Fun Ways to Antagonize Friends

Years ago, when I was but a wee college co-ed still trolling through life on my parents’ dime, I joined a social organization we Americans call a sorority. I know everyone loves good old American sorority lore from time to time: The pillow fights; the uncapping of the Sharpies to circle cellulite; the 2 AM hazing with the sheep and the surgical gloves; that scene from Animal House where Bluto climbs the ladder…

But you’re tired of those stories. No need to unpack them here.

Still, there’s one story I can tell you that (barely) applies to the rest of this post. It’s about “Senior Wills,” my sorority’s most formidable spring tradition.

Every May, just a few weeks before graduation, senior girls would give away their sorority paraphernalia in a casual ceremony designed to publicly humiliate pass the social torch to their friends. If, for example, you’d spent the last four years holding a secret for your dearest pal, Senior Wills was a no-holds-barred opportunity to share every reputation-wrecking detail of that secret before begging forgiveness by way of your favorite college sweatshirt.

Fun times, watching your friends die of shame. It was one of my favorite nights of the year.

A few days ago, I ran into something that (loosely) reminded me of Senior Wills. And then today, I ran into it again.

The Memetastic Award!

Jill over at Yeah. Good Times. recently created an award that two of my very dear bloggy friends—Amanda at Life is a Spectrum, and Harsha at H is for Happiness—have passed along to me. I can only assume they got together over cyber lunch to conspire against me discuss ways to honor my greatness, and in the end, I received this button of a tweaked-out kitten:

Kool for Kats!

I’m worried Amanda and Harsha will come after me, pounding their fists like goons and threatening to expose me for the fraud I am unless I promise to follow the ironclad rules that govern Jill’s Memetastic Award. I’m loathe to refuse them. I learned from my last brush with the law that I need to walk a tighter line, so here I am, doing as I’m bloody well told.

The Memetastic Rules!

1. You must proudly display the graphic Jill describes as “absolutely disgusting.” According to Jill: “It’s so bad that not only did I use COMIC SANS, but there’s even a little jumping, celebrating kitten down there at the bottom. It’s horrifying! But its presence in your award celebration is crucial to the memetastic process we’re creating here.”

2. You must list five things about yourself, and four of them must be bold-faced lies. Quality is not important.

3. You must pass this award to five bloggers you either like or don’t like or don’t really have much of an opinion about. As spoken by the great Jill: “I don’t care who you pick, and nobody needs to know why. You can give a reason if you want, but I don’t really care.”

4. If you fail to follow any of the above rules, Jill will hunt you down and harass you incessantly until, according to her, “you either block me on Twitter or ban my IP address from visiting your blog. I don’t know if you can actually do that last thing, but I will become so annoying to you that you will actually go out and hire an IT professional to train you on how to ban IP addresses just so that I’ll leave you alone. I’m serious. I’m going to do these things.”

5. Once you do the above, please link up to the Memetastic Hop so that Jill can keep track of where this thing goes and figure out who she needs to stalk.

The Memetastic Lies! (Plus One Truth.)

1. I look exactly like Russell Brand.

(via collider.com)

2. No, scratch that. I look exactly like Russell Stover.

(via commons.wikimedia.org)

3. No, wait. Wait. What I meant to say is I look like Russell Simmons.

(via sojones.com)

4. No, I’ve got it. Russell Crowe, circa The Gladiator.

(via solarnavigator.net)

5. I actually don’t look like any of the above. Because I’m a girl. Now hand me some lilies and a glass of Chablis.

The Memetastic Award Winners!

I bestow today’s Memetastic Award on the following lucky recipients because they live too far away to egg my car:

1)      Sunshine of Sunshine in London

2)      Erin of Legally Delish

3)      Jacque of Freedom in a Cup

4)      Angie of Thoughts Appear

5)      Jane of PlaneJaner’s Journey

…All wonderful, entertaining bloggers who deserve heaps of praise but will probably hate this award and retaliate by casting the old Sicilian malocchio in my direction. (I’m willing to take the risk, because of those goons I mentioned earlier…)

Enjoy, my memetastic friends. My most heartfelt congratulations to each of you.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Making a Break for It

It’s Online Book Club Day! But hold that thought; we’ll get to Wench in a minute.

First, I need to tell you I’m in two places today.

Obviously, I’m here, preparing to go all 3^rd Grade Book Report on you, but also, I’m guest-blogging at Drama Mama’s popular site, where she has kindly dubbed 36×37 as “the Best Scoop of the Week.” In addition to featuring my blog this week, Drama Mama asked me to create an original piece using “window” as my one-word prompt. I decided to write about the first (and only) time I fired someone. It’s a regrettable moment in my personal history, but it makes a good story.

So, please stop by Drama Mama’s site today to say hello, read about her adorable family, and meet other bloggers through her Best Scoop of the Week feature—because it’s always nice to encounter new voices.

 

(courtesy of sironastudios.com)

Now. Back to Wench…

Look. You didn’t read the book, I know that. And it’s fine. It’s a busy life we lead, right? Maybe you couldn’t find the book in time, or you just found out about The Club last week, or perhaps you threw the book against the wall in frustration the moment you finished chapter 7. (No? That was just me?) At any rate, this doesn’t have to be a problem. After consulting GB, my “idea guy,” I’ve decided to execute a fool-proof plan: I’ll tell you what the book is about, then I’ll ask questions you can answer without having read a word of this month’s selection. Agreed?

(Please say “Agreed.” I don’t want to spend the next three minutes talking to myself. I’ll be lonely.)

~*~

Summary

Wench begins at Tawawa House, a vacation resort in Xenia, Ohio, that boasts a rather untraditional clientele: a cluster of pre-Civil War plantation owners and their favored, enslaved mistresses. At Tawawa House (which actually existed, and was eventually purchased by Wilberforce University), the men can enjoy their relationships in a relaxed social atmosphere, without their wives or the constraints of southern society.

The story follows Lizzie, mistress to Nathan Drayle, a poor horseman so skilled in his southern charm that he has managed to marry a woman of means. When Drayle discovers his wife, Francesca, is barren, he turns his attention to the then-12-year-old Lizzie and teaches her to read as part of a slow, sickening strategy of seduction.

Eventually, Drayle fathers Lizzie’s two fair-skinned children—Nate and Rabbit—whom he refuses to free despite Lizzie’s constant pleading. The children become currency in Drayle’s strange, entangled family dynamic by existing under Francesca’s doting but inconsistent care. There evolves a short-term exchange of sorts: Lizzie claims Drayle while Francesca claims his children—a subversive tug-of-war against Drayle’s overarching power.

Drayle and Lizzie visit Tawawa house from 1852-1855. Through the course of those summers, Lizzie cultivates friendships with three other mistresses: Reenie, the wizened one; Mawu, the gorgeous radical; and Sweet, the quiet, matriarch.

Each woman has a unique, sometimes sordid relationship with her master. Reenie’s owner (and half-brother) prostitutes her “services” to the house manager when he’s not too busy raping her himself. Mawu is regularly brutalized by her owner, who says he’s drawn to her because she always fights back. We’re not told much about Sweet and her master, but when all five of their children are taken in a bout of cholera, she sews burial dresses from scraps while he takes an extended fishing trip with friends. Finally, there’s Drayle, who is generous with affection, as long as Lizzie doesn’t ask for much and she bends to his will whenever (and wherever) the spirit moves him.

Not far from Tawawa House, there’s a resort for freed and thriving African Americans. Mawu is inspired by the site of prosperity and is hell-bent to catch her freedom, too. She spends the remainder of the novel convincing her friends to run away with her.

In a lesser novel, the four women would take flight together and make it to safety through the stalwart help of a string of dedicated northern abolitionists. For those of you who want to read the book, I won’t spoil the ending. Let’s just say the journey is long, and it’s not at all what you’d expect.

Opinion

Honestly, there are a few things I don’t love about this book. Here’s my main issue: In 290 pages, Perkins-Valdez tells us almost nothing about three out of four of her central characters. As a reader, I want the goods on character motivation, and I didn’t get what I wanted in that regard. I want to understand the undercurrent of tragedy before I can celebrate its burial. I need more to help me process this bitter mark on American history.

However:

When it comes to Lizzie, Perkins-Valdez never cuts corners. The book has four parts, and in each, Lizzie is artfully dissembled to reveal a loyal, intelligent, complicated woman who must decide what takes precedence in her conscience: her love for her children, or her love for herself; her faith in her lover or her faith in her friends; her desire for freedom or her need for security. She can’t conceive of these answers on her own; she finds them through sisterhood and tragedy.

So the themes are captivating. They’re the reason I kept reading and ultimately changing my mind about a novel that at first seemed to exist as an excuse to be salacious. Could you forsake your families for your freedom? Could you expose a friend in an effort to save her? Could you willingly exchange sex for special treatment? Could you truly love someone who doesn’t have your best interests at heart?

I’d recommend Wench for these discussion points alone. (Plus, despite Perkins-Valdez’s downfall in the character development department, she’s a damn fine writer.) I closed the book three weeks ago, and have been thinking about it ever since.

~*~

Now I want to know what you think.(Remember our agreement?)

Feel free to answer any or all of the questions below.

1) Imagine that your family has been enslaved for generations. Your master treats you well whenever it suits him, and your children are sometimes favored at home. Would you make a break for freedom if given the chance?

2) Your friend reveals that she’s planning to flee from a man who brutalizes her. If she’s caught on the run, she’ll be killed. If you expose her plans, she’ll be beaten and humiliated, but at least she’ll be safe. What do you do?

3) An authoritative figure claims your children, and you’re powerless to stop it. How do you cope?

4) It’s 1855, six years before the Civil War begins. You discover a fleeing slave asleep on your property. Do you offer shelter and refuge, turn a blind eye, or turn him in?

I’ve done my part. Now the future of the Online Book Club rests in the balance. Sound off in the comments below. (Or, don’t, if you’re not compelled to. If at the end of the day the comments section is empty, please give me a few days to recover from my embarrassment, and let us never speak of this experiment again.)

Once I have all your answers, I’ll add my own to the bottom of the comments chain.

P.S. – Don’t forget to stop by Drama Mama’s site to read my new post today. Looking forward to seeing you there!

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Side Story: Read ‘Em and Weep (Occasionally)

image courtesy of http://www.liladelman.com

There are 10 women sitting in my living room. We’ve polished off a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, a gallon of hot rum-infused apple cider, a host of tasty treats, and this month’s book selection, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows). I chose it at my mother’s recommendation because it was so well received by her friends. It’s a story about a Channel Islands book club formed by accident during the German Occupation in WWII.

(I love the irony of a book club reading about a book club.)

This is our fourth meeting, and although we’re still quite new at this, we’re already comfortable enough to talk about our books—the characters, the plots, the themes—and share how they apply to our lives. Tonight’s discussion has been a good one. We’ve blown through all 15 discussion questions, and now we’ve come to the last one. I’ve added it myself, because I think it’s important.

I pretend to be serious as I clear my throat. “#16: The Guernsey Literary Society has a name. Do you think our book club should have one? If yes, what should it be?”

“I’ve been thinking about this for months!” Our founder, Leslie, says. “I keep wondering if I should bring it up.”

We nod collectively. A few options make their way to the floor:

• Sexy Librarians
• Sexy Drunk Librarians
• Sexy Drunk Librarians with Snacks
• Books on Heels

“Read ‘Em and Weep,” Sara suggests.

“Oh, I like that. We should say something about crying. We do that a lot here.” Which is true. We’ve read a few tear-jerkers.

“Or how about Read ‘Em and Weep (Occasionally),’” Melinda adds. “Because we don’t cry all the time.”

This is also true. Mostly we laugh, go off-topic and laugh some more.

It is decided. Once we pick the name, we forget about the book and just start talking. Lynn tells a personal story. Then Jen. Then Melinda. We all give solicited and unsolicited advice, swear a little and laugh again.

Quietly we congratulate ourselves, because this is shaping up to look like friendship, 10 women strong.

~*~

I think about friendship a lot.

When you’re young, it comes so easily. You both like Barbies. You both like Batman. You both like to roll from the top of the hill to the bottom, fist-bump over your mom’s chocolate cupcakes, and spin out together on your Big Wheels.

Then it’s not easy anymore. She flirts with your boyfriend. He’d rather play basketball than ride bikes across the lawn. She talks about you behind your back, and it smarts. Suddenly, your friends are jerks.

Then it’s easy again. Kind of. Your friendships take a little longer to build. Mostly, you buddy up with people who live near you. The kids in your dorm. The kids in your major. They like the same bands you do. You hang out at the same clubs. You visit their houses on summer break, and call their parents by their first names.

Then maybe you pair off. If you’re lucky, your significant other is also your best friend. Eventually you get a job, and you make semi-friends at work. You start a life, and there’s no time for anything else. At first you don’t notice. And then one day, you feel it: you’re lonely, and there’s no one you can call to say so.

“It’ll get easier when your kids are in school,” my mom said once. “It’s an even playing field then. You’ll be in a place where you all have something in common.”

But I want more than just kids in common. Friendship needs a wider foundation than that.

~*~

The older I get, the more I value the people I know, and the more I expect from them. Are you authentic? Interesting? Do you have your own opinions, and do you care about other people? Can you be honest when I ask how you are? Great, let’s have coffee. I’ll buy, and we can chat for hours.

It’s taken time, but I’ve started to focus on stringing together a group of people with something in common: wit that slays, an undercurrent of compassion, and honest, firm opinions that inspire me to think and learn so much more—as much as I can. I want the nearly-tangible sense that we’re all old enough now to see what’s important. Online or in person, that’s what I want all around me.

At 11PM I close the door on my last guests, slip off my heels and usher the empty glasses to my kitchen sink. The house is silent, and while I whistle something nameless to fill the quiet, it occurs to me that what I’m trying to build was in my living room tonight: Good people with kind hearts, and the willingness to open up, just to see what happens.

I’m looking forward to more hours like these.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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#19: Girl Fight!

You remember my plan to do this, right? This summer, after witnessing one person’s very public, very bad behavior toward another, I resolved to tell someone off this year. I’d never truly let someone have it before, and I was gunning for someone who deserved it.

I published my pledge of vindication on June 28. What I didn’t know was that I would complete that assignment the very next day.

Now it’s November 4. It has taken me four months to decide if I should write about this one. Now that I have some distance from the event, I’ve decided I should, because I promised I would, and because I want to cross #19 off my list of 36×37 assignments.

~*~

I can’t spill the full details about what happened. I wrote the play-by-play in my first draft of this post, and floated it past the friend I defended four months ago. She didn’t feel comfortable airing her dirty laundry. I respect that. It’s why I asked her to read it in the first place.

What I can say is that this particular tell-off was completely unintentional. Or at least it started that way. I began by listening intently, until I realized I’d been roped into two friends’ long and drawn-out argument. One friend was horribly unfair to the other. So I sided with Friend #1, and was hard on Friend #2. Friend #2 is practiced in the art of explosive dialog, and before I knew it, we were taking personal shots. I didn’t know I could argue like that; I’d never tried. It was the verbal spar of a lifetime. At least for me.

~*~

On June 28, my ordinarily mild-mannered self assumed a June 29 kind of throw-down would be exhilarating. I figured my blood pressure and adrenaline would spike, I’d get a major rant out of my system, then I’d go smoke the first cigarette of my life, just to play up the victory.

Instead, I felt worse than I had in a long time, even though I knew I’d done the right thing. I knew I’d spoken out over concern for the person I was defending.  I knew my argument had been persuasive.

Still. I didn’t feel good about it at all.

~*~

So did I feel vindicated? No. I didn’t. But that’s not what this was about. It was about someone hurting someone else I care about, and me wanting it to stop. If I could redo the argument, I’d let it play out mostly the same way.

There are things we do for the people who are important to us. We stand up for them when they hurt. We protect them with all of our might. Because that is our job: to help each other stay afloat.

But truthfully, combat isn’t as fun as you’d think. I’m glad to cross this one off the list. Fighting just ain’t my game.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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#17: Go Big or Go Broke, then Go Home

Dale Chihuly's Glass Flowers, Bellagio Lobby, Las Vegas

I’m about to say something that won’t shock you at all: I play by the rules. Always.

I follow the speed limit. I arrive on time. We don’t fudge on our taxes, and we rock the vote each November. I don’t smoke, I hardly drink, I don’t share my friends’ secrets. If I could remember to change my car’s oil every 3,000 miles, I would.   

But when something like Las Vegas comes along, all bets are off. Go big or go broke or go home. Shrug off your Sandra Dee, put on your Mae West, and viva Las Vegas like you mean it.

For my 17^th 36×37 assignment, that’s exactly what Kim, Mason, GB and I did. For three days, we lived as large as we could, and it was absolutely brilliant.

Find the High Rollers.

Pronounced "Porsh-a"...for the non-Italians in the room

We knew exactly where The Bellagio‘s high roller room was, but when we pushed our way through its gilded doors, the floor was empty. The only thing remaining was an open bottle of very expensive Cabernet Sauvignon, and we weren’t about to load up on someone’s leftovers.

Instead, we settled for playing pai gow with a little red-headed man and his fistful of $10,000 chips. We knew he meant business when he slid one across the table and opened with two $200 hands. Five minutes later, he walked away again, with a cool net gain of $3,000.

Win big (or go broke trying).

• Roulette. Kim took a class on game theory when we were in college and learned that roulette stacks the odds against you more than any other game in the casino. I think that’s funny now, because I watched her leave the table with a larger stack of chips than when she started. I, on the other hand, lost every chip I had.  
• Slots. I pulled the lever just once and said “What a stupid little game.” I kept thinking that and thinking that until some half-crazed woman shrieked “Look at what I won!!!” then hugged an uncomfortable stranger. Luck, be a lady tonight, I guess. 
• Blackjack. If you missed it, read about my love/hate relationship with blackjack.
• Craps. Just when I decided the casinos weren’t for me, I tried my hand at this lovely game. As it turns out, I love the dice, and the dice love me, and together we know how to make money.  

Pamper thyself.

My stubby little fingers look so pretty, even if Javier was nowhere to be found.

See the sights.

Like Caesar’s and Paris and The Venetian. Fine hotels, each one.

The gondolas outside The Venetian

GB and me in front of the "real" Ceasar's Palace

Kim and Mason at The Mirage

Hit the rock, fool playa.

 Still, none of them could match The Bellagio.

The Bellagio lobby

The Bellagio lobby, part 2

Chocolate fountain

Eat like a queen.

We tried the buffet, because that’s just part of the Vegas experience. It was big on selection and low on flavor, so we took the rest of our meals elsewhere.

On Sunday night, we tried Mario Batali’s B&B Ristorante in The Venetian, where GB ordered a pasta blackened with squid ink, Mason ordered the most incredible pork chop in the world, and Kim and I had pappardelle with a bolognese that nearly rivaled my mother’s exquisite version.

On Monday, we broke bread at Voodoo Lounge from the 50^th floor of The Rio. We watched the sunset from the rooftop, and spent the rest of the evening laughing over good food and great company.

Enjoy the show.

We caught Penn & Teller at the Rio Hotel. I slept through most of it because wine makes me snoozy. However I can say that Penn talks a lot and Teller doesn’t talk at all, and there was a clever bit about coins turning into fish and fish turning into coins. That is all.

See someone famous.

We spotted Pete Rose at some sports memorabilia shop in Caesar’s Palace. I thought that was so ironic—Pete Rose! In Vegas!—until a colleague said she saw him at the same store when she was in Sin City. So I guess it’s all just a big joke, with Pete laughing the hardest.

But that’s not all. Kim and Mason stayed in Vegas an extra day. On Wednesday morning, I woke up to this text:

“We just saw Webster by the elevators. Mason said holy sh*t, it’s Gary Coleman!”

I’ve been laughing about that one for days.

Finally, enjoy thyself without a hint of guilt.

But, ah. That part was easy.

~*~ 

Kim and me, sunset at Voodoo Lounge

In November, it will be 15 years since Kim introduced me to GB. The life I live today comes largely from that one well-timed and generous act of putting two friends together and then taking a quiet step back. I didn’t know the day I met her how important she would be to me. And I never would have guessed that we’d one day meet up in some glitzy, gaudy, wild city with two remarkable fellas and have an absolute ball together.

It’s funny how friendship works. I really can’t explain it. But I’ll tell you what, Kimmy—I’m just so grateful for you.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page 

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Side Story: The Science of Ambition

Just so there’s no confusion, I know three Kims: My wonderful sister-in-law, my fabulous college friend/sorority sister, and the Kim you’re going to read about today…

~*~

Kim opens the door in an exuberant rush. “You’re here! You caught me in the middle of getting ready. Come in! Come in!” She’s smiling, brimming with Southern poise as she walks hurriedly away from the door. 

For the record: I don’t think I’ve ever really caught Kim in the middle of anything. She’s the sort of person who is always seven steps ahead of everyone else. She plans to the letter. To the minute. To the millisecond. If there are things still on the to-do list for today’s party, it’s because she has a very good reason for it. 

“I’m sorry I’m a little early,” I say. “I never know what traffic will be like on my way here.” Immediately, I wish I could back-reel and uncast my words like they’d never been spoken. The last thing I want is to remind her how late I was last time. 

“No, this is good! I need some help setting up. It’s so windy outside. I figured we should wait a bit so nothing blows away.” 

So she sets me to work cutting orange paper into squares and placing them atop two lime-green tablecloths. Within moments, her friend Tammy arrives, and we get started on this: 

 

A science lab, with Tammy providing today’s scientific instruction. It’s maybe the coolest science lab ever for eight small birthday party attendees, ages 3-6. 

~*~ 

Rewind five years to an afternoon in October. In this memory, Kim and I still work together for the same company that employs me now (just not in my 2010-and-far-more-flexible department). We’re sitting amid a sea of empty tables in our building’s deserted North Café. There are two different strands of energy coursing through this atmosphere: Her snap of enthusiasm and fortitude, and my dragging exhaustion. 

Kim is teeming with ideas, and she uses her fingers to sketch invisible lines across the tabletop. I, on the other hand, feel like that old Bugs Bunny cartoon—the one where Bugs holds his eyes open with toothpicks until his lids grow heavy and the toothpicks snap. I don’t know how there is such a difference in our energy levels. Kim is no stranger to midnight feedings, and I suspect she gets even less sleep than I do. 

Also in this memory, we’re both new mothers. Her son has celebrated his first birthday, and my sweet H is just 6 months old. Kim and I are here in this ghost town of a café to brainstorm ways we can mold our careers to fit our new parental obligations. She wants to strike out, be her own boss. I want that for myself, too. But as I listen to Kim talk, I come to know two things: 

1) Nothing is going to hold Kim back. She’s just that sort of person. When she says she’ll do something, she does it. Joyfully, and to perfection. 

2) I’ll be the first to dream a big dream, as long as the risks are small. Plus, I’m tied to a steady paycheck. The end. 

Eventually, Kim takes the leap. And if she ever looks back, she never says so. 

~*~ 

 

Now, five years later, we’re both mothers of two small boys each. 

Plus, I’m helping Kim execute this birthday party. But we’re not just celebrating her older son’s 6^th birthday—we’re also staging a photo shoot. (More to come on her big news later!) 

Meanwhile, here are the ones I took with my brand spanking new camera (and they’re actually in focus!): 

The science of an ice cream sundae bar

Monogrammed lab coats

H20 and CO2

You know that business Kim hatched in the quiet of the North Café? It’s now The Celebration Shoppe, a wildly successful online business that offers custom invitations, table décor, and a “planning and idea center” with blog stats that make me want to weep with envy and pump her for strategic insight. She has been featured by some truly notable national magazines and well-known blogs, and has some very exciting opportunities on the horizon I totally wish I could spill here, but I don’t want to give away state secrets. 

I could go on, but I don’t think Kim would like that. She’s extremely humble. I’ll respect that, and end my gushing by pointing you to The Celebration Shoppe’s “About  Us” page, in case you’d like more information. 

~*~ 

Finally, this: 

Five years ago, Kim was a sharp, savvy Investment Marketing Manager. And she was great at it. If her name came up in conversation, you’d see nods of appreciation and hear nothing but praise. Her job came to her naturally, and she worked harder than most people I know. 

When she became a mother, that drive and ambition didn’t change. It’s just that it switched directions. And mine did, too. We knew we couldn’t continue to work the way we had been now that we were moms. So she became her own boss, and she excelled at that. Me? I moved to a department and a management team that let me carve out a career where I could write and write and write all day, and still see my fellas at lunchtime. I’m certain my former manager would have wanted that for me, too, if only it had been part of our culture in that department. But it wasn’t, and she couldn’t and I knew that without asking. So: Switching jobs answered those needs I’d laced together so earnestly: To write, sometimes at home, for a trustworthy company.

So let it be said: We parents—we do whatever we can for our kids. We just do. If that means walking away from a job to stay home, or finding a role that better fits, or working our asses off to provide, or building our own empires, we search our great big dreaming hearts and find a way to do it. The end. 

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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#11 is coming: Just Relax, Will You?

On a conference call a few weeks ago, a colleague spoke to me with such a tone of disrespect, I nearly lost it. But since losing it isn’t exactly my style, especially in the workplace, I retaliated the only way I knew how: dramatic pause, overly calm but pointed reply, mute button so I could quietly mutter obscenities, followed by an angry stomp through the atrium for a cup of soothing Starbucks coffee.

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

That’s when I texted Katy.

“Still up for some Spa Day action?”

She said she was. Enthusiastically.

So that’s what we’ll be getting into tomorrow at Aveda. If you don’t have a shrink—or even if you do—sometimes you just need to pay someone to be nice to you while they cover you in some strange Caribbean body treatment.

Added August 30 – Mission accomplished! Read the full story.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @37×37
~*~Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Side Story: An Education

Ohio University (Google Image)

Walking down Court Street, I’m holding the hands of my two young men while my third drops coins in the meter. H’s eyes are wide with observation while O trips happily over his tiny, blinky Sketchers. “This is it, guys!” I say as we pass the campus bookstore. “Everything looks the same!”

It’s true. The Hole in the Wall is gone. No Burrito Buggy in sight. There’s a Chipotle now, and Perks has changed from a coffee haven to a frozen custard storefront. There’s some weird, chrome 50s diner where my favorite restaurant used to be. But if you forget about the shops, nothing has changed. This is still Ohio University, this is still Court Street in summer session, the undergrads are gone until September. 

“One day, if you guys decide to go to school here, I’ll visit you on Mom’s Weekend. That’s when the mommies come to town to buy you stuff and do your laundry and meet all your friends.” 

Their little eyes light up. “I fink I’ll wike colwedge,” O says. “Everyone here wikes dee Ohio State Buckeyes.” 

“Well, not quite, buddy,” I say, looking at the green and white Bobcat merchandise in the window. “But you’re close.” 

~*~ 

Ohio University Marching Band (Google Image)

I spent a year here. 

It’s funny to think about that now, because I barely remember it. I did well my first semester of graduate school, so I received some sort of stipend that amounted to a full year’s tuition. I could spend it any way I chose, which meant I squandered it all on books and parking and bi-monthly trips to see GB, who was still at our small undergrad college 5 hours south. Somehow in those first few months on campus I decided I needed to graduate in 12 months. So I did, by fast tracking myself and studying 14 hours a day. 

I don’t know. I guess I watched a lot of Conan while I crammed Communication Theory, Ethic in Journalism and Advanced Advertising Principles (plus my thesis) into the wee-est hours. I ate boxes of mac and cheese to stay awake. I listened to U2 and Beck and who knows what else. Honest to God, it’s all just a blur. 

Given that, I’m amazed by how well I know this place. Walking across the brick pathways of College Green, I feel a spidery calm creep over me, like I’m holding a cup in my hand, and my past is filling it slowly. 

~*~ 

I don’t know why, but GB cannot stop thinking about the parking meter. “Time runs out in 20 minutes,” he says. “Time runs out in 15.” 

The boys want to stop at every statue, and I keep rushing them and rushing them. I only want to see Alden Library. I only want to see The Scripps School of Journalism. When we arrive, Alden is so much larger than I remember, and Scripps Hall is so much smaller. 

“Let’s go in,” I say, then beat GB to his next line. “Time runs out in 5, let’s do this fast.” 

Scripps School of Journalism (Google Image)

So I push open the heavy doors, and we stumble into a dark hallway. It smells exactly like I remember, a mixture of sweat and old newsprint. I want to walk upstairs to Mel Helitzer’s office and chat for a bit, but I’d be talking to a ghost. I want to see if Dan Riffe, Edith Dashielle and Guido Stemple are still around. The first two aren’t, but the latter is, although not at the moment. Which is too bad. I would have loved to see them. 

So I pass a set of stools in the hallway, remembering that this is where I sat when I met Karen, my first and closest friend on campus. Then upstairs in the J-school library, where I met Matt and JJ and Rob and Dean, and we cracked up over some sports-related news story. And then out the front door into the sunshine and up the brick amphitheater-like steps where I met Angie and Deborah, whom everyone else seemed to already know. I met them all within days of each other, and we became what our professors called the most tightly knit graduate class they’d seen. We’re flung across the US now, but we’re in touch through the magic of facebook.  

~*~ 

Funny, to be here at Ohio University, standing in “The Kissing Circle” (something I never knew existed) with these three boys sprung from a Centre College romance. Ironic, too, that I’m wearing my Capital University zip-up, hooded, sweatshirt, marking my MBA years. Three educations in one person=three campuses in one heart. I think that’s why I get this same feeling when I step on any campus—it’s that yearning for knowledge and friendship. To me, they’re all roped together.

“Who’s ready to head to the cabin?” I ask. It’s only 20 or so miles from here. This little jaunt to Athens wasn’t planned. 

Judging by the looks on my three young men’s faces, I’ve asked a silly question. “Ok then, let’s go,” I say. 

I stop short of taking that one last dramatic look around. Because. Time runs out in zero minutes. 

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page.

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Other Firsts: Kim on Wheels

I had this friend in college. She was tall and strong and beautiful—the kind of girl you’d want at your party because of her talent for drawing people in. She was funny and gregarious and smart. I could tell that girl anything. I trusted her and depended on her and adored everything about her.  

When I graduated, I swore we’d stay in touch. I swore I’d never lose track of my Kimmy. But lose track of her, I did. That’s just how I was back then—cavalier with my friendships. 

In the years that followed, I regretted losing site of the people I cared about. But Kim most of all. Kim especially.  

~*~  

I’m late, so I call GB in a frenzy. “I’m here!!!” I say. “Have they seated you?”  

“Yep. Go to your left. You can’t miss us.”  

I’m nervous! It’s been 15 years since I’ve seen Kim in person. We reconnected through facebook about two years ago, and I’ve been hoping for this day ever since. Kim, Mason and their adorable son Ryan have taken a detour on their way home to Nashville. We’re going to have lunch and then cheesecake. Knowing Kim, we’re bound to laugh a lot between bites.  

I scan the endless faces as I search for our table. GB waves. I see Mason. Ryan. And then finally, I spot my very dear friend.  

She looks the same! I remember those dark eyes, that beaming smile! Her hair is lighter. A bit shorter, too. But she’s still like a snapshot, pulled from a dusty, well-loved memory.  

Only now, she’s in a wheelchair.  

~*~  

One Monday in July, 2006, Kim left work early. She thought she’d injured her right hip and leg somehow, so she nursed it at home on the couch. When the pain got worse on Wednesday, and her leg began to swell, she asked to see her primary physician.  

Right away, he knew what he was dealing with. In a frenzied panic, he escorted Kim to the ER himself. Initial tests confirmed his suspicions; the blood clot ran from her right calf to her abdomen. The next evening, a surgeon removed it.  

“In the middle of the night, while I was in recovery,” Kim said, “I woke with a pain that felt like fire. My entire abdomen was burning. That’s when I had the spinal stroke. We still don’t know if part of that blood clot travelled to my spine, or if another small clot developed simultaneously. I remember waking up screaming, and realizing instantly that I couldn’t move.”  

At noon on Friday, Kim flew by helicopter to Vanderbilt Hospital, where a neurosurgeon opened her spine. He removed a small clot, but said he couldn’t imagine it could ever have done so much damage.  

~*~  

That was just the beginning.  

Kim spent a week in Vandy’s ICU, then passed the next two months at Stallworth, Vandy’s rehabilitation hospital. That’s where Kim learned the basics of living life from a chair. It was like starting over completely. Beginning anew. Working from scratch.  

It was scary, and it was humbling.  

“Ryan was almost 8 months old, Mason and I had been married less than two years. While I was in Stallworth, Ryan learned to crawl, Mason had his 24th birthday, and I turned 30.” She said.  

When I heard this, I sat back and stared at the ceiling. I thought about my first three years of motherhood, and how I spent every day prostrate with fear that one day—any day—something would go horribly, irreversibly wrong. But while I had panic attacks over that constant and writhing dread, my friend Kim was living it. Fighting it. Moving through it every moment of every day. She learned to use a front-load dryer, drive with hand controls, maneuver a chair while holding a baby. She set aside certain recipes that required something she couldn’t reach. She gave up flying her dad’s Piper Cub. She. Couldn’t. Walk. And it was permanent.  

At this point in the story, it’s hard to think of Kim without thinking of Mason, too. I’m sure all eyes were on him while others waited to see what he would do. For a 24-year-old man with a young marriage and a newborn son, that’s a lot of pressure. He could have walked away. But he didn’t. Instead, he was Kim’s mainstay. Her solid, unflagging lifeline. He devoted himself to his wife and newly walking son. And he committed himself to his own future. This year, he completed his Ph.D. If that doesn’t spell character, I don’t know what does.    

~*~  

Two years ago, when Kim first told me about her stroke, I felt the undertow of my own sympathy. “How awful!” I thought. “It’s just so tragic.” But honestly, I’m ashamed of myself now. Kim’s story is awful. It is tragic. But she can walk in leg braces when she wants to—in part, she says, because so many people told her she couldn’t. She can swim and drive her wheelchair accessible minivan and go anywhere she needs to in her power wheelchair. She takes care of her family. She takes care of herself. She even designed her new home. (If all goes well, they’ll break ground in late August.) The life she is living? It’s independent. It’s full. She’s surrounded by people who love her. They stick around because she loves them back.  

I like to tell Kim she’s inspiring, even though I suspect it irritates her. The last time I said it, she contradicted me.  

“I think before this happened, I wasn’t anything great,” she said. “I was a smart girl who never studied. I was a pretty girl who flirted too much. I put minimal effort into my job because it came easy to me and I could do it well without trying. I sinned and didn’t care about the consequences. I blew off people who didn’t have anything to offer me. I NEVER showed vulnerability, even though I so often felt inadequate. So… It’s still hard for me to hear people say that I’m “special” or inspiring. I guess it took losing everything I knew to find all the things I needed.”  

I don’t know, Kimmy. I hear what you’re saying. But, chair or not, I still think you’re remarkable. I always have.  

~*~ 

I have this friend from college. She is tall and strong and beautiful—the kind of woman you’d want to invite for a chat and some lemonade on the back porch. She’s funny and gregarious and smart. I can tell that girl anything. She’s a fabulous mom. A doting wife. An independent crusader. And she’s happy. She. Is. Happy. In spite of things. And because of things. 

Kim on her feet was something special. But Kimmy in a chair? 1,000 times better.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37   
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

 

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Other Firsts: Getting to 3rd Base with Your Sushi

Blurry teriyaki chicken Bento box

If you don’t eat sushi, people start to dislike you. Have you noticed this, too? 

For me, it was starting to go like this: 

“Ok, where should we go?” 

“Sushi En?” 

“Yeah, Sushi En.” 

“You know, guys, I’m kind of not a big fish fan, raw or otherwise.” 

Scowls. Hardened jaws. The group deflates. 

It’s my fault, really. Thanks to my fear of the epicurean unknown, I’ve excluded myself from the cool kid lunch club. I’m a rube, a member of the unwashed masses, the one in the room who doesn’t know the Boone’s Farm from the Montrachet. 

No more! I’m taking control of this unfortunate social situation. Today, I’ve invited GB, SC and my friend Shannon to SushiKo for my very first raw fish experience. 

~*~ 

First, there are ground rules. I can order whatever I want—raw or cooked, meat or fish or vegetable—but I must take at least one bite of something uncooked and ectothermic. And I need to chew it. And I need to swallow it. Gagging is strictly prohibited. It feels like a tall order. 

Shannon helps me research before we go. 

“Maybe the California Rolls?” she says. “They’re like sushi First Base. From there, you can go more hardcore if you want to.” 

Blurry California roll

“What’s sushi Second Base?” 

“Oh, there are some other rolls that aren’t so scary. Something with tuna or salmon?” 

I start to feel nauseous. She laughs. 

“You’re going to be ok,” she says. “Put on your big girl pants and let’s do this.” 

~*~ 

Here’s how it all goes down: 

Shannon: Philadelphia roll (smoked salmon, avocado and cream cheese), spicy tuna roll (spicy raw tuna and avocado) and a single piece of smoked salmon on rice 

SC: Chirashi (random sashimi over rice) 

GB: Spicy scallop roll, spicy tuna roll, tuna sashimi 

Me: Bento box of chicken teriyaki, a salad, California rolls, tempura, tofu cake and miso soup {Miso! Insert most obvious Full Metal Jacket quote here} 

I turn to GB. “Ok,” I say. “Give me something raw but not disgusting.” 

He pokes at his spicy tuna roll. “You’re going to have to do this in one bite.” 

“Oh, I don’t want to.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“No, no. I need to make up for the Dave Matthews debacle.” I prep my chopsticks and take a deep breath. “Bottoms up.” 

Blurry spicy tuna roll

The tuna roll is spicy, with a mashed potato texture, which would be fine, except that the rice makes the tuna unexpectedly bumpy. Usually, texture doesn’t bother me. It’s bothering me now. I remind myself of the no gagging rule as tears spring to my eyes, and I start to laugh so hard I can’t swallow. 

I don’t know if the sushi chef is watching my reaction. I really hope he’s not. 

“This is the sickest thing I’ve ever done,” I say with my mouth full of food. SC shakes his head, GB starts to laugh. 

I grab my diet coke, take a giant swig and wash down the whole thing. 

“Ok. Let’s see what this Bento box is all about.” 

~*~ 

I try other things, too. The miso is really pretty outstanding. The tempura tastes like oil, but the teriyaki is tasty. As for the California roll, I can’t really think about it without feeling sick all over again. 

I marvel at my lunch companions. When it comes to sushi, SC is unflinching. He makes me think of that guy from my high school who ate 34 live goldfish at Ox Roast one year. I also never knew GB and Shannon had such impeccable chopstick skills. 

Shannon displaying her fabulous hair and chopstick prowess

So the truth is this: I don’t see myself getting to sushi Third Base anytime soon. But now, when somebody asks me to go to Sushi En, I’ll think of the miso and chicken teriyaki Bento box, and commit to an evening of making my friends happy. It’s the least I can do.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37

~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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