accidentally in fiji

who has ever heard of winding up in fiji...accidentally?

when i boarded a plane on wednesday, i had absolutely no plans or expectations of visiting anywhere but australia, but there i was 24 hours later, strolling down the fijian beach in my sarong, collecting coral, enjoying my coconut ice cream, and singing "bula!" (fijian for 'hello') to passersby. fiji, of all places. seriously, only me.

life is strange.

snufalupagus

Out of curiosity, I consulted Google for the correct spelling of Snufalupagus, the lumbering, oversized mammoth on Sesame Street. (These things happen when you're home for days on end, the languishing victim of a contagious, foreign bacterium – see earlier blog).

As expected, when I typed in "snuffaluffagus" I got the reassuring "Did you mean Snufalupagus?" Yes, Google, that's exactly what I meant, thank you. But suddenly it occurred to me that I've never questioned the spelling of this creature's name or even why a simple children's character should have such a lengthy, complex, and inexplicable moniker. I mean, Snufalupagus? How the hell did they come up with that one? Even more disturbing is how I never thought twice about it until now, at the age of 33 (and only now out of boredom due to my weakened and feverish state caused by a contagious, foreign bacterium – see above). It's almost like I've been in some kind of Sesame-Street-induced state of hypnosis, just floating through life as if Snufalupagus is a perfectly normal thing to name a TV show character, never questioning any of it, like some brainwashed Stockholm syndrome sufferer. What does that name mean? Is he even a mammoth? Why doesn't he have tusks? And why do I still like him so much in spite of these inconsistencies?

I'd like to name this condition the Snufalupagus Syndrome. Thanks to Snufalupagus and his motley gaggle of costumeers, I have no faith in my own brain's ability to decipher the logical from the absurd.

roll over, mr. whipple

While waiting in line at the drug store the other day, I was subjected to what might arguably be the most mind-numbing conversation ever overheard in the history of eavesdropping. A customer and the clerk were discussing at length the difference between Cottonelle and Charmin toilet papers (a difference which, I surmised from their exchange, is negligible). In the great American quest to maximize comfort AND save money, the customer was tempted to switch to Cottonelle, but was concerned she would be sacrificing the downy softness of Charmin. The clerk reassured her that she, too, used to be a Charmin fan, but is now a staunch supporter of Cottonelle so much that she recently converted her husband, also formerly of the Charmin camp, to her side. Until then, the clerk shared, they were a house divided, with she and her husband using separate bathrooms with Cottonelle in hers and Charmin in his. Now, apparently, harmony prevails, with the same toilet tissue in all bathrooms.

The customer was skeptical, partly because a misunderstanding arose; halfway through the conversation, the clerk began saying "Charmin" where it was obvious she meant "Cottonelle," a lamentable error when attempting to offer a comparison. After explaining how she converted her husband to the Cottonelle campaign, she chirped, "and now we have Charmin in all the bathrooms and my husband couldn't be happier!" This sent the already apprehensive customer fishtailing into the guard rails. "Wait, Charmin? Or Cottonelle?" The clerk, oblivious to her error, continued on her campaign for Cottonelle, calling it Charmin, which turned an already painful 2-minute conversation into something excruciatingly longer. I thoroughly enjoy eavesdropping, but I intensely dislike listening to a conversation in which there is a misunderstanding that confuses everyone and I'm the only one who notices what it is.

"But is Cottonelle as soft as Charmin?" the customer persisted, abandoning the need for clarity in her search for the bottom line, and the clerk assured her that she wouldn't be disappointed, and I don't remember any more, because I think it was around that time that my head exploded.

And now, in honor of the many souls lost to mundane suburban existence, I offer this humble prayer:

Dear lord, may I never find myself trapped in a relationship in which the brand of toilet paper used becomes an issue worthy of discussion or division in my household, such that my partner and I retreat to separate bathrooms where we enshrine our respective preferences in toilet tissue. And may I never be so overly concerned with these banalities that I feel compelled to discuss, in depth, with a complete stranger and in earshot of other strangers, the softness of a material everyone knows I will be using on my ass. Amen.

P.S. In case of further questions or concerns, please refer to the Charmin website, where you can view such essential information as a comprehensive Charmin timeline dating back to the 1920s, as well as a question and answer page with detailed instructions to riveting, crucial matters such as "What do I do if the plies on my Charmin roll are not lining up properly?" and "What is the proper way to hang the Charmin roll on my dispenser?" Or, for those of the rival camp, the Cottonelle website offers an open-text forum where you can submit a "pledge" as to "how you plan to be kind to your behind," (I couldn't make this up if I wanted to, folks). Fortunately, Cottonelle also has a question and answer page, which I'm sure you will find informative if you are able to stay interested long enough to click onto it, which I was not.

In closing, and just so we can all rest easy, Charmin does recommend that you hang the roll so that the paper drapes over the TOP, but they let us know that it can also be placed such that the paper hangs down the back, and that each individual household will have to battle that out on its own. Will the American household survive yet another divisive issue? Tune in next week, for "Conversations with the waitress at Denny's: When you're a top-hanger and your partner is a back-hanger." With any luck, another suburban disaster will be successfully averted. Thanks, Cottonelle. Er, Charmin.

foreign "culture"

Those of you who have ever returned from traveling overseas might be familiar with the ever-joyous white and blue Customs Declaration form everyone must fill out upon landing in the U.S. On this form you have the opportunity to rat yourself out for any number of forbidden items you might be attempting to bring into the country, including plant seeds, fruits and vegetables, animal products, meats, etc. (they have a particular interest in salami, I learned from previous travels -- see earlier blog) along with other oh-so-likely imports such as the skins of endangered animals, disease agents, snails, insects, obscene materials, toxic substances, cell cultures, and soil (does a chunk of the Berlin wall count?) It also gets a little personal about how much money you have, how much your souvenirs cost and whether you've been "close" to livestock lately, but I digress. My favorite part of the form says something like "if you have any of these things, contact customs before you get to the United States," which is especially helpful since these forms are usually distributed about 30 minutes before you land.

After a number of stern warnings about what U.S. Customs and Border Protection prohibits and expects and has a right to do to you, the form manages a weak "Welcome to the United States."

After having visited upwards of 12-14 other countries, I daresay that the entry process into the U.S. is anything but welcoming, even for its own citizens. The weary traveler finds himself herded into the bleak, warehouse-like customs building where he languishes in long, stuffy lines while waiting his turn to be questioned and grilled (and in the case of non-residents, questioned, grilled, fingerprinted and photographed). While he waits, he is subjected to a "welcome video" on several large screens above the queues that depicts a number of Border Protection agents reminding him that "we take the entry process very seriously." Even I, as a U.S. citizen and an honest, non-animal-skins-or-illegal-narcotics-bearing traveler, find myself clutching my passport and entry document in my nervous, sweaty palm, waiting for my turn under the scrutinizing eye of the ever-powerful Border Control agent. I ruminate on everything in my luggage, wondering what might get me hauled away and mentally developing a speech about why it was necessary to bring back (not one, but) two packets of Czech cookies and how the Polish condensed milk is stashed inside my snow boot not to be concealed, but to save room. I can only imagine how intimidating this process must be for the first-time visitor to this country, especially for the non-English speaker.

As I wait agonizingly for Christian to come through the foreign visitors line, I watch the visitors, one after another, approach their designated agent to submit a fingerprint; if they've been in the country before, the border agent's monitor displays their mug shot, current and prior fingerprint, and large text announcing, "SUBJECT VERIFIED." It's like entering a high-security prison where there's just been an escape; you almost expect to see someone dragged away, moaning and howling, "it wasn't me; it wasn't me!" The entire place is infused with a fear that is almost palpable, and feels liable to erupt into a five-alarm calamity at the slightest provocation. I think the only way they can make the process more terrifying is to install electric barbed wire around the queues and subject people to random shocks. We could watch a video that reassures us that in the U.S., shocking foreign visitors is just another way to show our hospitality. Welcome to the United States!

Anyway, I pulled one over on the Department of Customs and Border Protection this time. Salami, you ask? The skins of endangered animals? No, even better. In my toasty little throat, that I thought was just scratchy from the fatigue of 48 hours in transit, I was harboring a DISEASE CULTURE. That's right -- some strange, Eastern European strain of strep throat managed to smuggle its little way into the United States with me as its vessel. And no one was any the wiser.

Not that I'm proud of bringing in a bacteria that might end up causing an outbreak all over town. I guess I just felt a little smug at the CVS minute clinic, when the nurse practitioner (who was just in the process of giving me the spiel about how there's a lot of viral throat junk floating around right now and that we test for strep as a precaution but generally rest and fluids are the best medicine) glanced at my test and exclaimed in surprise "…and, you're going to have a positive strep culture." As if I would be mediocre enough to catch something locally. Hmph! The latest Polish bacterial strains are much more en vogue, but I wouldn't expect mere peasants to appreciate that.

Eat that with your salami, Border Control.

did you bring back any salami?

i'm not sure why i was asked this question during my recent visit to the friendly LAX customs office upon returning from england. he said it just like that, in a thick foreign accent. "did you bring back any meats, animal products...salami?" honestly, the only thing i remember clearly is "salami?" because at that point i became bemused to the point of forgetting all else.

"good day, sir. meats? no, i wouldn't bring in such a thing...animal products...gracious no, i'm well acquainted with my country's import/export policies...oh, salami? why yes, funny you should ask..." *producing large, phallic package from carry-on*

what i would like to know is, why salami, in particular? is that a more egregious violation of customs regulations than, say, leg of lamb or smoked haddock? perhaps there is a mad salami disease rippling through the united kingdom that our media has been remiss in reporting? either that, or i look like a girl who really loves her some salami. seeing as i haven't eaten red meat in approximately 20 years, i'd say his radar is WAY off. that being the case, who IS smuggling in this terroristic salami, i ask you, while this agent is busy positing questions to those carrying nothing but english tea, mr. men books, and enough belgian chocolate to choke a horse?

then again, it must be tedious sitting there in customs, watching people shuffle by with their luggage, in and out, all day long, going and coming from hither and tither, and never going anywhere yourself. maybe not even to the restroom, or to eat. perhaps he was just hoping that a kind, lunch-bearing stranger had arrived. "did you bring back any salami? maybe with muenster cheese and tomato, and a dollop of mustard? no? alright then, move along. next! excuse me, sir, did you bring back any salami...."

anyone? anyone?? hasn't anyone in this godforsaken place brought back any mother f*&^ing salami?!

madness is not just for postal workers anymore, my friends.

how to be a babe magnet

click here for instructional video

 so, this video is labeled "somali" although it looks like something out of a bollywood film, which to me would suggest "indian." either way, i offer my humble interpretation. by the way, if you're looking for a way to score with an imaginary chick, your ship has come in.

the lesson here is that if you happen to see a beautiful hitchhiker when driving in your sporty american vehicle through the snowy mountains of Somalia (or wherever your BMW might have taken you), the best course of action is to stand up and make wildly gyrating motions with your upper body, which is sure to draw her over. be sure to engage the emergency brake while doing this, so your vehicle does not plunge over the snowy ledge. once she joins you in the vehicle, she is then likely to turn into an indian princess in diaphanous robes. (note: she is likely to disappear and reappear without notice; do not be alarmed by this). it is preferable that at some point you run away with her scarf, rub your grubby cheek against it and wave it around near some livestock. when she snatches it back, that is when you should pursue her in your orange life vest and throw her to the ground amongst a flock of sheep. you and she will be granted several wardrobe changes throughout this experience, which will allow you to practice tai chi on a snowy mountain top. (it will not be necessary to dress appropriately for this activity.) be sure to make many sweeping gestures with your arms while you do so. this will cause a hot air balloon to randomly appear, in which you and the indian princess should abscond, with no regard for who might be the rightful owner or whether either of you is aware of how to operate it. be sure that during the trip you continuously graze her skin with your mouth, but try to refrain from having any actual contact. after the flight, when she appears in pink and spins in a field, you should approach her from behind and whisper sweet nothings in her ear, but be sure your mouth continues to move for several minutes after you're done speaking. if she tries to get away, just give her scarf a little yank to keep her in line. now that your relationship has progressed, you should both do pairs figure skating moves on the mountaintop. this will inspire her to fling her arms awkwardly around your torso. soon, you will realize she was merely an angel of your imagination, at which point you will magically stumble upon your vehicle and drive away, smiling to yourself. you then arrive at your destination as if nothing has happened, but carrying with you the sweet sweet memories. ah, romance.

a decaying gene pool

Is it just me, or does 93.7 KRQ make anyone else feel like throwing up? After hearing the same seven songs cycle over and over again for 10 hours straight, I start to feel like I'm on a merry-go-round with a maniacal conductor who refuses to stop the ride in spite of the fact that I've been on the verge of losing control of my esophageal reflexes for the past 129 rotations. I sit at my desk, picturing the same musical patterns carving their way through my brain over and over, strengthening one mediocre loop of neurons while the others atrophy and die, until I'm no longer able to mentally grasp anything more complex than "fergalicious def…fergalicious def…fergalicious def…"

Not to mention, having been subjected to the linguistic genius of Avril Lavigne on at least 18 occasions today, I'm starting to question my own sanity. Surely it's me who's insane, and not the millions of listeners who actually support the song "Girlfriend" and about 1,000 others like it on a day to day basis. I mean, I'd like to think that someone who is considered an "artist" or "musician" (and consequently is paid 100 times in a week what I make in a year) might come up with lyrics a bit more…oh, I don't know, artistic and musical maybe? than "hey hey, you you, I don't like your girlfriend. No way, no way, I think you need a new one." Or: "you're so fine, I want you mine, you're so delicious, I think about ya all the time." Ignoring, for a moment, that these are perhaps the most uninspired and juvenile lyrics ever put to paper, consider the composition: as if rhyming isn't elementary enough, these lines actually attempt to rhyme, and fail. Not to mention, who says someone is "fine" anymore? Aren't we supposed to call each other "hot" now, only with two Ts?

But really, the best line of all goes, "she's like, so…whatever." (note: the punctuation I've applied makes this line seem much more sophisticated than it really is.)

I like this line because there's just so much information in these words, so much thought behind them. "She's like so whatever." I know exactly what she's talking about, you know, you just like, want to say what she is, but she's so ugh that you just can't find any words for it, so you just say like, whatever, and you shake your head and roll your eyes. And then you go home and fight with your mom about how much you talk on the phone, and how her rules are also like, so whatever. I've been there so, so many times. Thank you, Avril, for being someone I can relate to, to make me feel less alone in this big, big world.

I hereby bestow upon Avril Lavigne the international award for the most asinine and mediocre song ever written.

But, wait; we have a last-minute entry! We would be remiss not to consider Avril's last hit song, "Don't tell me," would we not? You know, the one with the line about a kiss that "made me go ohh ohh," which actually succeeded in making my skin crawl. But, I know how it is when you so desperately need to rhyme with your last line that you just throw in a sound or an exclamation with a similar vowel. Who said it had to be a word? After all, "know" (in the preceding line) is pretty damn hard to rhyme. All you really have to choose from are the words go, bestow, throw, grow, and about a hundred others, including blow, which might be the one with the most relevance.

After carefully considering both entries, and although it pains me to choose only one, I believe I will have to go with my first impulse and give the award to "Girlfriend." The second song, however cringe-inducing it may be, does have a moderately catchy melody and is not quite as grating to the ears. I am equally underwhelmed by the lyrics in each, but the boorish "Girlfriend" cannot even lay claim to catchiness, having all the finesse and refinement of a high school pep rally.

What happened to the old days of "sk8er boy" and "complicated," the days when Avril wanted to be "anything but ordinary"? They weren't songs for the lyrical hall of fame, but they were sweet and catchy in a naïve, little sister sort of way. Not to mention, back then we could all forgive a little foolishness, considering she was only 17. She's now a 23-year-old woman -- a married woman, no less! Does anyone else find this disturbing? Even more pressing, does Avril's husband realize he married someone who can't possibly have a mental age greater than 12? Not only have her lyrics failed to mature, they've actually regressed, like that disease that makes babies look like old men, only in reverse. Isn't anyone looking into this??

But, I digress. The point of this blog was to slam on the conspiracy of KRQ, which is numbing young minds one by one so they cannot think outside the box or consider the atrocities that are happening outside their little worlds every day. Don't even get me started on KRQ Wednesday's War of the Roses. Or the most obnoxious morning disc jockey of all time, Kari. Having had my will to live bludgeoned and exhausted by yet another 10-hour run of the aforementioned broadcast station, I will save said topics for another blog.

I would just like those at KRQ to know that I am not beaten! I will rise again! If you think you can keep me down or assassinate me for my revolutionary ideas like they did John Lennon, you are like, SO whatever.

a day in the life of a damsel...

Lesson of the Day: Being locked out of ones house can provide a remarkable lesson in machismo and female diminution. (Who knew?)

The phone rings at 7 a.m. on my day off, rousing me from a thick slumber: my grandmother has locked herself out of her house during her morning walk and wonders if I still have her key on my ring. Ten minutes later I am in my car for the 45-minute drive to her place. Upon arrival, I insert the key into the deadbolt and triumphantly turn the lock. I shove the door, but it doesn't budge.

"It's the bottom lock," Gram says. "You don't have the key to the bottom?"
I sigh. I never had the key to the bottom lock. It's one of those cheap (or so I thought) doorknob locks with a tiny bar that twists from the inside, that we rarely used owing to the heavy deadbolt above it. She informs me that some neighbors were over trying to jimmy the door open with a credit card, but hadn't been successful. I inquire about the garage key, but alas, that is locked in the house as well.

I decide to give the lock-jimmying a shot. How hard could it be, right? It's just one of those stupid doorknob locks; the little latch that joins the doorjamb is curved on the out-facing side, making it fairly easy to push in with a thin yet sturdy object. At least, this is the theory.

My eyes scan the immediate area for a suitable tool. I spot my grandmother's handicap placard hanging on her rear-view mirror: it looks perfect. My first thought is that we won't be able to get to it, since the keys are locked inside the house.

"Oh, no problem," Gram says. "I have the ring with the car keys and the deadbolt key, just not the set with the doorknob key and the garage key."

"Why aren't all your keys on the same ring?" I ask, not sure I want to hear the answer.

"Its easier for me this way," she says simply. I ponder the logic of this, since the alternative (having all the keys at our disposal at once, and thus being able to enter the house undeterred) seems much easier at the moment, but I will myself to let it go.

I sweat over the jimmying effort for several minutes, succeeding only in mutilating the plastic around the placard. I can get the plastic in between the door and the doorjamb, but it wont slide down to release the latch. It also refuses to be inserted directly over the latch; it merely comes up against a solid object and stops. I try several pieces of cardboard I recover from my car, as well as a Kinko's card that has a remaining balance of about $.02, but the lock will not give.

"I wonder if Buddy is home," Gram muses, craning her neck toward a neighbors house. "I think Buddy would know what to do."

This is the third time she has mentioned this Buddy, so I assume he has some expertise on door locks, or owns some miraculous lock-picking tool. I ask about it.

"Oh no, but men are better at this kind of thing, you know."

She hasn't meant to be insulting, but I feel slightly stung, having just driven 45 minutes across town AND spent the past 20 minutes making what I felt to be a perfectly competent (albeit unsuccessful) effort at opening this door. However, I realize that if the worst quality I ever have to deal with in my strong, beautiful, supportive grandmother is a few generational quirks and old-fashioned beliefs, I can't really complain. So again, I bite my tongue.

Soon, a burly and sweat-soaked fellow appears in front of the house. "Still haven't gotten it open?" he calls. I assume he is one of the neighbors who was involved in (or witness to) the earlier effort.

He tells us he'd like to give it a shot, having been very adept at picking locks "in a former life."

I picture a younger version of him, slithering into homes under a sheath of darkness with a sack of stolen goods over his shoulder. Not only am I unfazed by this vision, I am hopeful. I have either worked with the criminal element long enough to be desensitized, or the social worker in me is just inclined to see the skills that can be gained from just about anything. Apparently, Gram shares the sentiment. "We don't care what kind of life that was, as long as you can open this door!" she cracks.

He goes on to explain that he used to be a prison guard, and they had to "pick open all kinds of things."

My hopes deflate. He is not a lock-picking burglar, after all. And I am not aware of any prisons that contain locking brass doorknobs. Despite my gratitude at his willingness to help, my illusions about his lock-picking abilities fade. But hey, if the guy wants to help, fine by me.

Burly Sweaty Man spies the mangled and discarded placard on the ledge. He rubs it between his fingers like a designer fingering fine silk. "Yeah, not sturdy enough," he says dismissively. (Stupid women, step aside and let a real man do the job!)

He proceeds to grunt and labor over the door as my Kinko's card gets another beating. As he gives us a brief lecture on the Anatomy of a Lock, I stare at the growing sweat stain on his cap, and wonder how clear sweat turns black on a red cap. After a few minutes, he announces that he has some perfect pieces of plastic at home that might do the job, and that he'll be back in a minute.

Instead of standing idly around, I decide to continue working the door. I return to my car for another search of potential lock-breakers, and find the cracked and weathered family sled that I haven't had the heart to discard and instead have carted around in my trunk for several months. The thickness seems perfect: it is hard enough to push the latch but thin enough to slide between the door and jamb. I break off a piece of the thick plastic and start in again. The lock simply wont give. I have a momentary urge to pound the doorknob with one of the giant river rocks in Gram's front yard until it falls off, but I resist.

When Burly Sweaty Man returns, he sees the thick blue plastic on the ledge, and picks it up. "Yeah, this would be too thick," he says.

"I don't think this door's going to open," I say, although who am I but a meek and helpless damsel?

I see that the "perfect" kind of plastic he has brought is a Safeway card (of the exact same variety as my Kinko's card), and something else that I don't see because I have retreated to the driveway to sit and wait for Gram to realize we will have to call a locksmith.

After a while, I see Burly Sweaty Man put down the Safeway card and look again at the handicap placard.

"This should be perfect," he says.

Uh huh.

He thrusts the placard in and out of the doorjamb several times, wipes his brow. Tries again, adjusts his cap. Soon his gaze falls upon the blue plastic from the sled.

"Wheres the rest of this plastic?" he asks. Yes, the same plastic that was too thick 15 minutes ago. Did I mention what a stupid little woman I am?

I lead him to my trunk, where he rips from my poor dead sled another hunk of blue plastic. (Apparently little women, should they accidentally stumble upon the right materials, sometimes just get the size and shape wrong, so he graciously chooses a more suitable piece.) He bends it back and forth confidently.

"This should do it," he says.

Tiring of the whole ordeal, I leave to get Gram some breakfast. When I return, Burly Sweaty Man has ceded the battle and gone home, and a locksmith is en route.
And we've only wasted...90 extra minutes!

Promptly, Eduardo arrives in his locksmith van. We tell him that we've tried to jimmy the lock with every piece of plastic within a five-mile radius, to no avail.

"Well then, I guess I'll put away my credit cards and try something else," he says smugly, and although I laugh, I wonder if hes mocking us. Or, I'm just oversensitive, having had my delicate female sensibilities pummeled to bits by our last caller.

After several attempts (the toughest lock in the west, I tell you!) Eduardo manages to get the door open with his nifty little "click click click" tool. Finally, were in!

While Gram writes a check for Eduardo, she asks me to try the key to see if it still works in the lock. She hands me the key, and it won't even go into the lock. Eduardo assures us that the lock wouldn't have been damaged from the tools he used.

"Gram, are you sure this is the right key?"

"Yes, thats it," she says.

I try again, nothing.

"Aw, the Princess cant do it?" says Eduardo, smiling genially. Apparently he has noticed the princess license plate holder on my car. I cringe inwardly.
I know, I know. If I'm going to put princess on my vehicle, I should expect to be treated like a prissy, helpless little female, but still. It was a nickname given to me a long time ago, and it stuck. Not because I'm prissy or helpless, but because I like -- and deserve -- to be worshipped and exalted. And what is wrong with that, I ask you? :)

Eduardo tries the key. Unsurprisingly, it does not fit. He tries several others on the ring (which I would have done next, had he not taken it from me), finds the right one, and jubilantly turns the knob.

"Here ya go, Princess," he says, and hands me the right key.

I briefly entertain the idea of gouging him in the eye with it.

He must see the look on my face, because he says "Aw, Im just kidding, Princess," and pats me on the shoulder.

Finally, Eduardo is gone, and I settle into one of Gram's chairs to listen to the latest gossip about The View (initially I think shes talking about the backdrop on the Regis and Kelly show that shes turned on) and whether Starr doesn't like Rosie (Starr who?), and what movies in the theatres are worth seeing.

On the drive home, it occurs to me that it has been a long time since I felt the least bit belittled or dismissed due to my gender. I guess I live in a fairly insulated world, where a woman's competence is never questioned, where sexual orientation and gender identity are virtually non-issues, where stereotypes are routinely challenged and sought to be overcome. While I feel very fortunate to be a part of this world and to have the people in my life that I have, I suppose its easy to forget that my world is not THE world. Returning to that world feels like squeezing into a pair of shoes that don't fit.

So, all in all, it was an educational day. Gram is now having at least three extra keys made for each lock on her door. I have gained a new respect for cheap brass doorknobs. And my next vehicle (which will arrive next week, yay!) will be devoid of all references to royalty.

Sorry, Princess. I guess we cant stay in Kansas all the time.

the things that matter

I have a fair amount of responsibility at work. You know, reports, recommendations, judges, blah blah blah. Whether or not someone gets out of jail depends on the information I approve and distribute; a mistake on my part can cause jail time to be prolonged unnecessarily, it can cause the premature release of a perpetrator and the re-victimization of a vulnerable person. If it were my ass in custody, or my safety dependent on someone's incarceration, the job I have would seem like the most important in the world at that moment. But somehow, I don't normally feel cowed and humbled by this awesome duty that has been bestowed upon me.

So, I'm wondering if maybe I just don't take things seriously enough, if nothing is sacred anymore.

Then today, I get a phone call. "Brogan's a little shaken up and wants to talk to you.” 

I hear a rustle of the receiver being exchanged, and then a tiny voice comes over the line. "Susie," she says, "I bit into my burrito and my tooth bent back and its about to come out." There is a squeeze in my chest as I listen to the waver in her voice and think back on the very few times in her life I have heard that distress. I have a flash of her at five years old after an encounter with the dagger-like claws of a cat, latched onto me like a Velcro monkey and trying so hard not to cry even as blood spilled down her face and into her eyes, asking in that same shaky voice, "is it bleeding?" I feel her four-year-old arms like a boa constrictor around my neck at the Haunted Mansion, a ride she insisted we visit at Disneyland, while she buries her head in my neck and wails, "is it almost over?" I feel her warm baby weight in my arms as we rock in a living room chair, me singing softly as she whimpers over the injustice of new teeth -- the same teeth she's slowly becoming too grown-up for.

So many times I have marveled at this brave little fawn who is so fragile and so strong all at once, who wears batman boxers under her flowery jeans, who chooses football gear for her dress-up bears but still loves glittery lipgloss. This little tomboy who picks fabric with flaming motorcycles and skeletons for the blanket she's asked me to make for her, then almost chooses pink velvet for the backing. This tough little peanut who bit back the tears, like always, before another one of the many long separations that have punctuated our entire relationship, then broke down and sobbed in my arms for 30 minutes; who never seems to believe my reassurances that tears are not weakness; who insists on always being "brave."

As she tells me about the errant tooth, her voice is full of apprehension, but I hear a flicker of something else: hope. Hope that I can somehow make it better, that I will reassure her that its okay, that she can somehow draw from the sound of my voice the strength she needs to navigate this important life event. Suddenly, I am belted to my knees by the enormity of the responsibility that goes along with my role in her life. When she is hurt, or scared, or upset, she wants me: my voice, my comfort, my reassurance.

Me.

As always when faced with a task of this magnitude, anxiety and self-doubt rises in my chest, and my heart aches with the need to do this right. Thankfully, as it seems, I do. As we talk, my words and her responses soon fall into their familiar, easy rhythm, fitting around each other like the pieces of a puzzle. We discuss the almost-out tooth, I validate her concerns, we talk about the tooth fairy, I say something silly, she laughs. Soon the waver in her voice is all but gone, and when the phone rings again an hour later, she is victorious: the tooth is now a tiny pearl in her palm. Now she is giddy with anticipation of a visit from the Arizona Tooth Fairy: maybe she will get another floppy, rubber, bandana-wearing antenna cactus with two dollars tucked in his hat. (Apparently in Houston, where she lives nine months out of the year, tooth fairies do not bring floppy rubber antenna cacti).

As anyone who has ever been a parent -- or in the role of a parent -- knows, the love of a child can make you do extraordinary things. It can make you stay up until 6 a.m. on Christimas morning wrapping gifts, only to drag yourself out of bed half-hour later to watch them be clawed open. It can make you sacrifice time and money that were previously spent elsewhere in order to provide clothes to cover her reedy, growing limbs, ice skating lessons, birthday parties, road trips to stretch her mind outside the borders of her small world. It can make you violate a personal commandment and enter the evil empire that is Wal-Mart, when the aforementioned floppy antenna cactus proves elusive at other retailers. And as I have found, it can make you stay for years in a place where you are no longer happy, simply to avoid letting her down.

Tonight, as I tuck the blankets around her shoulders, Brogan says, "Susie, what does the tooth fairy do with all the teeth she gets?"

"I dont know, what do you think?" I say, thinking of the tiny white teeth -- hers, and her sister's -- tucked away in a small pouch in my jewelry box.

"I dont know," she says thoughtfully, and then adds, "maybe she gives them to all the new babies that are born. Kim's teeth were sharp like mine, so maybe I got hers."

I smile at the innocent common sense of this suggestion. Why wouldn't teeth be recycled, passed from one generation to the next, like outgrown clothes? As I say goodnight, I think of writing a story, a tooth fairy who collects outgrown teeth and delivers them, shiny and new, to drooly, cooing mouths that will one day outgrow them as well, the cycle repeating throughout time. I think about the things we give one another, things we outgrow, the things we receive and treasure from those who no longer need them or have some to spare, the things we are given that we then pass on to others.

So tonight, I will slip silently into a darkened room and collect the glittery pink tooth fairy box with its tiny offering. I will exchange it for a pack of monster truck stickers and a $5 bill (the quest for the elusive rubber cactus having been unsuccessful). As I take her little tooth out of the box and tuck it in with the others, I will think about time passing, limbs growing, teeth being passed on in a sensible chain of shared humanity. I will think about beloved rubber cacti and little girls who can wear shimmery pink boots and hot wheels boxers at the same time. I will think about what she has given me, and I her.

It seems some things are still sacred, after all.

peacocks and disillusionment

It's funny the things you remember when you're chained to a desk with a screeching fire alarm in your ears (a sustained blast drill, we're told), an unidentified rumbling in the airspace above you, and a restlessness in your chest that comes from being completely unfulfilled, and yet immobile.

so, I'm sitting at a restaurant in texas somewhere, at some time, and it's a long, communal, last-supper type table near a window. I'm sitting with a lot of others from my high school and some other high schools...on our way to a writing competition maybe?...my best friend to my left and a boy across the table for whom I have pined, silently, for a number of months. from the window we have a view of a courtyard where several peacocks strut around gallantly, feathers splayed. it must have been spring.

my friend and I, and this boy, who is now nameless and faceless but for a mushroom of sandy-blond hair, are engaging casually in that witty sort of banter that high school kids believe is the mark of intellect and desirability. at one point, my friend makes a remark about something being hideous. the water glasses? the view? I don't remember now. I just remember the word, hideous, and the response from across the table.

"wow, impressive vocabulary," the boy says (seriously, mind you), and I watch his eyes suddenly glaze over as he looks at her anew.

I stare at him flatly. beside me, my friend blushes and sputters, giddy over the sudden attention.

hideous? really? wasn't that one of my third grade spelling words? i am torn between contempt for his low threshold for admiration and my own need to prove myself. dammit, why couldn't I have said hideous? or a word that would truly have merited appreciation: vituperative, pusillanimous, meritorious?

thoroughly disgusted, my tender teenage illusions shattered, I stare out the window where one of the peacocks is doing his best to mount a homely and disinterested female. a few of the other students notice, and there is some snickering and pointing from our group. but the boy across the table is still gazing starry-eyed at my friend, who is lapping it up. and who could blame her?

I have no idea what happened after that, it's just that one moment in time, fossilized in my mind. why that moment? what was the take-home message that was so important that I am still lugging it around 15 years later?

maybe it's that people don't really change. maybe it's that they do. maybe it's to remind me how far I've come, and yet, how much I'm still the same. who knows.

well, back to my work. I'd like to have a view of a courtyard with mating peacocks, but instead I have a view of a roomful of inmates, who most of the time display the same kinds of behaviors. I guess it's just animal instinct.

hideous, really.

five weird things...

You've been tagged. Write 6 weird things/habits about yourself below. Next, post those things in your own blog and pick six of your friends to tag. Leave them a comment "you've been tagged, read my blog"

six weird things about myself? i'm quite sure there aren't as many as that. but i'll indulge my reading public.

1. i have strange food habits, some of which i suppose would qualify as a little weird. in other words, i have specific ways of eating specific foods. here are some examples. a) oreos. first i must rotate the cookie and bite off four "sides" of the rounded area of the top layer, leaving a square of cookie on top of the white stuff. i then use this square to scrape off the majority of the "stuff" and deposit it in the trash where it belongs, although sometimes i eat a little just to add some variety. then i proceed to eat the rest of the cookie. b) kit kats. first i section the bar into the four pre-divided segments. then i bite off all the excess chocolate that pooled and hardened at the bottom of each bar so that the sides are naked and the wafers are exposed. then i bite off each layer of wafer separately. trust me, this is the best way to eat it. this method also works with little debbie nutty bars. i would proceed into how i eat the red, orange, yellow and purple fruit loops out of the bowl first so that only the blue and green are left, because they look pretty together in the milk, but i think i've said enough.

2. i absolutely cannot stand bathtubs. i'll stand in them (reluctantly) to take a shower, but under no condition will i lay my flesh against the cold, wet porcelain of the bathtub. not unless my life depended on it. and even that's questionable.

3. i cannot eat peanuts without looking inside each one for the sleeping santa with his forked beard. alright, so maybe that's a little weird.

4. i can't stand water on the bottoms of my shoes, especially if it came from the floor of a public restroom. it's enough to send me into an absolute panic, because i can feel the germs seeping through the soles of my shoes, onto my feet, and into my bloodstream where it will poison me with its toxic, putrid filthiness. i think this is called OCD.

5. i hate the feeling of touching my hair after i've done the dishes. i don't know if it's because my pores are all bloated from the water, but suddenly my hair feels like boar bristles. it's the weirdest thing ever. does that happen to anyone else?!

6. spelling errors and misplaced commas drive me BERSERK. i'm telling you, tower-and-rifle berserk. even worse is when people get overzealous with apostrophes and add them to every plural imaginable, resulting in the possessive. ex: pencil's. parent's. blog's. oh god, make it stop!!

wow, i'm a lot more neurotic than i thought.

lent

i think this year for lent i'm going to give up giving things up. i'm so weary of self-sacrifice, after all these years. well, you know, i've never actually paid any attention to lent in the first place, but i figure this is as good a time as any to start. besides, i've finally found something i can live without.

who knows, this just might carry on beyond lent, into a lifelong habit of self-indulgence and refusal to deprive myself of the things i want. now, there's a sacrifice i can make.

hurray for lent!