’ve got to think about how to deal with this one this year. I think I need a more concrete goal. However, I did take two writing classes with Hugo House that helped me think about things in a new way.

3. Learn to box–I started out well on this one–Adam and I were taking a boxing fitness class at Cappy’s Gym in Seattle. But of course the move to Boston threw that one off. I hear there are many good boxing gyms here, however, given Adam’s school schedule, I didn’t find one that had the same great early morning Saturday class. Maybe this will be revived. Maybe not.

4. Eat more fiber–Absolutely no good reason for not living up to this one. This will definitely stay on the list for another year.

5. Submit at least a piece a month–I was most loyal to this resolution. Again, the move put a big crimp on this, but I’m trying to make up for lost time. I’ve got four pieces out there now, and I’m determined that as rejections come it, I just turn them around and send them right out again.

So, yes, my new year’s resolutions didn’t pan out, but looking back, I’d have to say the year was a rousing success. The things I did accomplish or were able to participate in were, in no specific order: I almost learned how to dance (enough to at least fake it at the wedding), got married to a dreamy boy, sold our house, found a new house across the country, drove across country twice, quit my job, found a new job that actually involves writing, moved across country, took my first trip to Italy, ate 45 chicken wings, won $750 on the best girl’s trip to Vegas ever, got invited to dinner at the house of a billionaire CEO, watched two dear friends get married and one have an absolutely brilliant and beautiful baby who she lets me poke (on the nose, people!) whenever I’m in town, completed some new pieces, and I’m sure many more things that I’ve forgotten. It was an incredible year, but despite it all, I’m truly hoping for a much quieter and sedate year for 2003.

Our roly-poly selves are back in Boston after four glorious nights in New Orleans, where we did nothing but eat, eat, eat, with an occasional break to have a drink and listen to music. From the “original” barbecue shrimp at Pascal’s Manale (where our server Louie, with the sweetest Southern drawl, was dead on that the pecan pie had to have ice cream on it and where we discovered, to my chagrin, that they will ship bbq shrimp anywhere in the country) to the beignets at Cafe Du Monde to the shrimp remoulade and crab sardou at Galatoire’s (that’s pronounced “Gala-twa” by everyone we met and where Reynard took good care of us, even as a brawl broke out at the table behind us) to the eggs and grits at Camellia Grill to the raw oysters and beer at Cooter Browns to the deep fried stuffed crab at R & O’s to the shrimp and alligator sausage cheesecake at Jacques-Imo (where the wait was two hours and worth it–at least for us. Not so much for the table next to us who waited two hours, sat down and ate their melt-in-your-mouth cornbread, and then had to leave because the woman started throwing up all those pretty color drinks she’d had at the bar. That’s some wait for cornbread!). We had hurricanes at Pat O’Briens, beers at Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, the Columns, and Igors, and a Cajun martini at Olde N’awlins Cookery. For entertainment we went on a walking tour of the Garden District, where we learned how they reuse the plots in the cemeteries, wound our way through the French Quarter, stopping for hand-rolled cigars, and took a long walk along the antique shops on Magazine Street. We saw Kermit Ruffins play at midnight at Vaughn’s and some unknown band at Cafe Brasil. We went with Adam’s college roommate to a private party at Preservation Hall and managed to still have time to hang out with my cousins and my aunt and uncle. All in all, an action packed few days, and I’m now more then ready for a quiet new year.